LACRIMOSA
The mimic scurried toward them like a starfish. It had no torso, no legs, no head. It was nothing but five human arms growing around a mouth.
Nausea filled her, and Lacrimosa screamed.
The creature raced toward her on five hands. The mouth in its center snapped open and closed, making sucking noises.
Gloriae shot her bow. A flaming arrow flew and hit an arm. That arm collapsed and burned, but the creature kept racing on its four good arms.
Lacrimosa wanted to gag. She wanted to run. Instead she raced toward the creature, shouted, and swung her torch.
The flames hit the creature between two arms, and it squealed, a sound like a child crying. She had expected a howl of rage; this high, pained mewl shocked her, and Lacrimosa lowered her torch.
The mimic leaped and wrapped its arms around her. It hugged her, crushing her, and its mouth came in to bite.
"Get off her!" Gloriae cried and stabbed it. The mimic squealed—a child's squeal. Blood gushed from it.
Lacrimosa struggled. The arms felt like they could snap her ribs. The mouth opened before her face, screaming, full of teeth. She tried to push it back, but it pinned her arms to her sides. Her torch fell to the ground.
"Burn, you freak," Gloriae said, lifted the fallen torch, and held it to the creature.
It screamed. The flames rose, intolerably hot. Lacrimosa grimaced and closed her eyes. She struggled and writhed, freed an arm, and shoved the burning mimic off.
It curled up at her feet, scurried, and fell. Flames and smoke rose from it. Still it cried, the sound of a human girl.
Gloriae nocked another arrow. Lacrimosa wanted to stop her. No, she wanted to cry. No, it's only a child! Don't kill it. But she knew that death was mercy for this thing, this starfish of arms growing from a crying mouth.
Gloriae shot her arrow into that mouth.
Blood flowed, and the creature convulsed, then lay still.
"Hideous thing," Gloriae said and spat onto it. "Disgusting."
Lacrimosa said nothing. She stared down at the burning mimic, wondering who it had been in life. Who had given it these five arms, this mouth? Soldiers? Farmers? Was one a child?
She forced a deep, shaky breath. "Let's get its Animating Stone."
Once they had its stone, they continued to walk between the ruins. Snow began to fall, coating their cloaks. Soon they entered the Valley of Stars, where the temples of Requiem had once stood.
Lacrimosa walked silently, head lowered. This was a holy place. Bricks lay strewn around her, white mounds under the snow. The capitals of columns lay fallen, glimmering with icicles. Part of a wall still stood, as tall as Lacrimosa, still showing the grooves of griffin claws. Lacrimosa clutched the hilt of her father's sword. Diamonds shone in that hilt, arranged like the Draco constellation. In the Valley of Stars, the diamonds seemed warm against her hand. This place still has some power, even as it lies in ruin.
Gloriae looked around with narrowed eyes, her mouth open, her cheeks kissed pink with cold. She turned to Lacrimosa.
"I remember this place!" she said. "I... I remember temples. They stood tall, as tall as Flammis Palace, all of white stone. Birches grew here." She knelt, reached into the snow, and lifted a glass crystal. "This crystal! It was part of a chandelier. Many of them hung in the temples. I remember."
Lacrimosa looked at her daughter, and memories flooded her too, but not memories of temples and crystals. She saw again a laughing toddler, her hair all golden curls, her eyes green and full of wonder at the world.
"I love you so much, Gloriae," she said, tears in her eyes. "Then and now. My heart broke when Dies Irae stole you. Let our hearts heal now. Together."
Gloriae opened her mouth to speak, but seemed to see something. Her eyes widened, and she pointed behind Lacrimosa. "Look!"
Lacrimosa turned, and a smile spread across her face. She had missed the statue at first; snow and icicles covered it. She walked toward it, cleared off the snow and ice, and her smile widened. It was a statue of a dragon, six feet tall. One of its wings had fallen, it was missing a fang, and a crack ran along its chest, but it was otherwise unharmed. It was the most complete statue she had seen in these ruins.
"Do you think it would work?" Gloriae whispered, coming to stand beside her. Snow sparkled in her hair.
Lacrimosa nodded. A tingle ran through her. "This one will be a warrior of Requiem."
