Oh stars above, Vale. I found something."
ISHTAFEL
In his dreams he was still
there. In darkness. Five hundred years ago. Young. Scared. Fighting with her.
"The cowards flee, my
love!" Reehan cried, laughing as she swung her twin xiphos swords. "Like
worms digging deeper into their holes. Let us hook them!"
Ishtafel fought at her
side, swinging his own twin blades. Blood covered his steel breastplate, his
long blond hair, his face—every part of him, sticky, hot, red, coppery, sweet.
Some the blood of his enemies. Some the blood of his friends. Some his own
blood.
And in the tunnels
ahead, they scurried.
The weredragons.
Ishtafel swung one of
his short, wide blades, blocking a blow from a massive weredragon longsword.
The beast roared before him, bearded, eyes wild, clad all in steel plates. The
brute's armor was thicker than his own, his sword longer and sharper, and fear
flooded Ishtafel—cold, all-consuming terror.
He thrust his blade
again, trying to reach past the weredragon's defenses. The tunnel walls seemed
to close in around Ishtafel. He couldn't breathe in here, couldn't see. Behind
the barbarian ahead, thousands more—filthy weredragons—lurked in the
darkness, just waiting to strike, to cut him down.
I can't do this, Ishtafel thought, tears budding in his eyes as he swung his blade. I can't
survive on this world. We should never have rebelled, never have fallen from
Edinnu. I'm going to die here in darkness.
The weredragon lashed
at Ishtafel again, and his longsword slammed into his armor. Ishtafel cried out
and fell to his knees in the tunnel, these holes far beneath the realm they
called Requiem. The weredragon grinned and raised his longsword, prepared to
land the killing blow.
Reehan let out a battle
cry. Her golden hair streamed, and her bloody face twisted with rage. She
leaped forward, twin blades flashing. With one swing of the blade, she knocked
aside the weredragon's longsword. With the other, she cut the creature's neck,
sending him crashing down. Blood spurted onto her, and she licked it off her
face and smacked her lips.
"All right, my love?"
she said, reaching down to help him up.
Ishtafel rose without
her help. His heart thudded against his ribs. Sweat dripped down his face,
mingling with the blood.
I can't do this, he thought. Only thirty years old—a babe among the immortal seraphim—he had
thought himself brave, a great conqueror. He had vowed to his Mother: I will
show you my strength! I will build an empire for you. I will crush Requiem!
He had slain the dragons
in their sky. With thousands of flaming chariots, he had burned them down. Yet
now, here in these tunnels, he fought the creatures face to face. Here was no
realm of fire; here was blood, guts, bones, torn bodies and organs across the
walls, and fear, and screams. Here he would die, no conqueror, just a soldier,
screaming as the shapeshifters tore him apart.
The weredragons
charged. Side by side with Reehan, Ishtafel fought.
They moved through the
tunnels, thousands of seraphim behind them, thousands of weredragons ahead.
They climbed rough staircases, ran through craggy tombs and libraries, fought
in cisterns, in granaries, in burrows barely wide enough to walk through. And
everywhere the dead fell, seraphim, weredragons, piles of corpses underground.
As he kept marching
through the tunnels, cutting weredragons down, some of Ishtafel's fear eased.
Bloodlust rose to replace it. He was surviving. He was killing. He would win
this.
"I slay them for you, Reehan!"
he cried, driving his sword into a weredragon child, sending the girl crashing
down. "I conquer this land in your honor, my love. When we return home,
victorious, we shall wed in glory."
She laughed at his
side, lashing her blades at an axe-wielding weredragon. "Let us wed here, my
love! Let us wed in darkness and blood, for this is a domain of more glory than
the gold of Saraph."
Her eyes shone as she
gazed at him. Bloodied, her blades held before
ISHTAFEL
In his dreams he was still
there. In darkness. Five hundred years ago. Young. Scared. Fighting with her.
"The cowards flee, my
love!" Reehan cried, laughing as she swung her twin xiphos swords. "Like
worms digging deeper into their holes. Let us hook them!"
Ishtafel fought at her
side, swinging his own twin blades. Blood covered his steel breastplate, his
long blond hair, his face—every part of him, sticky, hot, red, coppery, sweet.
Some the blood of his enemies. Some the blood of his friends. Some his own
blood.
And in the tunnels
ahead, they scurried.
The weredragons.
Ishtafel swung one of
his short, wide blades, blocking a blow from a massive weredragon longsword.
The beast roared before him, bearded, eyes wild, clad all in steel plates. The
brute's armor was thicker than his own, his sword longer and sharper, and fear
flooded Ishtafel—cold, all-consuming terror.
He thrust his blade
again, trying to reach past the weredragon's defenses. The tunnel walls seemed
to close in around Ishtafel. He couldn't breathe in here, couldn't see. Behind
the barbarian ahead, thousands more—filthy weredragons—lurked in the
darkness, just waiting to strike, to cut him down.
I can't do this, Ishtafel thought, tears budding in his eyes as he swung his blade. I can't
survive on this world. We should never have rebelled, never have fallen from
Edinnu. I'm going to die here in darkness.
The weredragon lashed
at Ishtafel again, and his longsword slammed into his armor. Ishtafel cried out
and fell to his knees in the tunnel, these holes far beneath the realm they
called Requiem. The weredragon grinned and raised his longsword, prepared to
land the killing blow.
Reehan let out a battle
cry. Her golden hair streamed, and her bloody face twisted with rage. She
leaped forward, twin blades flashing. With one swing of the blade, she knocked
aside the weredragon's longsword. With the other, she cut the creature's neck,
sending him crashing down. Blood spurted onto her, and she licked it off her
face and smacked her lips.
"All right, my love?"
she said, reaching down to help him up.
Ishtafel rose without
her help. His heart thudded against his ribs. Sweat dripped down his face,
mingling with the blood.
I can't do this, he thought. Only thirty years old—a babe among the immortal seraphim—he had
thought himself brave, a great conqueror. He had vowed to his Mother: I will
show you my strength! I will build an empire for you. I will crush Requiem!
He had slain the dragons
in their sky. With thousands of flaming chariots, he had burned them down. Yet
now, here in these tunnels, he fought the creatures face to face. Here was no
realm of fire; here was blood, guts, bones, torn bodies and organs across the
walls, and fear, and screams. Here he would die, no conqueror, just a soldier,
screaming as the shapeshifters tore him apart.
The weredragons
charged. Side by side with Reehan, Ishtafel fought.
They moved through the
tunnels, thousands of seraphim behind them, thousands of weredragons ahead.
They climbed rough staircases, ran through craggy tombs and libraries, fought
in cisterns, in granaries, in burrows barely wide enough to walk through. And
everywhere the dead fell, seraphim, weredragons, piles of corpses underground.
As he kept marching
through the tunnels, cutting weredragons down, some of Ishtafel's fear eased.
Bloodlust rose to replace it. He was surviving. He was killing. He would win
this.
"I slay them for you, Reehan!"
he cried, driving his sword into a weredragon child, sending the girl crashing
down. "I conquer this land in your honor, my love. When we return home,
victorious, we shall wed in glory."
She laughed at his
side, lashing her blades at an axe-wielding weredragon. "Let us wed here, my
love! Let us wed in darkness and blood, for this is a domain of more glory than
the gold of Saraph."
Her eyes shone as she
gazed at him. Bloodied, her blades held before
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