BOOK THREE: LIGHT OF REQUIEM
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.
The smell of decay hit his nostrils with a burst, so strong he nearly fell over. Teeth spat, dizzy. He pulled aside two bricks and saw a rotting head. He pulled it up by the hair; it came loose from its body. The head was pulsing with maggots, so bloated it looked like a leather sack. Teeth tossed it aside in disgust, and it burst.
"Bah! These bodies are useless now." He clenched his fists. "They're too old, too swollen, no good for anyone anymore. How would Irae sew these together? You just look at them, and they fall apart. Nothing left of them but rot."
Behind him, Arms brayed a laugh. "I tolds you, Teeth. I tolds you. We need to bring animals, dogs and whatnot, and those little girls maybe, they have teeth that can bite."
Teeth growled. He marched across the pile of bricks and grabbed Arms's collar. "Dogs? Little girls? I want silver, Arms. Gold if we can get it. Not copper pennies. I'm not a beggar like the Blood Wolves."
Arms stared, eyes burning. "I should join the Blood Wolves, I should. Look at you. This is your gang? A group of freaks. You with your dog teeth, and Legs with those stilts of his. It's pathetic, it is."
Legs guffawed and drooled. "Dog teeth, dog teeth! I like to see them."
Teeth growled, drew a knife from his belt, and held it at Arms's throat. Arms stiffened and his eyes shot daggers.
"You don't like it here?" Teeth hissed. His stomach churned and rage nearly blinded him. His hands shook and his heart pounded. "You want to join the Blood Wolves?"
Arms snarled, the knife at his neck.
"Yes," he hissed.
Teeth swiped the knife across his throat. Blood spurted. For an instant, Arms seemed not to notice. He merely stared, eyes narrowed. Then he grabbed his throat, trying in vain to stop the blood. He fell to his knees, and suddenly he was weeping, and trying to speak, trying to breathe, but he could do neither.
Teeth stared down at him. "There's your blood, Arms. Blood's what you wanted. Blood's what you got. And I got my body. A body with nice long arms."
He could have given Arms a better death. He could have finished the job—stabbed him in the heart, or bashed in his head. But Teeth wanted to watch. He stood over the thrashing boy until Arms merely twitched, stared up with pleading eyes, then gurgled and lay limp. For several moments he merely whimpered and his eyelids fluttered. And then Teeth had his body for the day.
The wind moaned as Teeth and Legs carried the body through the rubble. It cut through Teeth's clothes and pierced his skin. The blood was sticky on his fingers. The sun was setting when they saw Flammis Palace ahead. Two of its towers had collapsed, and several walls had crumbled. It wasn't much better off than the rest of the city, but Dies Irae still ruled there. His banners, white and gold, thudded atop the remaining towers. His guards covered the standing walls, bows in hand.
Teeth and Legs approached the front gates. The bricks were blackened from fire, and the doors were charred. The dragons had breathed most of their fire here when storming the palace. Guards stood at the gateway, clad in plate armor, swords in hand. Their skin looked sallow, and sacks hung beneath their bloodshot eyes. There wasn't much food in Confutatis anymore, and folk whispered that some of the guards had taken to eating the bodies. The stench of rot hung heavy here.
"New body for the Commander," Teeth told the guards. "Fresh, this one."
Legs nodded, holding Arms's other end. "Fresh, fresh! We like them that way. Yes sir we do."
The guards grunted. "All right, boys. Looks better than your last catch. In you go."
Teeth tugged the body, moving past the broken doors. Legs followed. They stepped into a hallway, its northern wall fallen. Bloodstains covered the floor and ash coated the ceiling. One column was smashed and stained red. Teeth knew the way. Hoisting the body, he turned left into a stairwell. The stairs wound into shadows. Torches lined the walls, but most were unlit. Teeth and Legs delved into the dungeons of Flammis Palace, the stairway leading them down and down into the cold and darkness. The palace was twice as deep as it was tall, and Teeth climbed down to its deepest chambers.
Screams, creaks, and squeals echoed through the tunnels. A man laughed. A saw grinded. Screeches rose and fell.
