by Marc Secchia
When would it become worth the pain?
Was that even a question she should ask, and did she fear the answer?
* * * *
Wyldaroon was a mighty realm, in extent a goodly fraction of the size of the entire Sylakian Empire of yore, and its farthest reaches were shadowy places of myth and legend. Chaos Beasts. Elemental water storms. Treasures beyond its mountains. Thousands of unique species of draconic life, including many dragonet, dracofloral and protodraconic forms foreign to her experience. A barren region called the Doldrums which on its own, measured some seventeen thousand square leagues. Wyldaroon was called a backwater of Herimor, but in reality, it was a vast, dangerous wilderness in its own right, lorded over in part by powerful Dragon Shapeshifter and Human Marshals, but also plagued by many renegade mercenary Houses and warlords.
Three days after passing into Wyldaroon, Aranya was finally allowed out of her chamber. Finally! She took fresh air aloft upon Gangurtharr’s back, riding with Huari and Ri’arion in addition. She did feel more rested, but Hualiama’s lore had clarified a Shapeshifter and Dragon principle called the ‘law of diminishing returns’ – pun intended, unfortunately – which stated that the greater the level of depletion, the slower the initial rate of return. Rates and capacities varied with every individual Dragon, but below the three percent mark, the return of capacity became exponentially slower. Many factors such as rest, diet and even the Land Dragons’ idea of community singing could influence these potentials, and so lengthy scientific exploration had been undertaken into the phenomenon.
“Meat,” Aranya sighed. “Heaps of meat.”
“What’s wrong with meat?” Gang growled, licking his chops like an overgrown Nak spying a pretty girl.
“Liver is foul, and I’m vegetarian.”
“A vegetarian Dragoness? No such thing!” he snorted. “I saw you eat meat in the Pits.”
“All part of the Assassin’s cunning disguise,” she needled. When he did not respond, she added, “Besides, I was actually preparing you for Huari, did you know, Gang?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, someone had to teach a crusty Gladiator a few manners of paw and fang. And, I made her purchase you. See? Aren’t I truly a wonderful friend?”
“Made me? Hardly!” Huari growled unhappily.
“Purchased?” Gang spat in disbelief. “I am a free Dragon!”
“Hate to stoke your fires, but I’ve been reading my histories of Herimor and Wyldaroon,” Aranya goaded him. “Technically, under the Pits purchase system, you’re still Huari’s bond-Dragon until she formally releases you.”
GNARR!!
“Oops, appears I might have forgotten to mention that detail,” Huari teased.
GNARR!!
“My gorgeous Gladiator, I shall have to correct this oversight.”
“Better.”
Zuziana put in, “Actually, I say keep him under that bond until you –”
GNARR-GROOAARRGH!!
“– I mean, he’s too nice to let loose,” the Remoyan added impudently, making her hostess smile. “We don’t allow any wayward husbands around here – I advise you keep him on a close leash. I mean, I installed my Ri’arion in a handy saddlebag to keep him close at all times. I’d tie this one down. He strikes me as the misbehaving sort.”
Curving his neck until his left fire eye flamed toward Aranya, Gang said, “Thank you for sharing the finer points of Remoyan bedroom custom with us prudish Dragons, Zuziana.”
Colour rushed into Aranya’s cheeks. Zip gasped, “Gang!”
“Nothing to do with me,” said Aranya, fanning her face ineffectually with her sleeve. “You’re on your own here, Remoy.”
“Huh, says she who hails from a family of piratical, bride-abducting kings?”
“Ooh, do tell!” Huari enthused. “You’ve an interesting background, Aranya. You haven’t shared these details with me.”
“King Beran would not appreciate the tone of this conversation,” she protested weakly, but it was little use now that their companions’ interest had been piqued.
As they surveyed the horizons, she told Huari and Gang the tale of a bold, bearded Immadian who had dared to swipe the most beautiful girl in Ha’athior from beneath a dozen suitors’ noses, only to discover years later that he had unknowingly kidnapped a Shapeshifter Dragoness. Izariela could have escaped at the proverbial snap of a talon, but she had chosen not to for love’s sake.
Sometimes she wished such a tale for herself.
