Requiem's Song (Book 1) (10 page)

Zerra
smirked. He seemed ready to speak again when cries rose ahead from
the other hunters.

"Mammoths!
Mammoths upon the plains!"

Laira
turned her head back forward, narrowed her eyes, and bared her teeth.
She drew a stone-tipped arrow and nocked it. A herd of the great,
woolly creatures raced across the plains below, making their way
toward the cover of the forest. Laira spotted a dozen adults and
several cubs; even the smallest was large enough to feed many men.
The other hunters cried out wordlessly, nocked their own arrows, and
swooped toward their prey.

"Neiva,
go!" Laira shouted and dug her heels into the roc.

The
dark bird, as large as a mammoth herself, shrieked, clawed the air,
and began to dive.

Fur
and feathers flashed.

Zerra
and his roc swooped in beneath Neiva, blocking her descent.

The
two rocs—a slim female and a burly male—slammed together. The
beasts screeched and feathers flew.

"Zerra!"
Laira shouted. In shock, she loosed her arrow. It drove down, just
narrowly missing the chieftain's head.

In
the space of a heartbeat, thoughts raced through her mind. There had
been an accident. She had flown her roc wrong. She had proven herself
a failure. No—Zerra had meant to block her! He was sabotaging her.
He—

Grinning,
Zerra rose higher upon his roc, and the beast's talons reached out.

Laira
screamed as the talons closed around her. She drew another arrow from
her quiver. Wielding it like a sword, she tried to stab Ashoor, but
the fetid beast's talons pinned her arms down. She screamed. Ashoor
tugged, tearing Laira off her mount, and she kicked the open air.

Riding
upon the beast, Zerra leaned across the saddle and spat. The glob
splattered on Laira's face. Amusement filled the chieftain's voice as
he spoke.

"We
will now see, little piece of pig dung, if you can truly fly.
Ashoor—release!"

As
Laira screamed, Ashoor tossed her into the open air.

She
tumbled through the sky.

She
plummeted.

"Neiva!"
she cried, flailing. "Neiva!"

She
could see her roc above. The bird tried to dive and catch her, but
Ashoor blocked her passage. The two rocs battled in the sky.

"Zerra!"
she shouted, plunging down, the wind whipping her and stealing her
voice.

She
looked around, her cloak fluttering madly. She could see the other
rocs; they now flew too far away, diving against the mammoths below.
They did not see her fall, and Laira understood.

This
had been a trap.

He
invited me on this hunt not because I bedded him . . . but for this.

"Fly,
weredragon!" the chieftain shouted, swooping above her. "Shift
into a dragon and fly! I slew your mother for the curse. I know it
fills you too." He laughed, the wind in his hair. "Fly or
hit the ground and my roc will feast upon what's left."

She
looked down. The ground was only instants away. Heart thudding madly,
Laira raised her bow and arrow.

If
I die, you die with me.

She
fired. The flint-tipped arrow scratched along Zerra's roc, then
vanished above, doing the chieftain no harm. The movement tossed
Laira into a spin. She tumbled, earth and sky roiling around her. Her
brain felt like water swirling around a shaken bowl. Whenever she
faced the ground—spin after spin—it was closer. Her bow tore free
from her grasp and vanished into the wind.

I
will die here,
she
thought, eyes stinging.
He
killed me. Goodbye. I—

No.

Her
eyes stung.

No.

She
would not die here. Not like this.

If
I die, I die in fire.

The
ground rushed up toward her, Zerra laughed above, and for the first
time in ten years, Laira—hurt, broken, grieving, a shell of a
woman—summoned her magic.

Scales
flowed and rattled across her, golden like the dawn. Fangs sprouted
in her mouth and her body ballooned. Wings burst out of her back with
a thud. Her claws grazed the grassy plains, her wings beat, and Laira
soared, a dragon roaring fire.

The
grass flattened under the beat of her wings, and she veered as she
ascended, dodging Zerra and his roc. She burst into open sky,
scattered flames, and roared—a roar that shook her body, that cut
the sky, that burned in her eyes and soul—the roar of a girl exiled
and cursed, of a girl who had watched her mother die, of a huntress
who had given her body to her tormenter and now might give her life.