Teeth and Legs walked down a hallway, its floor sticky with blood, and entered a towering chamber. Torches lined the walls, flickering against rows of tables. Body parts covered the tabletops. Rows of legs covered one table, arms another, heads a third. A pile of torsos rotted in the corner. Uncarved bodies hung on walls and filled wheelbarrows.
Dies Irae stood at the back of the room.
Teeth froze. On previous visits, he had met underlings, not the Commander himself. He had not expected to meet Dies Irae here. Once emperor of a mighty realm, Dies Irae now ruled a wasteland of desolation, death, and disease. His skin was grey. Blood stained his clothes. He stood by a table, hunched over a rotten torso. Sleeves rolled back, he was gutting it.
Teeth cleared his throat, blinked, and tried to quell the shake that found his knees.
"Commander," he said. "We brought you a body. A fresh one, my lord."
Legs brayed. "Fresh, fresh, that's how we like them, yes sir we do."
Dies Irae looked up from his work. His one eye blazed blue. A patch covered his other eye. Teeth knew the story. Benedictus the weredragon had taken that eye from him, as he had taken Dies Irae's left arm; a steel arm grew there now, its fist a spiked mace head.
"A fresh one?" Dies Irae asked. His voice was hoarse. Wrinkles creased his brow. "Yes. Yes, very fresh."
Teeth and Legs placed the body on a table. Teeth stifled a cough, struggling not to gag from the chamber's stench. Maggots were crawling on some of the bodies. Worms filled others.
"A fresh body, and look at its arms," Teeth said. "Look at how long they are, my lord. Long and strong, like an ape's. This one's worth two silver coins, one per arm at least, my lord. A good body. Strong and fresh."
Dies Irae examined the dead body, furrowed his brow, and touched those long arms. He smiled, his lips twisting like worms. "Yes. Yes, strong. Fresh."
Teeth didn't like this. He wanted to leave. On previous visits, underlings would examine his finds, mutter, and pay. But Dies Irae seemed... too quiet, lost in his own world. Teeth noticed that specks of blood covered the man's lips. He shivered. Had Dies Irae been eating the bodies?
"My lord?" he said. There were bite marks on the body, he saw. Now Teeth definitely wanted to flee. "My lord, two silvers would be our price, if it please you. We'll find you more bodies. We're the Rot Gang."
Dies Irae walked around the table and approached him. He was tall, Teeth saw. Not as tall as Legs, maybe, but heavier, all muscle and grit. Dies Irae stared at him with his good eye.
"Those are good teeth you have there," he said. He licked his lips, smearing blood across them. "Sharp. I bet they can just... bite into somebody." He snapped his own teeth, as if to demonstrate. "I could use teeth like that."
Beside them, Legs guffawed. "Dog teeth, dog teeth, I like to see them. Yes sir I do."
Dies Irae turned to face him, as if seeing Legs for the first time. "Well, young man, aren't you a tall one. Look at those legs you've got there. I bet they could just...." Dies Irae stamped his feet. "Run! Run like the wind, I bet they can."
Legs brayed. "They run, Legs they call me, yes sir they do."
This was all wrong. Teeth found that he no longer cared about the coins.
"My lord, if you'll excuse us, we'll be on our way," he said. He turned to face the doorway.
A mimic stood there. Not a dead body, but an animated thing, patched together, sewn from the strongest parts. A creature with worms for hair, claws on its fingers, and death in its eyes. It blocked the doorway, grinning. Insects bustled in its mouth, and its eyes blazed red.
"They are strong," Dies Irae said. "They are made from the best. The best parts. I build them myself."
He swung his mace at Legs.
It hit the boy's head, crushing it.
As Legs collapsed, Teeth ran to the wall and grabbed a torch. He held it before him as a weapon.
"Don't touch me, old man!" he warned, waving the torch.
Dies Irae's lips curled back; Teeth couldn't decide if it was a snarl or a grin.
"But I will touch you," he said. "I will make you stronger. I will give you the right parts."
Teeth lashed his torch.
Dies Irae sidestepped.
The mace swung.
Pain exploded against Teeth's chest. The mace swung and again hit his chest. His ribs snapped. He couldn't breathe. Blood filled his mouth.
He fell to his knees. The last thing he saw was Dies Irae grinning, and the mace swung again.