She ran her fingers over the crack along the dragon's chest. It was the work of a griffin talon, or perhaps a knight's war hammer. In this wound, I will place its heart.
She took an Animating Stone from her pack. It thrummed in her palm, glowed, and its red innards swirled. It felt hot, so hot it almost burned her. Lacrimosa wedged the stone into the crack, until it stuck. It pulsed and glowed in the statue's chest, a heart of stone.
Lacrimosa took her daughter's hand, and they stepped back, watching.
The dragon statue was still.
Lacrimosa exhaled, feeling deflated.
"It's not working," Gloriae whispered.
"Just watch," Lacrimosa said, still daring to hope.
She stared and frowned. Was Gloriae right? The Animating Stone still glowed and swirled, but....
The stone dragon's wing creaked.
Gloriae gasped and squeezed Lacrimosa's hand.
The statue moved its head, just an inch. The stone creaked, and for an instant Lacrimosa thought the head would snap off. But the stone moved like a living thing—creaky and stiff, but alive.
Then the dragon lifted its arms and arched its back, and snow fell from it. The icicles on its arms snapped. It tossed back its head and roared, and Lacrimosa wanted to draw her sword or flee. Would it attack them?
"Stone of Requiem!" she called to it. "I am Lacrimosa, Queen of Requiem. Do you hear me? I raise the stones of our land. Requiem calls for your aid."
The stone dragon looked at her, and its eyes narrowed. The Animating Stone in its chest blazed. The statue's mouth closed, opened, and then it roared again.
It was a roar of pain, of grief, and of joy.
"It's thanking us," Lacrimosa whispered, her eyes moist. "It saw the death of this land. It sings for memory, and for new life."
The clouds parted, and beams of sunlight fell upon the ruins of Requiem. The stone dragon, chipped and broken, roared its song.
Lacrimosa turned to face her daughter and saw that Gloriae's green eyes shone. The girl panted, her hair golden in the sun.
And there is new life here too, grief and pain and finally some joy. As I bring life to the stones of Requiem, let me bring new life to my daughter, to my beloved, to my Gloriae.
She smiled at her daughter, and Gloriae smiled back, the rarest of smiles. She has a beautiful smile, a smile like sunlight on snow.
"And now, daughter," Lacrimosa said, "we will build an army."
AGNUS DEI
They entered King's Forest at dawn, five days after leaving their mountain ruins, and Agnus Dei's throat tightened.
"The hall of Requiem's kings," she whispered.
Kyrie took her hand. They stood on a hill and gazed silently upon the ruins. Dead, burned trees lay covered with snow. Requiem's palace lay fallen between them, the palace where Father had once ruled. It had once boasted a hundred columns. They lay smashed now, buried in snow. Only one still stood, two hundred feet tall, its capital shaped as bucking dragons. It rose from the ruins into sunbeams, kissed with light, its marble brighter than the snow.
"King's Column," Agnus Dei said, voice soft. "That is what it's called. They say even Dies Irae himself, atop his griffin Volucris, could not topple it. They say it is star blessed. I thought it a legend."
Kyrie nodded. "It won't fall so long as there are living Vir Requis. While it stands, there is hope for Requiem."
Agnus Dei lit her torch. "Let's move carefully. We might find statues in the ruins. We might also find mimics."
Kyrie lit his torch too, and they walked downhill toward the palace ruins. The snow glittered under the dawn like a field of stars. It was quiet. Agnus Dei heard only a soft wind, the crackle of their torches, and the crunch of snow under their boots. Lumps rose under the snow. Agnus Dei and Kyrie began brushing snow aside, searching. They found many bricks, fallen blades, a broken lance, a shield, the skeletons of men, and even a griffin's skeleton. They found statues too, but they were smashed: a marble head here, an arm there, pedestals with feet still attached, but no more.
"Do you think we can repair them?" Agnus Dei asked. She lifted a statue's hand, twice the size of her own, and held it.
"With what?" Kyrie said, his clothes white with snow. "We have no tools."
Agnus Dei sighed. It seemed hopeless. Some of the war's largest battles had been fought here. Everything here was smashed, aside from King's Column.