Zerra's
roc soared in pursuit. Farther away, above the fleeing herd of
mammoths, the rest of the hunters shouted and flew toward her,
nocking new arrows.

Attack
them!
cried a voice
inside Laira.
Blow your
fire and slay them all!

A
second voice shouted out,
Flee!
Flee into the forest, run, hide!

Flying
toward her, Zerra fired an arrow. It shattered against her scales,
blasting pain like one of his fists. Within another breath, he would
slam into her.

Fight!
Hide!

Laira
roared, spewed flames, and turned to fly toward the forest.

Her
flames rained down behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see
Zerra skirt the inferno and fly higher, unscathed. The rest of his
hunters joined him. With battle cries and firing arrows, they flew in
pursuit.

"Take
her alive!" Zerra shouted. "Capture the reptile so she may
burn before Ka'altei!"

Laira
turned her eyes forward and beat her wings with all her strength.

She
wobbled, dipped, and cried out.

She
had not become a dragon since her mother had died; and even as a
girl, she would shift only in secret caves and pools, afraid and
ashamed and returning to human form within moments. She had never
flown like this in the open, and every beat of her wings made her
sway and nearly fall.

Arrows
whistled. Several slammed into her, shattering against her scales.
One arrow—tipped with flint—found its way under a scale and drove
into her flesh like a splinter under a fingernail. She yowled but
kept flying.

She
streamed over the grassy plains. The mammoths trumpeted and ran
below. She shot over them, ruffling their fur, and turned her neck
back toward the chasing rocs. A hundred flew there, riders howling
atop them—the men she had grown up with, the only men she knew, the
men who would burn her now.

So
I burn you.

She
blew a curtain of fire. The inferno blazed across the sky, a storm of
heat and smoke and crackling wrath, shielding her from the pursuit.
She turned back toward the forest and kept flying. Behind her, she
heard the rocs screech as they passed through the wall of fire.

Hoping
the smoke and flame still hid her, she dived and crashed through a
canopy of birches and oaks, scattering dry leaves. She slammed down
onto the forest floor, her claws driving into the soil and shredding
a twisting root. The rocs screamed above, and their wings bent the
trees.

Laira
released her magic. Her wings pulled into her body. Her scales melted
into her skin. Her body shrank, leaving her a woman again.

She
ran.

Behind
her, she heard trees shatter and rocs shriek. She glanced over her
shoulder to see the beasts barreling through the forest, slamming
into boles, tearing up roots. The riders dismounted and fired arrows.
The projectiles slammed into the trees around Laira, and one grazed
her arm, drawing blood.

"Grab
her!" Zerra shouted, his face red with rage.

I
have to hide. I have to vanish between the trees.

She
ran, arms pumping, breath ragged. She leaped over a fallen log,
tripped, and rolled down a slope. Rocks jabbed her, cutting her skin,
but she swallowed her cry. She slammed into a jutting root, leaped
up, and ran again. The trees were thick here, and grass and reeds
rose shoulder-high. Panting, Laira leaped into the brush. Brambles
cut her. A thorn drove into her neck, and she winced and almost cried
out. She crawled, feeling like a flea upon a shaggy dog's back. The
hunters' cries rose behind her, and she kept moving, foot by foot,
breath by breath.

They
can't hear you. They can't see you. Just keep moving.

If
she lived, she did not know what she would do. She could never return
to her tribe; she knew that. She would have to survive alone in the
wilderness, to find a new home before winter, to—

"Find
the weredragon!" Zerra shouted behind.

He
was close now. Laira bit her lip, banishing her thoughts. For now she
had to focus only on fleeing, only on surviving every new breath. The
grass, brambles, and reeds were thick and spread out for many marks.
If she just kept crawling, the hunters would never find her.

Just
keep moving, Laira,
she told herself, bleeding and dizzy but crawling on. Her heart
thrashed and her fingers trembled.
Just
keep breathing.

