by Marc Secchia
Zip, never one for a shy word, cut in, Iridiana must like her men ultra-chunky. Me, I prefer the lean and scrummy look.
The Shapeshifter’s every fire blushed up a storm as she glanced away bashfully. Asturbar did seem amused, but he had a repeat of that curious, searching scrutiny of Aranya that made her duck away in turn, and look to the battle. Too many incongruities and mysteries wearied her.
To work!
Follow me, noble Iridiana, she ordered, and screamed up into the gap. Jinking to avoid falling debris, Aranya searched the snapped-off tunnels and broken caverns. Pfft! She smashed a Drake with a precise strike in the head, before pausing to tangle with another. Grappling. Brawling. Twisting her body to break its neck with a slingshot manoeuvre Gang had taught her. She might be small, but she could fight! Iridiana followed more judiciously, apparently able to sustain this Dragoness manifestation for longer periods of time than her other forms, but she would bear watching. Flowers or boulders were not known to fly well.
“Gashukan!” cried Asturbar.
Following the direction of his finger, Aranya saw a man clinging desperately to a warped metal stanchion. How had he escaped being crushed? Her wings clapped together beneath her body with a sharp report, driving her at full acceleration between boulder garbed in grey ragions and someone’s polished jalkwood dresser, its brass mirror winking back an Amethyst flash as she passed by. Drake! Aranya slapped it in the flank with three ultra-hot fireballs in succession, burning right through to the hearts, before air-braking beneath the man as the attacker slewed away, howling its last mortal cry. Head Engineer Gashukan. Her forepaw closed about his waist; the man had a broken leg, she saw, and burn injuries splattered across his left hip and flank besides. Healing. Just a grain. All she could afford, Aranya thought. Anger. Heartache. She dropped away.
“Ten seconds until the Islands hit the Cloudlands,” called Asturbar.
“I’ll sound the alert,” Aranya replied. “The Land Dragons can shield these Island fragments for a few more minutes down there, but we need to extract everyone as quickly as possible. It’s not deep here – only a league and a half or so. Leaping Islands!”
Iridiana flashed past so close that Aranya was forced to veer aside to avoid the swingeing blow of a disembodied talon somehow attached to Asturbar’s axe, and then the pair pounded a Drake which had popped out in ambuscade – as they distracted each other, they managed to lop off a paw and injure its shoulder before the Iridium Dragoness wheeled away.
“You put me off,” Asturbar grumbled, feeling his stomach.
Aye, he’d be feeling his surgery for a few days yet.
Iridiana huffed, “I didn’t bring you along to shave their beards, soldier! Aim a little higher next time, would you?”
Leaning past the bickering pair, Aranya pumped a fireball straight down the Drake’s throat. Finished! She was fatigued and not much in the mood, especially not when they burst out laughing like a pair of embarrassed teenagers.
“I guess that was lesson number one from the Star Dragoness,” Iridiana said.
“Less arguing, more killing,” Asturbar nodded.
And more Marshal-swatting in a minute, Humansoul complained. Petal, Yiisuriel is already demanding our return from the battlefront. Apparently the issue of where to place more refugees has become thorny; there are Dragons arguing over battle honours and they anticipate a major issue with the course ahead. Yiisuriel refuses to turn back, but the terrain is more than challenging –
Honestly? stormed her Dragoness.
Exactly. Ridiculous!
I could think of a few words besides, some of which have been spouting out of that Marshal’s unwashed mouth …
Meantime, Zip took command of her mouth to call over to Iridiana and Asturbar, “Arguing is fun at the right moment. Huh. Pretty-scales, did you notice how similar your Dragoness manifestation is to Aranya’s?”
“Ah … no,” Iridiana objected. “Please don’t compare me to … to a Star –”
“Aww, aren’t we a shy little predator?” Zuziana teased.
Right. Add one Azure Dragoness to her ‘to be swatted’ list. In first place. With a fond smile at Iridiana, who was Dragon-blushing up a firestorm, Aranya snorted, “Zip’s just jealous she isn’t flaming things with us, Iridiana. Help me seat this man, would you?”
“Gashukan,” Asturbar supplied – unnecessarily.