She turned to look at the pillar. It towered above her, so wide three men could not hug it. Scenes of flying dragons were engraved into the marble. Agnus Dei walked toward the column and touched the stone. It was cold, colder than ice; she could feel that even through her gloves. She ran her fingers over old words carved into the marble. Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky.
"King Aeternum built this column," she told Kyrie. "He was the first of our line, and among the greatest kings, Father would say. Father was descended from him, did you know? Aeternum ruled seventy-four generations before Father, and his line ruled continuously until the war." She swallowed.
Kyrie put an arm around her. "The line still stands. You are descended from Aeternum too. When you or Gloriae are crowned, you will be the seventy-seventh monarch of Aeternum's house."
She raised an eyebrow. "Me or Gloriae—queens? Pup, we are fighters. Survivors. We are no queens. What is there to rule here?" She swept her arms around her. "Nothing remains."
Kyrie jutted his chin toward King's Column. "That remains. Aeternum's pillar. And we remain, don't we? You and I. Your mother and sister. Lacrimosa is our queen; this is her pillar now, her place to rule. And after her, you and Gloriae will rule."
Agnus Dei laughed and pinched his cheek. "Pup, you'd hate me as your queen. If you think I'm bossy now, you'd be running to the hills then. And if Gloriae is queen, I think you'd hate that enough to jump off a cliff."
He grinned. "Maybe you're right. I think a rebellion is in order. I think it might be time for Kyrie Eleison to take power." He laughed, then sighed and took a deep breath. "You're right, kitten. There's not much left here, and not much point for queens, and kings, and palaces. But I like talking about it. It makes me feel like... like it's honoring old Aeternum, if he's watching from the Draco stars. And I feel like we're honoring Benedictus too. When we remember their prayers, their customs, and their lines of power, we're keeping their memory alive. We're carrying their torch. Even if Requiem lies in ruin, and we can never rebuild her, I'll keep carrying this torch. For him. For Benedictus. I loved him."
Agnus Dei looked at him with damp eyes. She sniffed and nodded. "I loved him too. More than I ever told him in life. I wish he were here, that I could tell him that. I wish.... Oh, pup. There are so many things I wish for. The world seems so dark sometimes, doesn't it? But I'm not giving up." She took his hand and held it tight. "And I'm glad you're with me. I love you too, Kyrie. Don't forget it. If anything happens... if mimics arrive, or Dies Irae himself, and if we lie wounded and dying... know that I love you."
Her lips trembled and she took deep breaths. Kyrie shoved their torches into the snow, embraced her, and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around him, and her body pressed against him. They kissed deeply, desperately, and it was long moments before they drew apart and stood, silently holding hands, staring at the ruins under the snow.
Suddenly Agnus Dei gasped. "Look, Kyrie!"
The clouds parted, and the sun emerged. It shone behind King's Pillar, casting a long shadow. The shadow stretched five hundred feet across the snow, like a path. It ended at a hillock of snow beneath burned trees.
"King Aeternum is showing us something," Agnus Dei said. "Let's look."
They followed the path of shadow. It led them out of the palace ruins, and into deep snow where birch trees once grew. The way was tricky, with many bricks, old helmets, and shattered weapons hiding under the snow to trip them. When they reached the path's end, they found piles of snow that rose five feet tall. Just then the clouds gathered, and the shadowy path vanished.
Agnus Dei cleared some snow away. She found herself staring at a woman's marble face.
"A statue!" she breathed.
They kept clearing away the snow, and soon revealed the rest of a statue—a nude woman holding a jug.
"She's perfect," Kyrie said.
Agnus Dei frowned at him. "Perfect, huh? Keep your eyes off her naughty bits, pup."
"I mean she's not damaged. There are a few chips, but... the statue is whole. Let's keep digging."
They kept clearing away snow, and found many pieces of statues—hands, heads, legs, torsos, and pedestals. They placed these parts aside and kept digging. Soon they unearthed a second, complete statue—a warrior holding a marble sword and shield.
They kept digging and finally found a third complete statue. This one was a king; he sported a crown, robe, and beard.