Light exploded. Blood and pain flowed across him... and faded. He knew nothing more.
GLORIAE
She flew over snowy trees, a golden dragon in the wind, when her magic died and she turned human.
Gloriae yelped. The forest rushed up toward her. She tumbled. The firewood she had collected fell around her. She uselessly flapped her arms as if she still had wings. Wind howled. Gloriae gritted her teeth and tried to become a dragon again. Nothing happened. Her magic was gone.
Pain exploded.
She crashed into a snowy treetop. Branches cracked. They snapped against her breastplate, tore her leggings, and lacerated her arms. For a moment she hung between two branches, and then they too snapped. She fell ten feet, and her helmet hit another branch. White light flooded her. The pain was so intense, she couldn't even scream.
With a crack, more branches splintered, and Gloriae hit the forest floor.
She lay in the snow, moaning. Everything hurt. She dared not move, fearing the pain of broken bones.
Thank the stars for my armor, she thought. Without my helmet and breastplate, I'd be jackal food.
She moaned and took slow breaths. What happened? How could her magic fail? For thousands of years, the children of Requiem could become dragons at will, could breathe fire and soar over forest and mountain.
Gloriae pushed herself onto her elbows. Her head spun, and she blinked several times, trying to bring the world back into focus.
That was when she heard the growl.
Wolves, she thought. She leaped to her feet, which made her head spin more wildly. She drew Per Ignem, her sword of northern steel, and looked around. If she could not breathe fire, she could still swing her blade.
She heard the growl again. It came from somewhere between the trees ahead. It was no wolf, Gloriae realized. This growl was too deep, too... twisted, wrong, cruel. She had never heard anything like it, and despite herself, she shuddered. A stench filled the forest, like rotting bodies and sewage, so heavy Gloriae nearly gagged.
She wanted to call out, to ask "Who's there?", but forced herself to remain silent. Whatever creature growled ahead, it might not have seen her yet.
Slim chance, she thought. Anyone around would have seen her fall from the sky, but Gloriae was a warrior, and stealth was beaten into her like the folds in her blade. She narrowed her eyes. Her body still ached and the world still spun, but Gloriae could still kill if she had to.
The growl rose again, and a second growl sounded at her right, this one closer. Gloriae spun around, sword raised, and finally saw the creatures.
One stepped out to her right, one from ahead, and one from her left. She knew them at once.
Mimics.
"Damn it," Gloriae whispered.
For a moment, terror froze her.
They walked toward her, rotting, rustling with maggots. Dies Irae had sewn them together from body parts, mixing and matching. One had the torso of a woman, bare breasted and gutted, flies breeding in the cavity of its stomach. One of its legs was the bent, hairy leg of a man, while its arms were tiny, the arms of babies. Another mimic had the torso of a man, but the legs of a goat, and arms that ended with blades instead of hands. The third had two torsos of children sewn one atop the other, and its four hands held knives. Each was different, but each had long blond hair. Each stared with baleful blue eyes.
Each looked like her.
"Hello, mother," they whispered as one. "Hello, first Gloriae. Your father sends his regards."
Their voices—twisting, screeching imitations of her own—snapped Gloriae out of her paralysis. She screamed and charged.
Per Ignem swung, slicing through one mimic's neck. Its head, stitched on, fell and rolled. Black blood splashed the snow. Its body, headless, lashed at Gloriae with claws.
Gloriae stepped back and stabbed a mimic to her left. She ducked, dodging another mimic's blades. The headless creature reached out its claws. Gloriae leaped forward, drove her helmet into its chest, and swung her blade, slicing another.
Claws grabbed her shoulder, bending her steel armor as if it were mere leather. Gloriae screamed, spun, and kicked. She hit the mimic's leg, snapping it. She brought down her sword. Black blood flew. The other mimics attacked.
As she jumped, dodged, and swung her blade, Gloriae remembered. The one time she had seen mimics before, she had tried to shift into a dragon, but could not. Their magic undoes my own.
The severed mimic's head bit her boot, and Gloriae screamed and kicked it. A severed arm grabbed her leg, cutting her with fingernails like blades. She stabbed it, freed herself, and turned to run.
She could not kill these beasts with steel, she knew. She remembered. Fire kills them.