Rather than what? What did she loathe about what she had become?
Out there, the Egg storm raged high and mighty, filling Wyldaroon from shore to shore with treacherous tempests, dark clouds and squally winds. The tainted green fires rushed upward in dozens of locations against a backdrop of black clouds laced by constant flashes and bolts of lightning, and many of the Islands that they had begun to pass had been razed. It seemed that the Thoralians pursued a policy of ‘join us or die’ and their sweep was wide indeed – perhaps a thousand leagues wide, or more. Already that morning, they had despatched a strong force to fly and run in aid of Huari’s home Islands, but they would need more. Four leagues ahead, flashes of orange and white proclaimed the unending battle against the Drake packs – Dragonwings and Dragonships from the Lost Islands, supported by the Runner Dragons from below, fought night and day against the Thoralians’ forces, pushing and harrying them as hard as they could.
Aranya searched with more than her eyes. Where was that thread of fate she had detected? Why was that strangely evocative presence quiet now? Would they be forced to fight an attritional battle against the triplicate right across Wyldaroon, and what did he want here anyways? Just passing through? Annihilating everything in his path … or?
Huaricithe said, “We’ve just received intelligence from my home Islands of a curious interaction. It seems that the Thoralians have been asking after a certain Azhukazi the Iolite Blue. Azhukazi is a Marshal of powerful and fey reputation. He’s said to be a Necromancer.”
“As in, he plays with bones and stuff?” asked Zip. “Ew.”
“As in, the rumours say he’s able to extract magical power and even living spirits out of Human and draconic remains,” Huari said evenly. “He has quietly been amassing power and followers for a number of years now.”
“Isn’t it impossible to harness a spirit after it has flown?” Ri’arion inquired.
“Different context, but ask Aranya about that particular impossibility,” Huari replied, making both friends squirm uncomfortably.
Drily, Ri’arion said, “I could imagine the Thoralians would be more than enamoured of a power of Necromancy. Imagine if they gained the power to sustain their parasitic life-forms forever? He’d effectively be immortal. This must be what he seeks here in Wyldaroon.”
Everyone in their group, including Gang, shivered.
“Aye,” said Huari. “Oddly, the same Azhukazi has just travelled up to visit the Uxâtaayn Kahilate, or ruling body of the realm known as Yazê-a-Kûz, to inquire after a rare and very strange artefact called the Jewels of Instashi, so from this we can conclude that he has his own agenda, which does not appear to be related to our enemy. Now, Yazê-a-Kûz is the oldest, most powerful, richest and most the most aloof Human realm of all Wyldaroon. They occupy a huge area in the Northeast corner – not all that far from the Gladiator Pits, as it happens – and have held that territory with great tenacity for hundreds of years. Their ruler, the Uxâtate Shan-Jarad, is also reported to possess unnamed and unidentified magical powers, but they have never produced any Shapeshifters, as best we know.”
“One of my informants suggests that the Jewels were stolen years ago by Shan-Jarad’s estranged brother, Marshal Chanbar, who leads a Mercenary House of ill repute, called the Mistral Fires.” The Shapeshifter said, “I am telling you this, in part, because the doings of the Uxâtaayn Kahilate have always fascinated me. They have an unquenchable love of magical artefacts and the wealth and power to seek them acros
s the Island-World – even to the point, perhaps, of seeking Dragons’ eggs for their own nefarious purposes, so might well posit a connection between the Thoralians’ chosen route and this Shan-Jarad’s ambitions. Secondly, it was said that perhaps seven or eight years back, the Uxâtate’s only daughter went mad with an illness that was undoubtedly draco-magical in origin. That means they have a very sizeable talon to grind against the Dragonkind. And, most intriguingly, I just heard that Azhukazi paid a visit to the Mistral Fires and defeated but did not destroy them. In the realm of Wyldaroon, that event is in a word, unprecedented.”
“What do you mean?” asked Aranya.