"This one is a statue of King Aeternum," Agnus Dei said. "See the two-headed dragon on his shield? It was his sigil."
Kyrie lifted a hammer and three chisels from the snow. "This place must have been a workshop. A sculptor lived here. King's Column knew we should look here." He closed his eyes. "Thank you, King Aeternum. If you truly watch over us, thank you."
They found no more whole statues. Grunting and straining, they dragged the complete statues into clear snow and stood them side by side. A nude maiden. A warrior in armor. A proud old king.
"The girl looks just like you," Kyrie said and reached toward the statue's breasts. Agnus Dei slapped his hand away and glared.
"This isn't time for jokes, pup," she said. "Give me that chisel and hammer."
"Hey, what did I do? Don't hammer me over the head."
"It's not for you, pup. Not yet, at least. We need to give these statues their hearts."
She began to chisel. It was slow, careful work. She hated damaging these statues, but knew she must. You will be warriors of Requiem.
Finally she had carved chambers in their chests, where hearts would pulse in living beings.
"Ready, pup?" she whispered. "I'll animate the warrior and the king. You can animate the girl statue you're so smitten with."
He nodded. Fingers tingly, Agnus Dei pulled two Animating Stones from her pack. They trembled and thrummed. The light inside them, like red liquid, swirled and reached toward the statues, as if craving new homes. Suddenly Agnus Dei was fearful; sweat beaded on her forehead, and her pulse quickened. If the magic worked, would these statues attack them?
The Ocean Deities created these stones in the Age of Chaos, she thought. They are as old as the world, and all that's in it. And I hold them in my palm. She took a deep breath. I am a princess of Requiem. Gloriae and I are the last of King Aeternum's line. I will never fear the stones of Requiem.
She placed one Animating Stone into the marble warrior. Before her courage could desert her, she placed the second Animating Stone into the king. Kyrie planted his stone into the woman, and they stepped back.
The statues were still.
"It didn't work," Agnus Dei whispered.
"Just a moment," Kyrie whispered back. "It—"
A shrill scream, like crackling ice, rose behind them.
Agnus Dei spun around, waving her torch.
Mimics.
"Oh, stars," she said.
Kyrie was already nocking an arrow. "More like starfish. Ugly bastards."
The mimics were emerging from the ruins like spiders from under an upturned rock. They had no heads or torsos; they had only human arms, sewn together into rotting creatures like nightmarish starfish. They squealed and raced across the ruins toward her and Kyrie. There were a dozen at least.
Agnus Dei lit and fired an arrow. Kyrie fired too. The two arrows shot like comets, but the creatures moved too fast. Both arrows missed. Agnus Dei loaded another arrow, shot again. Her arrow grazed one mimic starfish, but it kept running. Kyrie's second arrow missed.
They had no time for thirds. The mimics leaped and flew toward them.
Agnus Dei swung her torch. She hit one starfish as it flew. It squealed, pulled its arms together, and fell into the snow. A second starfish jumped and wrapped around her.
Agnus Dei screamed and struggled, but the starfish pinned her arms to her sides. One arm was hairy and broad. Another was the thin arm of a young woman. She could not see the others. They squeezed her, crushing her. She dropped her torch and couldn't breathe.
"Kyrie!" she whispered. She could speak no louder. "Kyrie, help!"
She managed to turn her head. Stars floated before her eyes. She saw Kyrie lying in the snow. Four mimic starfish wrapped around him. She could see only his left foot and some of his hair. They were biting, squealing, eating him.
"Kyrie, no!" she cried, eyes burning. "Please...."
She fell to her knees. Three more mimics jumped and wrapped around her. One's mouth—they had mouths in their centers—opened before her. Its tongue licked her cheek, and its teeth came in to bite.
It screamed and pulled back.
Agnus Dei took a ragged breath, kicked, and shouted. The mimic was ripped from her body. Its fingernails scratched her, clinging to her, then were torn free.
The stone warrior stood before her, its Animating Stone pulsing in its chest. It held the mimic in marble hands, regarded it blankly, then tossed it aside.
"Get the others!" Agnus Dei shouted. Two other mimics were wrapped around her, one around her stomach, the other around her legs.
