Light of Requiem: Requiem: Song of Dragons, #3

LIGHT OF REQUIEM

Song of Dragons, Book Three

by Daniel Arenson

Copyright © 2011 by Daniel Arenson

All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

FOREWORD

Light of Requiem is the third volume of Song of Dragons, a series of fantasy novels inspired by Mozart's Requiem.

The first volume, Blood of Requiem, introduced us to the Vir Requis, an ancient race of men who can turn into dragons. Tears of Requiem, the second volume, continued their story.

This third novel assumes you've already read the first two. If you haven't, you'll probably still get the gist of things... though I do recommend reading Blood and Tears first.

With this introduction out of the way, I welcome you back into a world of blood, steel, and dragonfire.

TEETH

The three boys swaggered down the streets, arms pumping, eyes daring beggars, urchins, and other survivors to stare back. The dragons had left this city; so had the nightshades. In the ruins after the war, new lords arose. The Rot Gang ruled now.

Slim pickings today, said Arms. The wiry, toothless boy was seventeen. He crossed the arms he was named for—arms long and hairy as an ape's.  We've been searching this cesspool all morning. These streets are clean.

Teeth glowered at him. Shut your mouth, Arms, he said. With a long, loud noise like a saw, he hawked and spat. The glob landed at Arms's feet and bubbled.

Arms glowered back, spat too, and muttered.

The third Rot Gang boy—a gangly youth named Legs—watched and smirked. Drool dripped from his heavy lips. He towered seven feet tall, most of his height in his stilt-like legs. He was dumb, even dumber than Arms, and useless in a fight. Teeth kept him around because, well, Legs made him look normal. So what if my teeth are pointed like an animal's? Around Legs, nobody notices.

You like that, freak? Teeth asked him.  You like me yelling at old Arms here?

Legs guffawed, drooled, and scratched his head. He had a proper name, though Teeth didn't know it. He didn't care. Freaks didn't deserve proper names.

Yeah I like Arms angry, I do, said Legs. Makes me laugh, his little eyes, all buggy like so. He brayed laughter.

Arms turned red. His eyes did bulge when angry. He trundled toward Legs and punched his face.  The lanky boy screamed. Tears welled up in his eyes. He swiped at Arms, but the wiry youth dodged the blow.

Teeth spat again. Useless in a fight, you freak, he said to Legs. I don't know why I keep you around. Come on, break it up! You want to eat tonight? Let's keep looking. You too, Arms. There are bodies left in this city. We'll find them. And if we can't, we'll make our own.

Legs was crying and Arms muttering. Teeth snarled, pushed them forward, and the Rot Gang kept moving down the street. Blood dripped from Legs's nose, leaving a trail of red dots.

Confutatis lay in ruins. Fallen bricks, shattered statues, and broken arrows covered the city. The nightshades had done their work well; the dragons had finished it.  You could go days without seeing a soldier, priest, or guard, but you always saw urchins. They huddled behind smashed statues, inside makeshift hovels, or simply under tattered blankets. When they saw the Rot Gang, they cowered and hid. Teeth smirked as he swaggered by the poor souls. On the first week after the dragons, when survivors were claiming their pockets of ruin, many children had challenged him, adults too. His sharpened teeth had bitten, severing fingers, ears, noses. One boy, he remembered, had tried to steal a chicken from him; Teeth had bashed his head with a rock, again and again, until he saw brains spill. The memory boiled his blood and stirred his loins. He missed killing.

Legs guffawed and pointed. Hey boss, look here, you see them, little ones, hey.  He snickered and wiped his nose, smearing blood and mucus across his face.

Teeth stared.  He saw them.  A gaggle of urchins—little girls, eight or nine years old by the look of them. They hid behind a fallen statue of Dies Irae. One cradled a dog in her arms. When they saw the Rot Gang, the girls froze. Then they began to flee.

Catch them, Teeth commanded.

Arms and Legs took off, the former lumbering like an ape, the latter quick as a horse. Teeth stood and watched. Three girls disappeared into a maze of fallen columns.  Arms hit one girl with a rock, knocking her down. Legs grabbed the girl with the dog.

Bring her here, Teeth said.

The girl was kicking and screaming, but Legs held her tight. Arms approached with his own catch. He held his girl in his arms; she was unconscious, maybe dead.

