Crown of Dragonfire by Daniel Arenson

Author:Daniel Arenson [Arenson, Daniel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: NLA Digital LLC
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

JAREN

Under the burning sun they labored. In the heat and light of Saraph they screamed. In pits of tar and clay, their bones shattered, their backs broke, their skin tore, their souls cried out for mercy the masters would not grant. In darkness they hid, weeping, begging, praying to stars that would not answer.

Ishtafel, King of Saraph, rose above all, laughing above, a second sun, and under his flames the slaves burned.

Is this how Requiem perishes? Jaren wondered, toiling as another day began, mixing the clay and straw, forming the bricks to bake in the kilns. Not in battle, not with song, not with pride, but fading away in the dirt?

"Faster!" An overseer swung a wooden club, slamming it against Jaren's back with a crack. "Toil!"

Jaren couldn't help it. He cried out in pain. He fell. The seraph spat, clubbed him again, kicked his side.

"Up, old man!" The overseer laughed—a deep, throaty chuckle. "Up and toil. I won't let you die yet."

He screamed. Something tore inside him.

It is over. I fade now. I go to the stars of my forebears.

All around him, they screamed—the children of Requiem, whipped, beaten, broken.

No. I am their father, descended of their ancient king. I am their healer, their priest. Jaren pushed himself up, arms wobbling. I cannot die here. Not as hope still flickers.

He rose to his bleeding feet. He labored on.

As night fell again, they gathered before his home. The weak carrying the weaker. The wounded carrying the dying. Men, women, children with broken bones, open wounds across their bodies. Swollen, bleeding, coughing, shivering, convulsing, festering. The slaves of Tofet, broken, shattered, yet still clinging to life. Still clinging to a dream—a dream of Meliora returning. A dream of seeing Requiem again. Still clinging to life—so frail, so precious! A life even of pain, even of fear, of this endless agony, of centuries of torment—still to live! Still to draw one more breath, to see another dawn in the fields of dust and sweat, to utter one more prayer. To hope. To dream. To pray to see dragons again.

Outside his hut they gathered, dozens, then a hundred, and Jaren stood before them. He too was wounded. He too needed healing, needed water, needed rest. But his children needed him more.

"Come to me, my children." Jaren opened his arms. "Come and pray with me."

One by one, they approached. The first was a young girl, raped and beaten by her masters, bleeding inside. Her mother placed her down. She could barely breathe, merely lay gasping, raspy, gurgling. Jaren's eyes swam with tears as he knelt above her, as he stared up at the stars, as he prayed. He was not a great healer like Issari—the first priestess of Requiem—but he called upon her spirit, the spirit that had healed his son. And in the shadows and light, he thought he saw her form—a pious woman in robes, a braid hanging across her shoulders, her tears falling onto the child who lay in the dirt.

The young girl's eyes fluttered open, and she began to weep.

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