The stone warrior regarded her. Its Animating Stone glowed so brightly, it nearly blinded her. With stone fingers, it cut into the mimic around Agnus Dei's stomach. Pus, worms, and black blood spilled from it. The statue pulled it back. The mimic's fingers clung to Agnus Dei, ripping her cloak and tunic, but the statue managed to pull it free. It ripped two arms off, and blood showered. It tossed the rest aside.
Agnus Dei kicked and clawed at the starfish around her legs, and managed to free herself. Her legs were scratched and her pants shredded. She found her torch extinguished in the snow. Mimics scuttled toward her. She drew her sword and swung it. Rotting arms flew.
"Kyrie!" she cried.
The stone girl was pulling the mimics off him. He was alive, coughing in the snow, bloodied. The third statue, the stone king, was fighting mimics beside him. They wrapped around it, but it kept tearing their limbs off.
Agnus Dei kept swinging her blade. The severed arms did not die, but kept crawling through the snow toward her. Finally she managed to beat them back long enough to reignite her torch. Snarling, she began to burn them. The arms twitched, hissed, and curled up.
Finally all the mimics were torn apart, burned, and dead.
Kyrie rushed to her, blood trickling from a gash on his forearm. "You're hurt."
She nodded. Her clothes were tattered, her skin bleeding. "What are a few more scratches?"
They shared a quick embrace, splashed their wounds with spirits, and bound them. Pain filled Agnus Dei, but she ignored it. She was a warrior. She could take pain and keep fighting. Kyrie was pale, and sweat soaked his brow, but he too stood straight, ignoring his wounds. We've become like statues too, she thought. We barely feel pain anymore.
She turned to look at the statues. The three stood together, splashed with black mimic blood. They stared back, faces blank.
"We'll need more," Kyrie said, voice hoarse. Mimic blood soaked his clothes.
Agnus Dei looked at the smashed columns. They lay everywhere, their segments as large as boulders. She gave Kyrie a crooked smile.
"We have marble. We have tools. We have three statues who will work hard." She patted Kyrie's helmet. "They will build more."
Would it work? she wondered. It seemed crazy, but... this whole war was crazy. She lifted a hammer and chisel and shook the snow off them. She approached the statue of the king, her ancestor, and placed the tools in his hands. The statue's fingers closed around them, and he stared at her with stone eyes.
"For years, you lay hidden in ruin," she said to him. "For years, Requiem lay fallen. Today her stones will live. Today you will build brothers and sisters. The fabled columns of Requiem lie smashed now. We cannot rebuild them, but we can raise them to life. Carve them into men and women. Carve them into warriors who can reclaim our glory."
The statue stood still. Agnus Dei exhaled slowly, feeling like a deflated bellows. He doesn't hear, she thought. Or he doesn't understand. He can move, but not help us.
She turned to Kyrie. "I don't know how Dies Irae commands them. I don't know how—"
Kyrie's eyes widened and his mouth fell open. "Look."
Agnus Dei spun around. The stone king was walking through the snow, steps slow and creaking. He approached a piece of fallen column. It was larger than him. The statue stood over it, tools in hands.
"Go on," Agnus Dei whispered. "You know what to do."
The statue turned to look at her. Agnus Dei stared back. Light filled the king's eyes—starlight. The statue turned back to the marble and began to carve.
Agnus Dei felt a lump in her throat. She put an arm around Kyrie and kissed his cheek.
"For the first time in years," she whispered, "Requiem will have an army."
DIES IRAE
He stepped onto the parapet, stared down to the courtyard, and beheld an army of rot and worm.
"Mimics!" he shouted and raised his arms. "Soon you will feast on weredragon flesh!"
They howled, shrieked, and slammed swords against shields. Pus dripped from their maws. Maggots swarmed across them. Congealed blood covered their bodies like boils.
My children, Dies Irae thought. My lovelies.
"Hail Dies Irae!" one mimic cried, a creature with six arms and blades for hands.
"We will feast!" cried another, a creature with a bloated head like a rotting watermelon.
A thousand screamed below. Their stench rose to fill Dies Irae's nostrils. He breathed it in lovingly. It was the smell of dead weredragons, of victory.
