Read Online Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) by Daniel Arenson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daniel Arenson
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masters too cruel for their frail bodies. Others were
elders, slaves who had toiled for decades under the sun, clinging to a hope to
see Requiem again, finally to end up here, bodies in a land of despair.
And one woman, torn
apart, her severed limbs and battered torso wrapped in a shroud. A woman who
had dared to fly, dared to fight. A lost light of Requiem. A mother.
"I'm sorry,
Mother," Vale whispered. "I'm sorry I wasn't there, that I couldn't
fly with you, fight with you."
A soft voice spoke at
his side. "Her soul will rise to the celestial halls of Requiem. She will
shine there in palaces of starlight, drink wine, and sing among our ancient heroes.
She is at peace now. She is at peace."
And yet pain filled
that voice. Vale turned to see Jaren, his father, standing at his side in the
crowd of mourners.
"There is no such
thing." Vale's voice was a hoarse whisper, yet the pain of an anguished cry
filled it. "Celestial halls? An afterlife of starlight? Just dreams. Just
stories." His tears burned in his eyes. "Maybe Requiem itself is but
a dream, a land that never was."
He saw how those words
wounded his father. Jaren winced and his lips tightened into a line. Dust
coated the priest's long grizzled beard, and chains hobbled his ankles. Years
of brickmaking in the sun had weathered his face; Jaren was only in his
fifties, yet he looked like a man of eighty—wrinkled, weary, his hair gray.
Despite the chains, despite his rags, despite his years of labor, Jaren still
clung to the old stories. Still called himself a priest of the Draco
constellation, the stars that supposedly had once blessed Requiem, that would someday
save them again. Still believed in that lost, distant realm the seraphim had
burned five hundred years ago.
But Vale no longer
believed, no longer cared if he hurt his father. There was so much pain in this
place, so much anguish. What was more pain? Why even live on, why linger, why
cling to stories? Perhaps his mother had taken the only sensible path. Perhaps
it was best to rise up, to fight, to die in battle rather than linger here in
chains.
Vale expected Jaren to
argue, to insist that Requiem was real, that stars truly blessed them, that a
dragon constellation truly shone in the northern skies. But the old priest
merely lowered his head, and tears streamed down his cheeks into his beard.
Vale felt all his anger
fade. He stepped close to his father, his own tears falling, and embraced the
old man. They stood together, crying together, their chains rattling, watching
through the veil of tears as the corpses were lowered into the pit.
Several dragons, their
collars removed but their limbs chained, pulled forth the wagons of corpses.
Upon a hill, an old slave with a white beard chanted prayers to the Eight Gods,
the vengeful deities the seraphim worshipped, the religion forced upon the Vir
Requis slaves in the land of Tofet.
"Praise the Eight!"
the white-haired slave cried upon the hill. "Blessed be their light!
Praise the seraphim masters for their mercy, and may their light guide the
souls of our dead to rest."
"Praise the Eight!"
answered slaves in the crowd, hundreds come to see their dead buried, as the
dragons tilted the wagons, as the dead spilled into the mass grave.
Curse the Eight, Vale thought, staring at the bodies sliding into the pit. One among them was
his mother; he didn't even know which one anymore. Curse the foul gods of
this place. Curse the seraphim. Curse the land of Tofet. Curse these chains.
And curse Ishtafel.
The memory filled Vale,
burning inside his skull. It had happened only hours ago, yet it seemed
eternal, an event ancient and current, a flame consuming all time, a terror
that he knew would always fill him. His father stepping into the quarry. Mother
dead in his arms.
Vale closed his eyes,
and his fists shook at his sides.
"You killed her,
Ishtafel," he whispered. "You killed my mother. You kidnapped my
sister."
I should have been
there, Vale thought. I should
elders, slaves who had toiled for decades under the sun, clinging to a hope to
see Requiem again, finally to end up here, bodies in a land of despair.
And one woman, torn
apart, her severed limbs and battered torso wrapped in a shroud. A woman who
had dared to fly, dared to fight. A lost light of Requiem. A mother.
"I'm sorry,
Mother," Vale whispered. "I'm sorry I wasn't there, that I couldn't
fly with you, fight with you."
A soft voice spoke at
his side. "Her soul will rise to the celestial halls of Requiem. She will
shine there in palaces of starlight, drink wine, and sing among our ancient heroes.
She is at peace now. She is at peace."
And yet pain filled
that voice. Vale turned to see Jaren, his father, standing at his side in the
crowd of mourners.
"There is no such
thing." Vale's voice was a hoarse whisper, yet the pain of an anguished cry
filled it. "Celestial halls? An afterlife of starlight? Just dreams. Just
stories." His tears burned in his eyes. "Maybe Requiem itself is but
a dream, a land that never was."
He saw how those words
wounded his father. Jaren winced and his lips tightened into a line. Dust
coated the priest's long grizzled beard, and chains hobbled his ankles. Years
of brickmaking in the sun had weathered his face; Jaren was only in his
fifties, yet he looked like a man of eighty—wrinkled, weary, his hair gray.
Despite the chains, despite his rags, despite his years of labor, Jaren still
clung to the old stories. Still called himself a priest of the Draco
constellation, the stars that supposedly had once blessed Requiem, that would someday
save them again. Still believed in that lost, distant realm the seraphim had
burned five hundred years ago.
But Vale no longer
believed, no longer cared if he hurt his father. There was so much pain in this
place, so much anguish. What was more pain? Why even live on, why linger, why
cling to stories? Perhaps his mother had taken the only sensible path. Perhaps
it was best to rise up, to fight, to die in battle rather than linger here in
chains.
Vale expected Jaren to
argue, to insist that Requiem was real, that stars truly blessed them, that a
dragon constellation truly shone in the northern skies. But the old priest
merely lowered his head, and tears streamed down his cheeks into his beard.
Vale felt all his anger
fade. He stepped close to his father, his own tears falling, and embraced the
old man. They stood together, crying together, their chains rattling, watching
through the veil of tears as the corpses were lowered into the pit.
Several dragons, their
collars removed but their limbs chained, pulled forth the wagons of corpses.
Upon a hill, an old slave with a white beard chanted prayers to the Eight Gods,
the vengeful deities the seraphim worshipped, the religion forced upon the Vir
Requis slaves in the land of Tofet.
"Praise the Eight!"
the white-haired slave cried upon the hill. "Blessed be their light!
Praise the seraphim masters for their mercy, and may their light guide the
souls of our dead to rest."
"Praise the Eight!"
answered slaves in the crowd, hundreds come to see their dead buried, as the
dragons tilted the wagons, as the dead spilled into the mass grave.
Curse the Eight, Vale thought, staring at the bodies sliding into the pit. One among them was
his mother; he didn't even know which one anymore. Curse the foul gods of
this place. Curse the seraphim. Curse the land of Tofet. Curse these chains.
And curse Ishtafel.
The memory filled Vale,
burning inside his skull. It had happened only hours ago, yet it seemed
eternal, an event ancient and current, a flame consuming all time, a terror
that he knew would always fill him. His father stepping into the quarry. Mother
dead in his arms.
Vale closed his eyes,
and his fists shook at his sides.
"You killed her,
Ishtafel," he whispered. "You killed my mother. You kidnapped my
sister."
I should have been
there, Vale thought. I should
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