As she ran, she heard them following, grunting like rutting beasts. Gloriae reached into her leather pack and grabbed her tinderbox.
Fingers grabbed her legs, and she fell. Her face hit the snow. The tinderbox flew from her hand.
Gloriae flipped onto her back, shouted, and kicked. Her boots knocked back a mimic's head. Its mouth opened to scream, spilling maggots. She kicked again and its head caved in, spraying centipedes and blood onto Gloriae's face.
Her tinderbox lay three feet away in the snow. Gloriae scurried for it.
A second mimic kicked the tinderbox aside, then walked toward her, grinning. Her sword had split its torso in half, from shoulder to navel, but still it moved, each half of its body swaying. Gloriae drove forward, swung her blade, and halved the mimic's head like a grapefruit, ear to ear. Only its jaw remained, and it squealed. Its claws sliced her shoulder, but Gloriae ignored the pain. She leaped five feet, landed by her tinderbox, and grabbed it.
Mimics screeched behind, lurching toward her.
Gloriae opened the tinderbox, gritted her teeth, and began rubbing flint against steel. Light, damn you, light!
A mimic grabbed her helmet and pulled her to her feet. It snarled, and drool sprayed from its mouth, green and thick with small white worms.
Gloriae frantically slashed flint on steel.
The mimic leaned in to bite.
Her tinderbox crackled with fire.
Gloriae drove it forward, shattering it against the mimic's face. The tinder spilled onto the creature, and its hair caught fire. It blazed.
She leaped back, watching the mimic burn. Cockroaches screeched and fled from it. The mimic tried to run toward her, but stumbled and fell.
The other mimics lunged at her.
Gloriae kicked the burning mimic's arm. It came loose and burned in the snow. She grabbed the arm, as if it were a torch, and swung it. The mimics cried like slaughtered pigs. Gloriae swung the arm into one's head, and its hair—blond locks like her own—caught fire. Soon its whole head burned.
One mimic remained. Gloriae stared at it, and though her wounds ached, she managed a small, crooked smile.
"Let's play," she said.
She swung her sword in one hand, the burning arm in the other. She dealt steel and fire. Black blood and maggots flew. Body parts fell, burned, screamed, and twisted.
"Gloriae," the last mimic hissed, a mere head with spilling brains, its body burning five feet away. "Gloriae, your father wants your head, and your arms, and your guts, and your—"
Gloriae stabbed it through the face, burned it, and watched it die. The stench of rotting meat and burning grease filled the forest.
She tossed the burning arm aside, disgusted. She breathed deeply, sword still in hand, blood covering her.
Mimics. Stars.
Gloriae looked around for more, and when none arrived, she examined her wounds. A finger had punched a hole through her armor, cutting her under her shoulder blade. More cuts ran along her calf. The fall onto the treetops had covered her with scratches and bumps; tomorrow bruises would cover her.
"Damn you, Irae," she whispered, staring at the burning bodies. She had killed three mimics a moon ago in the dungeons under Flammis Palace. She had never imagined Dies Irae would create more. How many mimics crawled the world now? Were more heading here, into the northwest, toward Requiem?
She had to warn the others.
She had to fly.
When she stepped far enough from the dead mimics, she found her magic. Wings sprouted from her back, scales covered her, and soon she roared as a golden dragon. She flew, crashed through the treetops, and found the sky.
She looked around, and in the distance, she saw trees sway and creak. She narrowed her eyes. Figures moved between those trees, many of them. Soon they moved into a clearing, black and red under the sun, and then disappeared into more trees.
Mimics. A hundred or more—an army of perverted humanity created by the man she had called Father. And they were heading home, to Requiem.
Gloriae cursed and flew.
KYRIE ELEISON
Kyrie was on guard duty, and he was freezing.
Snow fell, flurried in the wind, and covered his world. Kyrie saw no end to the horrible stuff. A blue dragon, he perched atop an orphaned archway, the walls around it long fallen. Below the mountaintop where the archway stood, ruins spread into the horizons: toppled walls and smashed columns and burned trees, the snow covering them all. Winter had come to the ruins of Requiem.
Kyrie shivered and wrapped his wings around him, but found no warmth.