The Amethyst prodded her Human tetchily. Nice as that overgrown blockhead is, I’ve a powerful urge to start frying windroc eggs upon his head! She had the satisfaction of making her second-soul figuratively fall around in helpless mirth.
“Well, he’s a bloodthirsty soldier – I approve!” Zuziana exclaimed meantime.
“Eh?” the Marshal just about managed.
Iridiana chuckled, “Gash-you-can? No mind, Boots. We can go gash a few things open if you like. You’re a bit sore about your House, aren’t you?”
“Our House,” he corrected firmly. “And, yes. Very sore.”
Still, I like him a lot, said Human Aranya.
Don’t let Miss Jealous-Scales over there hear you saying that, her Dragoness advised ominously. Clearly, her fire eye burns upon one man alone.
I can fight my own battles, thank you kindly.
As Nak would say, bah with stinky soldier socks on. You can polish my talons after I wipe an Island’s backside with that fake-bashful, invidious little shape twister and her glory-stealing ways. She wants to be the Star Dragoness, that’s all – and she doesn’t look like me. Not in the slightest. Humansoul pictured Fra’anior raising fourteen brow ridges at once. Fine! Well, Yiisuriel can jolly well stay put for a few hours. The battle’s right here and I’m stuffed to the ear canals with misplaced aggression! I need an outlet.
Her muzzle swung upward. Ah, convenient, both souls whispered at once.
Ignoring Zip, who was making a startling range of imaginary faces at this interchange, she lifted her paw to indicate a mammoth flock of Drakes breaking free from the slate-grey cloud layer above. She growled, “Let’s give that axe arm a little overdue exercise, shall we, Marshal? Follow me!”
“It’s a trap!” squealed Iridiana, her Dragoness form wavering visibly as battle reactions kicked in and overrode logic.
“No … Iridiana!”
Well, that was the last they heard of Asturbar’s wailing as the Iridium Dragoness rocketed into the heights in the form of a seething spectrum of purple-hued fires and a sound as if a great waterfall had suddenly burst over a cliff – indeed, as best Aranya could tell, the crazy Shapeshifter had now transformed into some liquescent form of draconic life that nonetheless left a trail of silvery dust in its fast-departing wake. Essentially, they were left sniffing her exhaust fumes and the other Dragoness was already two miles overhead, screaming into a solo attack against ten thousand Drakes.
Excellent plan – if only it were not quite so ralti-brained suicidal! She shook her muzzle in disbelief.
“Ah, I guess we go save her hide again?” groaned Zuziana.
Aranya said pithily, “Indeed.” Leandrial! Could I call in a light cannon barrage, please? And can you knock some sense into Chaos-girl at the same time?
Rather akin to trying to swat a Dragon of Shadow, wasn’t it?
Chapter 14: Turnabout
AFTER FLYING AGAINST the Drakes for long enough to work out that Asturbar and Iridiana were not about to expire in an anarchic blaze of glory, Her Despotic Highness of Remoy assigned the battle-hungry Dragon Rider pair to an experienced Dragonwing, smacked Aranya about the earhole until she agreed to try to sleep, and departed the battlefield post haste. Several hours to the East, Ri’arion was taking care of the Shadow Dragon, who seemed to be bent upon giving the former Nameless Man the hardest time possible. They already had helpers holding Sapphire and her newborn Chrysolitic dragonets in place to maintain Ardan’s prison.
Losing him again would be beyond the pale.
Very well. Nor should they lose new allies. Reluctantly, Zip requested Lean
drial to keep a fiery eye upon Asturbar and Iridiana, to which the leviathan was more than agreeable, and Zip settled down for a pleasant snooze in the cheek pocket of her own transportation back to Yiisuriel.
Zuziana of Remoy. Where is the Amethyst?
This was the massive, aged mental presence of Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, of course, her telepathic communication carrying clearly to Zip’s mind despite the considerable interference still present days after the First Egg’s passage.
Politely, she began, Great one –
If she’s sleeping, wake her up. There is much to do – I have been calling for hours. Is something amiss out there; can she not deal with a few Drakes and these refugees?