“I mean that this is a confluence of forces, desires and powers that must surely interest us. It could be as simple as the machinations of Dragon against Dragon – say, Azhukazi seeks to use Chanbar and his Mistral Fires against Shan-Jarad. There’s ample historical precedent. But I do not need to tell you that in Wyldaroon that is woefully simplistic thinking. The underlying motives will be more devious. If Chanbar possessed the Jewels, why did Azhukazi not simply take them? If he failed to find this artefact, why not destroy the Mistral Fires – and why, by the first talon, take the step of riling all of the other Mercenary Houses at the same time? It makes no sense. Why then visit Yazê-a-Kûz when he will have known the Marshals Thoralian are coming? To risk such a long journey immediately after a costly conquest, again, makes no sense.”
Ri’arion asked, “Do you think this Shan-Jarad’s daughter is involved? Perhaps the Jewels are a cure?”
“It stinks of politics,” sniffed Gang.
“We are obliged to pay attention to whatever Thoralian wants,” Aranya said simply. “It’ll be about power or access to the First Egg.”
The Gladiator snarled, “We are surely not suggesting an alliance with a foul Necromancer?”
“Never, o febrile fires of my soul,” said Huaricithe. “But knowledge is power. To fight a straightforward frontal battle across Wyldaroon defeats any rational purpose. We must think faster, wider, deeper and more wisely than ever before if we are to turn this conflict in our favour.”
“Where are these Mistral Fires located?” Aranya inquired. “That would be where Azhukazi is bound, correct?”
“Far to the West, in a region called the Fringe. Many Mercenary Houses make their bases there.” Taking a moment to orientate herself by the suns, Huari pointed. “Just about exactly there. Over one thousand leagues distant – a long ways off track.”
Awfully close to where you sensed that trace, Aranya, Yiisuriel said flatly.
She shuddered! Was that Balance? Did she hear the voice of fate cry out: ‘I am here?’
This was how she had found Ardan.
Chapter 7: Elusive Allusive Wisps
Nothing like a Herimor-special Shapeshifter flame-fever to lay a girl low. Having been more than prepared to start chasing fate around Wyldaroon, Zuziana and her hostess were back abed properly this time, as miserable as they were sick. Soaring, sweating bouts of fever alternated almost hourly with shivering fits during which it seemed they would never become warm again.
“We are supposed to be chasing tyrants,” she shouted at Ri’arion, who deftly popped a bucket beneath her chin. “Not being sick in a leather bucket! Nor boiling eggs upon my forehead.”
“Easy, beloved. This will pass.”
She subsided back on the pillow-roll, panting and clutching her stomach. “Something in the water, did you say? I feel as if I’ve been poisoned.”
“You’ve taken all your medicine?”
“I hate medicine!”
“Don’t be petulant, Zuziana.”
Lashing out with her arm, she failed to hit him. Actually, Zip failed to move her arm off the orrican-wool blanket. “You are a bad husband. A font of unsympathetic barbarism. You need lessons in how to treat your adorable wife.”
“The back-rubbing, bed-arranging, sick-catching, unsleeping service does not suffice?”
“Insensitive brute.”
“I’m told it might also be a touch of pregnancy sickness. Uh … morning sickness. Aye, that’s what it’s called.” Ri’arion scratched his stubbly beard. Clearly, pregnancy was a great mystery to an ex-monk.
“Morning sickness? Morning? This is all-day sickness! You men know nothing. And it’s not even my own body!” Zip screeched, and then subsided. Mercy, she was acting like a shrewish washerwoman. “I hope you don’t take my bellyaching too seriously. Don’t look so alarmed, dearest man-petal. I still love you, but the yelling does help me feel better. I sound terrible, don’t I?”
“Like a wet feline with a raging toothache,” Ri’arion suggested helpfully. When Zip made a face at him, he added, “A sodden, tooth-achy feline being dragged backward through a patch of muddy brambles, screeching its little head off …”
“Ri’arion!”
Wretched beast, he had the gall to look pleased with himself. Zuziana was less than impressed by his facility with description, particularly as it related to her mood.
“Now, you inquired about Leandrial, dearest Princess of my heart.” He patted her upon the head, which on another occasion, would have cost him a finger or two. “She is very much improved, and even participated in a battle this morning. There appears to be no change in strategy from the Thoralians, nor Ardan for that matter. Azhukazi has vanished into the blue yonder. We have moved two hundred and fifty leagues some six compass points North of West, and that is all. It’s boring out there. You’re missing nothing.”