"The weredragons murdered your brothers," he called down to them. "With cowardly fire, they burned all mimics who drew near."
They hissed and screamed. They banged their blades, and their teeth gnashed.
"But you are not mere scouts!" Dies Irae cried over the din. "You are an army. You are an army bred to kill weredragons."
Their howls rose. They waved their weapons and screamed for blood.
"You will eat their bodies! You will suck up their entrails. But bring me their heads. I will sew their heads onto the bodies of women, so that you may take them, and hurt them, and plant your seed inside them. They will be your slaves."
The mimics screamed and drooled. Some dropped their shields and began rubbing themselves, moaning and screaming. Dies Irae watched and smiled.
"Who do you serve?" he cried.
"Dies Irae! Hail Dies Irae!" Their voices shook the ruins.
Smiling thinly, Dies Irae turned and stared at the mimic who stood beside him on the parapets. His most beautiful mimic. The crown jewel of his army. His proudest creation.
"And you, Teeth, will lead them," he said.
The mimic stared back, bared its sharp teeth, and hissed. Its burly, hairy arms reached out and flexed. Centipedes crawled over its stilt-like legs. Dies Irae touched its cheek.
"You are my sweet killer," he said. "Built fresh. Of young bodies. Young freakish bodies. You are strong. You will lead. You will kill."
It snarled. A worm crawled between its teeth. "Yes, master."
Dies Irae smiled when he remembered building this mimic. The two boys had come to him with a fresh body, a friend of theirs, one of their gang. The dead one had long, hairy arms like an ape's. The leader had sharp teeth and a powerful jaw. The third one was stupid, but had long legs made for running, for towering over enemies.
The Rot Gang, that was their name, he remembered. An appropriate name.
He plucked a worm from Teeth's head and crushed it between his fingers. It squirmed, its juices spilling. Dies Irae tossed it aside and licked his fingertips. Teeth snarled.
"Take your army," Dies Irae told him. "Take these thousand warriors. Lead them to Requiem... and to triumph."
Teeth tossed back its head and howled, saliva spraying from its mouth. It raised twin blades in its hands. They caught the light and seemed to shine with the Sun God's fury.
Dies Irae stood on this crumbling wall of Flammis Palace, crossed his arms, and watched his army leave the bloody courtyard. The mimics snaked through the ruins of his city. Yes, Confutatis lies in ruins now, he thought. The weredragons destroyed it. I will make them suffer for it.
When the army disappeared into the distance, Dies Irae descended the wall and entered the ruins of his palace. He walked down halls smeared with blood, rotting guts, and the old ash of dragonfire.
He stepped down a stairwell, plunging into darkness. The air grew colder. Frost covered the walls and stairs. The smells of fear and blood filled his nostrils. The stairwell kept twisting, burrowing into the darkness that lurked under his palace. Finally he stepped into the dungeons. The old kings of Osanna had kept barrels of wine here. Dies Irae kept sweeter treats.
Torches crackled, lighting a craggy hallway lined with cells. Dies Irae stepped toward a cell with iron bars. He heard the prisoners whimper, and he smiled.
"Yes, darlings, you should whimper," he said. "I like it when you whimper."
The keys hung from a peg on the wall. Dies Irae opened the cell's door and stepped inside.
Five women stood chained to the walls. The torchlight danced on their nude bodies. Dies Irae felt his blood grow hot and his loins stir. The women were ripe, with rounded hips, teary eyes, and trembling lips.
"My mimics are creatures of rot and worm," he said to them. A smile spread across his lips. "When I sent them on the hunt for ripe women, I didn't know what they'd bring. Crones? Corpses? But it seems mimics have the lusts of men. You are like summer fruit, full of sweetness and juices."
He stepped toward one woman, a peasant girl by the look of her. Her hair was red, and tears filled her grey eyes. Dies Irae caressed her cheek.
"Please, my lord," she begged.
Dies Irae touched her hair. "Please?" he asked. "What do you wish to beg of me?"
She trembled. "Please, my lord. Is my father.... The creatures dragged him away, and.... Please release me, my lord, I beg you."