"Stars, I hate guard duty," he muttered and spat. Snow covered him, and he shook it off, but more soon coated him.
He looked north to a valley between a cliff and mountain. Boulders rose from it like teeth, and a frozen river snaked through it. Benedictus was buried there—Kyrie's king, mentor, and brother-in-arms.
"I miss you, old friend," Kyrie whispered. "I wish you could have lived to see this, to see us back in Requiem." A lump filled his throat. "Our home still lies in ruins, but we're back, Benedictus. We've defeated the griffins, and we've defeated the nightshades, and we'll rebuild our home. The home you died to give us."
His eyes stung, and Kyrie shook his head, swallowed, and looked away. Thinking about Benedictus was too painful. I'm the only male left. I must be strong. I'll be like him.
Kyrie turned and looked down from his perch. A courtyard covered the mountaintop below him. Once a fortress had stood here, and warriors of Requiem had manned it. Draco Murus, they had called this place; the center of Requiem's military might. It had withstood Dies Irae's griffins longer than any other fort... but it had fallen too. Today only this archway still stood, a hundred feet tall. The rest of Draco Murus lay shattered across the mountain, buried in snow. The skeletons of a thousand Vir Requis lay buried there too.
A hole gaped open in the courtyard, and smoke rose from it. Kyrie smelled sausages and baking bread. He licked his lips. If the fortress had collapsed in the war, its dungeons were still sturdy, a network of cellars and tunnels. Lacrimosa and Agnus Dei huddled there now, Kyrie knew. They'd be warm and cozy by the fire, while he shivered here.
"Where are you, Gloriae?" he muttered. She had flown seeking firewood hours ago. Once she returned, she would guard, and Lacrimosa would fly for firewood. Then he, Kyrie, could enjoy a precious few hours in the cellars, alone with Agnus Dei.
For the first time all morning, Kyrie felt warm. He lived for those moments with Agnus Dei. He could already imagine it. While Lacrimosa and Gloriae were away, he'd hold her by the fire, warm under blankets. They'd whisper of losing Benedictus, and rebuilding Requiem, and of their love. They'd comfort each other with kisses and caresses, then undress with trembling fingers. He'd smell her hair, embrace her, and kiss her lips. She'd kiss him back eagerly, seeking healing from pain, fire to melt the world's ice. Her fingers would dig into his back, and her breasts would press against his chest, and—
With a roar, a golden dragon emerged from the clouds, flying toward him.
His dream shattered, and Kyrie started.
Gloriae panted. She all but crashed into the courtyard.
"Gloriae!" Kyrie said. "No firewood? No game? What happened?"
She looked at him, eyes fearful. Blood stained her scales.
"Gloriae, are you—?"
"Mimics," she panted. "I killed three. More are on the way."
Kyrie froze. Terror stabbed his gut, colder than the snow and wind. He remembered.
"Stars," he whispered. His heart pounded.
He leaped off the archway, landed by Gloriae, and shifted into human form. Gloriae shifted too and stood before him as a human girl. Snow filled her blond curls, her leggings were torn, and her breastplate was dented. Blood dripped from her calf and shoulder, and scratches covered her arms. Her cheeks were pink.
"They're not ten leagues away," she said. "A hundred of them, maybe more. They'll be here by nightfall."
Kyrie swallowed. His chest felt tight. He had seen mimics only once, the day Benedictus had died. They still haunted his nightmares.
He grabbed Gloriae's wrist. "Come. Underground."
They crossed the courtyard and reached a makeshift trapdoor they'd built of branches and rope. Kyrie pulled the door open, revealing a staircase leading underground. He raced downstairs, nearly slipping on the damp stone, and emerged into a cellar full of firewood, jugs of ale, and sacks of flour and lentils. He hurried into a tunnel, ran past more cellars, and entered a chamber with a crackling fireplace.
Lacrimosa, Queen of Requiem, sat there upon a fleece. The firelight danced against her pale cheeks and turned her fair hair red. Agnus Dei was stirring the fireplace with a poker. She turned toward them, her mane of black curls bouncing, her eyes wide.
"Gloriae!" Agnus Dei said. "You're hurt."
Lacrimosa rose to her feet. "What happened?"