“Boring?” She threw up into the bucket again.
“As dull as a sleeping Bulk Dragon.”
“And taking care of me – us – is what? Interesting?”
“It’s this or slap Drakes all day long.”
She spat into the bucket and pushed it weakly back in his direction. “You know, you could have earned yourself some serious kudos right there. Massive kudos. But no, Ri’arion muffs his opportunity with spectacular abandon.”
The monk made a face. “You women are far too complicated. Can’t you –” he waved his hands about helplessly “– ah, suffer in silence?”
“How dare you?”
“Erm, I –”
“Barbaric torturer,” she warbled feebly.
“You’re nothing but an endearing little dracowasp. Azure stinger and all.”
Finally, Zuziana gave it up and laughed until her stomach hurt. “Silly man. I love that you know me so well. I so badly need to escape this body. Going mad in here – poor Aranya, putting up with all my foibles and mischief-making and worst of all, my stupid, trite jealousies …”
Ambushed by rawness, her voice broke abruptly.
Ri’arion touched her cheek tenderly. “I know, my beloved. Don’t cry.”
“I’m a horrible person.”
She sensed Aranya come awake within her, but her friend remained silent. Hesitant to intrude, perhaps. What? she sniffed privately.
Dearest petal, I love the silliness, your foibles are characterful, the rascally tendencies keep me from disappearing into a fog of high-mindedness, and your jealousy isn’t half what you think it is. Zip made a dissenting noise. With affection that radiated warmth from her heart to the tips of her toes, Aranya explained, It’s because you think so little of yourself, Zip-Zap. The jealousy is just a way of putting yourself down as you feel you deserve – like that patently false statement you just spouted. Nobody but you thinks you’re horrible. It’s a lie, and that I will not tolerate!
Stunned.
Ara … Aranyi, you –
Petal, having you inside lets me see you, just as you see me. There is excellent reason – many excellent reasons – the Nameless Man of Fra’anior fell rainbows over Islands for you. If you ever lose sight of that truth – Aranya gulped. Let me put it this way. One more word of such drivel, just one, and I swear I will kick that infuriating derriere of yours right past the Mystic Moon!
Mercy! What made you so threatening today?
Ri’arion said, “Now, laughter? What is
this?”
“A stern girlfriend talking-to just cured me,” she said. The monk made a mock-befuddled face. Zuziana added, “It was about the lies we tell ourselves – and loving each other for who we truly we are. I love you dearly, Ri’arion of Fra’anior.”
“Phew, that’s a relief,” he chuckled. “Because I love this crazy Shapeshifter girl, and I almost mislaid her recently. When I feared you were truly gone …”
Slowly, his head sank upon her chest. She draped an arm over his neck and squeezed him close. After a moment, Zuziana felt his shoulders shake, and realised that the Nameless Man was weeping – the first time she had ever known him to cry.
His terrace lakes were so much fuller than she knew. She just had to learn to see past the barrier walls.
* * * *
Ardan gritted his fangs in frustration. Another unanticipated, under-Cloudlands attack! They were learning fast and deploying their forces far too adeptly, these Lost Islands Dragonkind. Despite the best holding patterns he could devise, his command was steadily losing ground. Soon, Aranya’s forces might have the slow-travelling Egg within their reach.
The First Egg was another matter. Not one of the injured triplicate had been able to penetrate its secrets. On the contrary, the more they sought to draw from or meddle with the prize, the more strongly it appeared to react, emanating seething energy fields that disrupted the weather across thousands of square leagues and caused the Dragonkind no end of irritation – not actual damage, they had determined, but more like a constant scale-itch that drove the Drakes into a useful frenzy and alerted all Dragonkind in their path that they were approaching. The triplicate’s advance generated an immense wave of activity, a curling and rippling away of refugees into what they fervently hoped were safe havens. There they were systematically rooted out and recruited, or destroyed.
Report.
Prime said, I command the search for Azhukazi the Necromancer. The lead to the Uxâtaayn Kahilate was a false trail, a trip undertaken as a ploy or without fruit. I am interrogating Dragons until I find where he has vanished to. The search proceeds but the schedule is compromised.