He kissed her forehead. His hands travelled down her body, caressing her. Her flesh was icy but soft. Goose bumps rose under his fingertips.
"You should be proud, sweetness. You will do what so many have dreamed of. You will hurt weredragons. When my mimics bring me their heads, I will sew one onto your body."
"My lord, please...." Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"I think for you, the boy Kyrie will do. His head will look nice on your soft, ripe body. When my mimics take you, and hurt you, and plant their rotting seeds inside you, Kyrie will know more pain and terror than any being before him. Does it not please you, precious, that your body will hurt a weredragon so?"
Sobs racked that body and she could not speak. Finally she blurted out, "Silva will kill you! The Earthen will save us!"
Dies Irae nodded with a smile. "Ah yes, the Earthen, the group of ragtag Earth God followers who've been killing all those mimics." He grabbed the girl's cheeks and squeezed them. "They are pesky flies, and my creations whisper that this Silva, this leader of theirs, has some skill with the blade. He will make a good mimic some day."
The girl opened her mouth to speak more. Dies Irae backhanded her, so hard that blood splattered, and he felt her jaw crack. Her eyes rolled back and she hung limp on her chains.
He left the girl and turned to another prisoner, an angel of soft blond hair and red lips.
"I think... the weredragon Lacrimosa should work for you. She has always been so thin, and you are luscious. Yes. Her head will be for you."
This girl too wept, and begged, and Dies Irae smiled. What a glorious end it would be for the weredragons! He licked his lips.
A voice spoke behind him, soft and cold.
"And I want the head of the golden weredragon."
Dies Irae turned, eyebrows rising. One of the women had spoken. She stood chained like the others, but did not weep. She did not tremble. Her dark eyes stared at him, simmering with anger.
"The golden weredragon?" he asked her. "Gloriae the Gilded?"
The woman nodded. "When the dragons flew upon this city, it was the golden one who torched my home. The weredragon Gloriae killed my brothers. She killed my husband. Cut my head from my body, my lord. Place her head upon me and make me a mimic. Let the others hurt me. I will do this to make Gloriae suffer."
Dies Irae approached her and examined her in the torchlight. Among the chained women, this one was the fairest. Her hair was black satin, hanging down to her chin. Her eyes were pools of midnight. She looked older than the others—a woman, while the others were mere girls. Her body was lithe and strong, decorated with several knife scars. This was no peasant.
"Who were your brothers?" he asked her, narrowing his eyes. "Who was your husband?"
She raised her chin. "Blood Wolves," she said, eyes spiteful. "Will you kill me for that? I think not. Not if you want my body fresh for your dear Gloriae."
Dies Irae nodded, eyebrows raised, and scratched his chin. "Common thieves, you mean."
She spat onto the floor. "Blood Wolves are no common thugs. We are the shadows in the night. We are the daggers in the alley. We are the terror that strikes in darkness."
Dies Irae ran his fingers along her chest, tracing a scar. It ran from her left collarbone, between her breasts, and to her bottom right rib. He touched her hip, and traced the length of a second scar, which ran down her thigh. She stared back at him, chin raised, lips tight.
"Terror in darkness, you say." He pursed his lips. "Shadows in the night. Perhaps I could find another use for you."
She gritted her teeth. "From the way your fingers touch me, I know how you would use me. I have no interest in serving you so, great emperor. I am a Blood Wolf too. I can fight like my brothers and husband, the men the weredragons slew. I will hurt them."
Dies Irae nodded and rubbed his chin. Five women were chained here. But only four weredragons remained. Benedictus was dead, his body stolen. Yes. Yes, I can spare this one. The four others will be toys to my mimics. This one will be mine.
He unchained her wrists from the wall, and then her ankles. She moved her limbs, hissed, and gritted her teeth. She rubbed the raw flesh, and sweat beaded on her brow. A snarl found her lips. Dies Irae couldn't help but smile. This one was feral. A wolf indeed.
"What is your name?"
"Umbra," she said and glared.
He grabbed her wrist. "Come with me."
She pulled her wrist free and bared her teeth at him. "I will walk. You will not drag me."
Yes. Yes, I like this one.