Zip knew that, of course, but she also knew that Aranya needed her sleep more than anyone seemed prepared to permit. Three to four hours a night? Far from enough – she understood the imperatives, but only since being intimately part of her best friend’s world had she appreciated just how driven a person Aranya was. Storm indwelled her being. Duty was the tenor of her soul’s steel. Not one to shake out her hair easily, they would say on her own home Island.
Noble Yiisuriel, the aftereffects of battle against the Thoralians –
I know the lore infinitely better than you, little one, Yiisuriel ground out. Even from this great a distance, her acid tone stung. Do not presume to lecture your elders. It is imperative that I converse with Aranya as soon as possible. Strategies must be decided upon. The Council awaits her input on many diverse matters.
Is the Council incapable of –
INCAPABLE? Zuziana winced at the blast.
The Land Dragoness snapped off her communication with a zing that threatened to slap Zip’s head off her shoulders. Ouch.
Still protecting us? Mother-Zip-ishness becomes you, darling friend, said a warm, twofold voice within her.
Aranya and her Dragoness speaking as one! Wow! She had thought Fra’anior owned a monopoly on the massive amplification of sevenfold majesty. Even with just two persons or soul aspects speaking in perfect synchronicity, Aranya’s words conveyed unexpected power.
A double-whammy of love.
A touch sulkily, she responded, Apparently, I am not required. You are.
A wise Dragoness walks the Balance, came the response, misquoting Leandrial’s favourite lore subject so flagrantly that Zip had to chuckle. Anyways, I will give four hours now. After that, we sleep, and then I am ordering you to spend some time with your husband …
Funny how I thought we’d get more sleep this way, the four of us, Zip returned ruefully. Instead, it seems we’re burning every candle at every end at once.
Aye. I’m not convinced souls were meant to cohabit.
It’s a strain, petal, isn’t it?
Aranya did not miss a beat. The word you’re looking for is ‘privilege’, my friend – and the privilege is mine. Now, why don’t you go cuddle your egglings in my soul space whilst I deal with this nonsense?
* * * *
Some nonsense was more important than other nonsense, Aranya had decided by the time four hours had vanished into the distant past. Some nonsense was simply exhausting. Zip was right. She did not understand why she had to be part of so many mental cells for discussion and decision-making when there were ample capable leaders among the Lost Isles Humankind and Dragonkind. This congregation had hummed along harmoniously for centuries before a young upstart from Immadia had winged in. Many were far more qualified and learned in their different specialties than she was, and while she appreciated the opportunity to stretch her mind alongside so many fine intellects … Aranya sighed. Somehow, she suspected that the opportunity to gain a starry seal of approval had come to mean just a little too much to these Lost Isles creatures, even granted that they had lived in self-imposed exile for over six centuries – from Hualiama’s lifetime to her own.
How could she start to wean them off what they worshipped? How dare she presume?
This was the laborious side of rulership that King Beran had never shirked. She should do more. Shoulder more. Be more.
Aranya helped to design protocols for screening against the suspected Chameleon Shapeshifter who might be hiding amidst the Mistral Fires refugees, facilitated the myriad interdependent decisions for rehousing what was essentially a small Island-nation, and then dove into the internecine honour-issues that frequently flared up between these Herimor Dragons. She had to learn, didn’t she? She reviewed the data on recent assassination attempts – most directed at her own person. The Star Dragoness was not universally loved.
Was all this only the fraction of the Island peeking above the Cloudlands in terms of what Fra’anior had meant when he had called upon her to be his bulwark?
She must be daughter-of-Onyx strong.
After work time she slept fitfully, dreaming in fragments of storm and war and torture and forever, fruitlessly, chasing the Thoralians as their mockery reverberated like thunder in the distance, always unattainable. At some level she was aware of Zuziana speaking earnestly with Ri’arion, who warned of the mental damage and degradation due to the period of bondage that he had sensed in Ardan. Thus far the Thoralians’ mental strongholds remained inviolate. The Shadow continued in his inimical stance; worse, the Air Breathers feared he might have been primed as another trap for Aranya, carrying some undetectable but lethal psychic-magical payload.
These denizens of Herimor were never short on ideas when it came to assassination, were they?