Still panting, Gloriae sat by the fireplace. Lacrimosa sat beside her, removed the girl's armor, and began tending to her wounds. Agnus Dei sat at Gloriae's other side, smoothed her hair, and looked at her with worried eyes.
"What happened, Gloriae?" she asked.
They all listened as Gloriae spoke of meeting three mimics outside Requiem, of losing the ability to shift, of seeing many more mimics travelling west. Kyrie and Agnus Dei cursed and muttered throughout the story, but Lacrimosa only listened silently, face blank.
Once Gloriae had finished her tale and her wounds were bandaged, Lacrimosa stood up. Kyrie approached her and stared into her lavender eyes.
"Lacrimosa," he said, "we must flee. Requiem is no longer safe. I've fought griffins and nightshades a hundred times, and mimics only once, but it's that last battle that haunts me most. Let's run. Now."
Lacrimosa took a deep breath and tightened her lips. She stared into the fireplace. The twins sat by the hearth, holding each other, looking at their mother. For a long time, Lacrimosa said nothing. They all waited.
Finally Lacrimosa spoke. "What would he have done?" she said, gazing at the crackling flames. "That's what I always ask myself. I miss him so much. He'd know what to do." She took a shuddering breath. "But we must continue without him." She turned to stare at Kyrie, her eyes large and haunted. "He died for Requiem. He would want to stay and fight."
At that moment, Kyrie felt such love and pain for Lacrimosa, that he wanted to embrace her. But no; she was Queen of Requiem, and she needed no embraces from him, but strength and courage.
"I'd fight for you anywhere," he said. "But... we've always fought as dragons. We can't shift around mimics. Are you sure, Lacrimosa? There are other places to hide, places safer than Requiem's ruins."
Agnus Dei chewed her lip. She opened her mouth, shut it, clenched her fists, and finally spoke. "I want to fight! I do. I've never run from a fight. Ever! But... Mother, I'm scared." Her eyes dampened. "I was never afraid of a fight before, not against all the griffins and nightshades in the world. But I'm scared now. I... if something happened to you too, Mother, I...."
Suddenly Agnus Dei was crying. Gloriae embraced her and patted her hair, and Kyrie held her hands.
Lacrimosa squared her shoulders. The firelight danced against her face. "I might die in this fight, Agnus Dei. I might join Father in our starlit halls. I can't promise you that we'll all live. But no place is safe anymore. We've been running and hiding for over a decade, and Dies Irae sends his creatures to all corners of the world. Where more can we run? We promised Father that we'll rebuild Requiem. We promised it to him when we buried him. We cannot run forever." She gestured to a doorway, beyond which lay their armory. "We knew Irae would attack. We've stored bows and arrows, blades, and armor. We don't have much, but we've prepared."
Kyrie shook his head. "Lacrimosa, I want to fight too, but... we have only four bows, only a hundred arrows. We have only a few pieces of armor, and only Gloriae has a breastplate. We're not armed well enough. To beat two or three mimics, yes. But a hundred? We never expected that many."
Lacrimosa took a deep breath. Her eyes stared at nothing, reflective, as though staring at a memory of her husband. "We'll build more weapons." She gestured at piles of firewood that filled the chamber. "We'll build javelins and arrows and torches. We can't shift around mimics, but we can still fight them. Dies Irae is weakened now. It's time to make a stand. We will tell him: You cannot keep hunting us. Requiem is reborn, and we will defend her."
Gloriae rose to her feet and drew her sword. "Yes," she said. Ice filled her green eyes, and her cheeks flushed. "Yes. We fight. We kill. We bring fire to our enemies. I'm ready."
Agnus Dei stood up too, looked at Kyrie with uncertain eyes, then at her mother. She bit her lip, gazed to the fire, and whispered something so quietly, Kyrie could not hear. He thought he heard her say "Father". Then she clenched her fists and nodded.
"Yes," she said. Her dark eyes burned. "Yes, I'll fight too. I'm a fighter. It will be a day of flame."
Kyrie looked at the others, one by one. He loved them all, Kyrie thought; even Gloriae. He loved them so much that his chest ached. The last Vir Requis. I will defend them. I will fight for them, and if I must, I will die for them.
"A day of flame," he repeated. "Let us make torches, and let us make arrows of fire."