Crown of Dragonfire by Daniel Arenson Page B

the fires.
    "We will find them,"
Meliora whispered, sweat on her brow, her cheeks gaunt. "We will bring back
hope."
    Vale nodded, reached
out, and took her hand in his. "We will see Requiem again. We will find her
sky."
    "But not before we
sleep." Meliora closed her eyes.
    They were wounded and
weak, but most of all weary. They lay down together in the cave; it was just
large enough if they lay pressed together. As soon as Vale closed his eyes, he
fell into a deep slumber, and he dreamed of whips, bricks, and endless fire.

 
 
ISHTAFEL

    He stood on the boardwalk,
facing the three trembling soldiers—three traitors to the realm.
    "Now then," Ishtafel
said, pacing before them. "I heard you found some lovely jewels last night,
didn't you? Oh, I am rather fond of the art of jewelry making. I possess many
fine jewels myself. I own the Horn of Fidelium, did you know? Encrusted with
the finest sapphires from the Arctic."
    The guards hung before
him from wooden levers, chained and dripping blood, their breath sawing at
their lungs. These cedar beams were normally used to haul crates from the
boats; they could quite easily bear the weight of three seraphim . . . three
who would soon be much lighter.
    "Forgive us, my lord,"
said one soldier. Blood dripped from his mouth, and his voice lisped between
his shattered teeth. "We didn't know it was her, my lord. We—"
    "Please!" Ishtafel
raised his hand. "I understand! No need to beg. A stranger flowed by on the
river. On a night when the city was searching for escaped prisoners, and the
skies were lit with flaming chariots, it could have been anyone! And after all,
the sailors tossed you such beautiful pieces of art."
    Ishtafel examined the
jewels in his hand, seized from these soldiers. Two anklets of silver, worked with
topaz. A bracelet of impure gold inlaid with tiger's eyes. The jewels of a
pleasurer, given to her by her seraphim lovers. Her jewels, the
brown-haired little harlot he had claimed underground. The one who had fled
with Meliora.
    "My lord," rasped
another soldier, hanging from the beam on chains. "Forgive us, my lord. Send us
out to hunt them! We will scour the land, we—"
    "You will scour the
land?" Ishtafel tsk ed his tongue. "But my friend! You saw the escaped
prisoners here on this very river. They sailed right by you! And you accepted
their bribe. You let them sail on." Ishtafel tilted his head. "Perhaps you too
are traitors to my crown?"
    The soldiers began to
beg, to pray, to praise him. They jangled on their chains, blood dripping.
Ishtafel walked across the boardwalk, turning winches, moving the beams to
dangle the prisoners over the water—just a foot away from the boardwalk. As
their blood splashed into the river, the crocodiles within—massive,
black-skinned beasts, twice the size of the crocodiles of the northern
swamps—reared from the water. The beasts splashed, snapping their jaws,
desperate for a meal.
    "Please, my lord!" one
soldier begged. "Forgive us!"
    Ishtafel smiled thinly.
"I am the King of Saraph. I am strong. I am proud. I am wise. They call my
sister 'Meliora the Merciful.' That is not a quality to boast of."
    He drew his sword and
approached one soldier.
    The man begged,
screaming before Ishtafel even touched him.
    The blade lashed. Blood
sprayed. Half the man's foot splashed down into the water.
    As the dangling soldier
screamed, blood gushing, the crocodiles below thrashed in the water. One caught
the morsel and swallowed, and the others snapped their jaws at the dripping
blood.
    "Oh, they are getting
hungry!" Ishtafel said. "Look at my lovely pets." He sighed. "Poetic justice, isn't
it? That the river where you suffered your shame should now feed upon your blood?"
    He approached a second
dangling soldier. The man pleaded, tears on his cheeks.
    "Please, my lord!
Please. My wife is pregnant, my lord. I only wanted a bauble for her, I only—"
    Ishtafel swung his
blade again. The man's toes fell into the water, and the crocodiles