They left the dungeons, climbed the stairwell, and walked across the crumbling halls of Flammis Palace. Everywhere were strewn bricks, stains of ash, smeared blood, and guards with sallow eyes. Those eyes lit up when Umbra walked by, still nude. Umbra stared back at them, chin raised, as if challenging them to speak. Her eyes said, Make a move, and I'll tear out your throats.
He led her upstairs and into his bed chamber. The nightshades, griffins, and dragons had destroyed half the palace, but this room remained untouched. It was a large chamber, large enough to house a dragon. Golden tapestries covered his walls. His bed was ten feet wide, made of pure gold inlaid with diamonds. His tables, chairs, and vases were gilded and shone with emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. Priceless swords of steel and jewels hung everywhere.
"Like gold, do we?" Umbra asked. Her eyes darted from gemstone to gemstone. They lit up like the eyes of a starving man who stumbled upon a feast. She reached toward a jewelled dagger which lay on a giltwood table.
Dies Irae caught her wrist. "Do not touch anything. You will have gold too, if you earn it."
She looked up at him. A crooked smile touched her lips. "And how do I earn it, my lord?"
He twisted her wrist and pulled her close. "I will show you."
She spat in his face. "Let me go. My husband hasn't been dead a moon."
He slapped her face. He'd wanted to knock her down, but she stayed standing... and punched him.
Her fist hit his cheek, and he fell. White light blinded him. He blinked and struggled to rise, but Umbra pressed her foot against his chest, pinning him down. She grabbed the dagger, drew the blade, and pointed it at him.
"This dagger is mine," she said. "I take payment in advance. I will kill for you with this dagger. Give me a name, and he is dead. But I will not be your slave. Those women underground? Rape them if you will, not me."
Dies Irae lay looking up at her. His blood pulsed. "I do not want those women underground. I want you. I want your daggers in the night. I want your hands covered in the blood of my enemies. And I want your body under mine."
He reached up, grabbed her waist, and pulled her down toward him. Her dagger scratched his side, but he barely noticed. She snarled, and he rolled her onto her back and lay atop her.
"Get off me," she said.
"No."
Dies Irae was not a young man. He was twice this woman's age, but she made him feel young. He reached down and found her ready for him. She moaned beneath him, and snarled, and wrapped her arms around his back.
"You will kill weredragons," he hissed as he thrust into her.
"I will cut off their heads!" she cried and panted.
"We will kill the beasts and make them suffer like none have suffered."
She screamed.
Their voices echoed.
He rolled off her and stared at the ceiling. Gold and jewels covered that ceiling too. These chambers were the only place where glory and light still shone. The weredragons had destroyed the rest of the empire. But they will pay. They will pay.
Umbra nestled against him and ran her fingers across his chest. "For an old man, you have a lot of fire in you."
Dies Irae looked at her, silent. Suddenly he did feel old. Here beside him lay a woman half his age, a woman of midnight beauty. Her hair was silk, her eyes pools of shadow, her body lithe and tanned and intoxicating as summer wine. And him? An old cripple. Benedictus had taken his left arm; he wore a steel mace there instead. His brother had taken his eye too. Yes, he felt old. He felt ugly.
I should have beaten her, he thought. I should have made her bleed, made her fear me, and raped her as she screamed. Then it would not matter that he was old or deformed. Then he would be powerful, a tyrant to fear. But this.... She had given herself willingly. She had enjoyed it. That meant that she could judge him, see not only his power, but his weakness too.
Dies Irae looked away and gritted his teeth.
"How many men have you killed?" he asked.
"In bed?" She considered. "Three."
"I mean in a fight."
She snorted. "Your common soldiers fight. They hack and slash with clumsy blades, and wear armor that slows them. I don't fight, my lord. I sneak in the darkness and stab in the back. I poison and strangle. I have killed thirty men. Now I will kill weredragons."
Dies Irae rose to his feet. He stepped toward his window and looked outside at the ruins of his city. "A thousand mimics march toward Requiem. I know the weredragons. They will not stay to defend their home. They will leave. And I know where they will go."
He turned to look at Umbra. She lay on his rug, staring up at him hungrily.
"Where, my lord?"
"To darkness," he said. "To death. And to your daggers."