The
sounds of pursuit faded behind. The hunters were still shouting, but
they sounded farther away now; she could barely make out Zerra's
words. She was weak with hunger and the crone's leeches, and her head
would not stop spinning, but Laira forced herself to move onward,
breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat. She crawled around an oak
and along a stream, moving between the reeds, and hope sprang within
her. She wasn't sure where to flee to, but right now, she just needed
to find a quiet place, to nurse her wounds and think.

She
heard shrieks and the batting of wings. Shadows raced above the
trees, and Laira breathed out a sigh of relief.

"They're
leaving," she whispered. She could just barely glimpse the
swaying canopy past her cover of reeds and grass. "They're
flying away."

She
flipped over and lay on her back, feeling weaker than a trampled,
dying worm. She gazed above between the blades of grass, seeing only
shards of the sky. She only had to lie here, to wait, and they would
fly away, and she would be free. Tears stung her eyes.

I
will not burn like my mother.

But
the wings kept beating.

The
rocs were not leaving; they were circling above.

They
no longer shrieked, and when the wind died, she heard it. Sniffs.
Snorts. Silence and sniffs again. Fear shot through Laira.

They're
smelling for me.

She
had seen rocs sniff back in the camp, raising their beaks whenever
meals cooked, but she hadn't known they hunted by smell. Their
circles were growing smaller, closing in on her. Their sniffs rose
louder, as discordant as stones crashing together.

"Down
there!" rose a hoarse voice above—Zerra's voice. "Grab
her!"

Laira
leaped up and shifted.

She
rose from the forest, a golden dragon blowing fire.

Her
flames spurted upward, and the rocs scattered . . . then swooped.
Arrows slammed against Laira. One drove into her shoulder and she
yowled. She sucked in breath, prepared to blow flames again, when the
rocs crashed into her.

Laira
screamed.

Talons
crashed through her scales, digging at flesh. A beak drove into her
shoulder, shedding blood, and an arrow shot through her wing, tearing
open a hole.

Fly!
cried a voice inside her.
Fight
through them! Fly to—

With
a howl, Zerra charged upon his roc, and his spear dug into her
shoulder, and Laira couldn't even scream. Pain blasted through her.
Her eyes rolled back, and all she could do was whimper.

In
the agony, her magic left her.

She
tumbled through the sky again, a mere human, a mere girl, afraid and
alone.

Before
she could hit the treetops, talons wrapped around her. Her eyelids
fluttered. She thought it was Zerra's roc that carried her. She
thought she heard the chieftain marks away, voice muffled, slurred,
his words impossible to grasp. She thought that countless other rocs
flew around her, a sea of dank wings, scraggly necks, and cruel
riders. Their blackness spread. She saw nothing but oily feathers,
blazing yellow eyes, and blood.

 
 
MAEV

The
tattooed fist drove into Maev's face, and the world blazed with blood
and white light.

Her
back hit the ground.

"Gorn!
Gorn!" The crowds spun around her, chanting her assailant's
name. Their faces were twisted with bloodlust, red in the torchlight.
"Finish her!"

The
fist drove down again, connecting with her temple, and blood
splattered across the ground. Maev felt herself losing consciousness.
She spat out a glob of saliva and blood.

Pain
is strength,
she told
herself, repeating the mantra that had always run through her.
Pain
is life. Pain drives you.

She
raised her arms. The fists fell left and right, blows that nearly
shattered her bones. She blocked them. She screamed as her blood
flew.

"Gorn!
Gorn!"

Somewhere
in the distance, her brother called out to her, the only voice in
this crowd that wanted her to live.

"Maev!
Get out of there!"

She
blinked. Her one eye was swollen shut. The other peered between
strands of her matted blond hair. She looked up at the man
above—more a beast than a man, she thought. His face was leathery
and covered with tattoos. Sweat dripped off his nose, and blood—shed
by her own fist—fell from his mouth, splattering against her. He
growled, pinning her down with his knees, driving his fists against
her arms. A blow drove past her defenses, connecting with her cheek,
and she could see no more, only white, only pain.

I
can become a dragon,
she thought in a haze.
I
am Vir Requis. I can fly, blow fire, kill him.

Through
the blood in her mouth, she smiled.