Let go, help, help! The girl in Legs's grasp was panting, face red. Her dog shivered in her grasp.

Teeth stepped forward. He snatched the dog from the girl. He clutched it by the neck, squeezed, and held it out.

You want your dog back, you little whore? he said. His blood boiled. A smile twisted his lips. The mutt was squirming and squealing, but powerless to escape.

The girl nodded. Give him back. Let go!

Teeth slammed the dog against the ground. It whimpered. Teeth kicked it hard, and it flew toward Arms. The apelike boy laughed and kicked it back, and blood splattered the cobblestones.

Kick dog! Legs said. Kick dog, I want to play it.

The girl screamed and wept as they played. Finally Teeth grew bored. The dog was no longer squealing, and the game was no longer fun.

Enough, he said. We've come seeking bodies, not whiny little whores. Legs, let her go.

The gangly boy dropped the girl. Her knees hit the cobblestones, and her skin tore, but she seemed not to notice. She raced forward, lifted her dead dog, and cradled it.

Teeth laughed.  You idiot. The damn thing's dead. What kind of freak wants a dead dog for a pet? He scratched his chin. I wonder if Irae would pay for a dead dog.

Arms shook his head. Nah. No way. You know Blood Wolves?

Teeth glared at him. You know I do. You know I hate Blood Wolves. You calling me an idiot, Arms? If that's what you're doing, I'll play some Kick Arms and have a nice body to sell.

Legs laughed, spraying saliva. Kick Arms, Kick Arms, I like to play it.

Arms picked his nose. I ain't calling you nothing. Cool it, Teeth. But Blood Wolves, you see, they've been bringing dead dogs, and horses, and whatnot. I hear the soldiers speak of it. Even brought a whole dead griffin, they did, Sun God knows how they dragged it. Worth coppers at best, the dogs. A griffin might fetch gold, maybe, but not dogs and horses and all that rubbish. He needs limbs most, human limbs. Heads too. Men, you know. With brains and whatnot. That's how you make mimics, not dogs. He snatched the dead dog from the girl and tossed it. It flew over a pile of bricks, and the girl ran weeping to find it.

Teeth knew that Arms was right. Sometimes he saw mimics with animal parts—a horse's hoof here, a dog's head there—but they were rare. Human bodies were what the Rot Gang specialized in, but pickings were slim lately, other gangs were growing, and their pockets were light. Teeth knew it was a matter of time before they'd have to stop hunting bodies... and start making bodies.

But who could he kill? The urchins were too small, mere children with frail limbs; Dies Irae wouldn't pay much for them. And it seemed everybody else in this city had joined larger gangs, arming themselves with daggers, clubs, even swords. And I only have one knife, an apelike oaf, and a skinny giant who'd piss himself in a fight sooner than kill a man.

All right, let's go, north quarter today. Lots of ruins there. Bodies underneath them, rotting maybe, but they'll still fetch some coin, good bronze too.

They continued through the winding streets, passing by fallen forts, crushed hovels, and cracked statues of Dies Irae. Old blood stained the cobblestones. Nightshades' ash and dragons' fire had blackened the ruins. Teeth remembered the battle, not a moon ago. The five dragons had swooped upon the city, blowing fire. Benedictus the Black had led them, and he led griffins too. Nightshades had fought them, and Teeth had never seen so much fire and blood; it rained from the sky. The next day, as men lay rotting in the streets, Teeth had begun to collect.

Finally they reached the smaller, northern quarters, where there were barely streets anymore, merely piles of bricks and wood.

Dig, Teeth barked at the other boys.

They climbed onto the piles of debris and began rummaging. Wind moaned around them, smelling of rot. Teeth cursed as he worked. If there were no bodies left in the city, there was no money either. He'd have to escape into the countryside like so many others.

I could become an outlaw... live in the forests, hunt travellers, grab plump peasant girls when I can find them.  That didn't sound too bad, but Teeth knew little about the forest; he had spent his life on these streets.

I could join the Earthen too, if they're real, he thought. Folks whispered about the Earthen sometimes—wild Earth God followers who lived in caves. Some said they were building weapons, preparing for a strike against Dies Irae, the man who had toppled their temples and banned their faith. But Teeth didn't care much for gods or holy wars, no more than he cared for the wilderness. This city is a cesspool, but it's all I know.