Oddly, it was the words of Istariela’s poem playing through her mind that lulled her, at last, into a dreamless sleep:
Fire unfathomable … fire unfathomable …
Waking once Zip took her leave of Ri’arion, Aranya worked again late into the night’s serene heart, poring over the Dragonfriend’s lore. Who had scribed the great tomes, she wondered? The hand did not appear to be her Aunt’s; far less the erudite, even cerebral tone of many of the additional notes. The detail and indexing was exhaustive. This orderliness bespoke a labour of love by a scholarly mind; if she was not doing her a terrible disservice, she felt Hualiama’s innate artistry did feature in many of the passages – perhaps an unknown scholar had compiled her writings into their present form?
Wondering, reminiscing, planning, she drifted into a cloudscape of Dragoness dreams.
* * * *
The Thoralians’ parting action had been to scourge his mind. Now, Ardan slept the sleep of the accursed. Writhing. Burning. Beset by terrors beyond knowing; by inchoate, ravening beasts of destruction that roamed the pathways left vulnerable by the Marshal’s unbreakable talon grip upon his psyche. Every iota of his being burned with cruel mordancy, like a prisoner dunked in a vat of acid and left to suffer until his skin boiled off his body.
His lip curled cruelly. That was the way of the cannibals of Ur-Naphtha. These erstwhile companions of his knew nothing about true barbarity. They saw his dark skin and thought him savage. They traced his tribal scarification patterns and thought of bloody tribal traditions. They beheld the starkness of his warrior soul and imagined man base to the core; a hand that knew no deed of compassion.
He coiled. Enemy!
The Chrysolitic shield surrounding him reverberated like a gong.
Yet he had thrice now been taken prisoner. Enslaved. Shackled to the will of others; degraded in ways beyond any measure of dishonour no warrior had ever imagined could be possible. Those fragments of memory arose from a time before the Dragonwings came, mercilessly razing his Cluster. He alone lived to shrive their souls and release them into eternity, swiftly winging forth with deeds of honour and bravery. He alone wore the ur-makka of his slain people …
Enemy! The dragonets shuddered. The circle of blue-robed enchanters drew closer.
He was Dragonkind; symbol of what he hated.
I BURRRRNN!!
Ardan thrashed in exquisite pain.
Enemy! Enemy! ENEMY!
He subsided, tasting the harmonic vibrancy created by his struggles. Were the mites weakening? One watched hi
m. Sapphire. Favoured companion of her. The Star.
As his thoughts turned toward the one who was his – enemy! – he realised that her radiance grew within his soul, as though the suns-rise painted the contours of his inner being. Although the touch seared with the verimost fires of a star’s unadulterated purity, it was also accompanied by a strangely sinuous melody that breathed restoration into his being despite the spitting, sparking resistance of the Thoralian’s bonds. Piceous blades of spite pierced him sorely, yet she was more. The pain was ghastly yet he yearned … how he yearned!
Ardan focussed upon the melody playing through their oath bond. He did not understand the chiming words, sounding like an exotic dialect of Dragonish, but he imagined a lullaby frolicking daintily about a starlit sky. Struggle as he might, he could not escape.
Enemy! Enemy … enemy … his will to resist faded, yet he struggled on.
After an interminable time, the melody changed and the words seemed to soak into his understanding.
What is a droplet of starlight?
Fire unfathomable …
A mother sang her lullaby over an unborn eggling. A young woman sang over him.
Ardan cracked open his eyes, and saw Aranya.
* * * *
The Princess of Immadia had dressed especially to suit an unaccustomed lightness of heart she sensed this morn. She wore a full-length amethyst gown such as would have graced the breezy byways of Fra’anior or the frosty halls of Immadia’s winter-bound Palace, its unfamiliar, richly brocaded material nonetheless cladding her slender curves with intimate assiduousness – a gift from Dhazziala’s own seamstresses, and its artisanship was rare indeed. No bodice-ripping Shapeshifter transformations, then! She had already destroyed a treasure of the Jeradian people by failing to control herself around Jia-Llonya, Yolathion’s consort.
Perhaps she sought to return to her roots, as Princess of the realm. Perhaps she longed to feel beautiful again; for Ardan to look upon her not with that palpable shadow of pity in his eyes, but desire. Perhaps if she concealed herself enough … yet her heart’s melody remained capriciously joyous for reasons beyond her ken.
