by Marc Secchia
A twinkle of light in the tower opposite caught her eye. Beran’s map room? Her father must be awake. At once, Aranya tiptoed over to the doorway, picking up a brace of Immadian forked daggers and a cloak for decency’s sake, before stealing out into the hall.
“Islands’ greetings, Princess,” the guard greeted her. “Up early?”
“Oh, Felial? It’s Felial, right?”
“My lady,” said the young soldier, straightening until he resembled a fire-poker.
“Felial, are your brothers still teasing you about being the one who discovered the Dragon on the battlements?”
“Aye, my lady.”
“Why don’t you tell them that the Dragon will come to visit if they don’t behave? How’s your father, Felial?”
“He wanted to thank you for healing …” Felial’s cheeks developed high spots of colour as Aranya smiled at him. Suddenly, he spluttered, “The stump of his knee is better and Commander Darron also came to see our family and talked to him about working as a Dragonship navigator in the future and he sent engineers out to repair our house and we’re so thankful, Princess.”
Aranya nodded. “Well, I’m just going to see the King, Felial. At ease.”
“Aye, my–watch out!”
Felial’s shoulder punched her aside. Cloth brushed her head as a tapestry fell nearby. The young soldier tangled with a man, grunting, spoiling a flailing sword-blow aimed at her neck.
The man shouted, “Die, Dragon scum!”
A face, half-seen, snarled at her over Felial’s armoured shoulder as the guard thumped her assailant awkwardly against the passage wall. The would-be assassin groaned, but his left hand rose behind Felial’s back. Metal winked in the half-light. Whipping one of the forked daggers from her belt, Aranya hurled it instinctively in a low arc. A short blade spun from the man’s severed fingers.
“Dragon sc–”
His cry choked off as Felial’s sword slipped into his chest.
Aranya blinked as she observed a wisp of navy-blue smoke curl from the fallen dagger. Taking the form of a dragonet no larger than the ball of her thumb, it flew toward her faster than her eye could follow, and … vanished? She rubbed a tiny, icy patch on her upper arm. Nothing. Or, magic? Her inner fires flickered briefly. Not quite awake, shaken by her dream, she might have imagined it.
“Quick, Princess.” Hands grasped her arms.
“Take me to the King’s tower,” she said. The soldier who had seized her was a hulking Jeradian, fully a head taller than her.
“Just a crazy man,” she heard someone say. “How’d he get in?”
“A servant,” said another soldier. “Worked here longer than I remember. Good work, Felial.”
Aranya glanced over her shoulder as the Jeradian hustled her along. Judging by the red-black blood seeping across the corridor, there would be no questioning that man. Crazy? Armed with sword and dagger, hidden behind a tapestry? She was not so certain. She limped up the winding staircase one step at a time, trying to still the racing of her heart, and then followed a chilly stone corridor to the eastern tower. Another staircase greeted her there.
The Jeradian handed her over to two Immadian guards. “All quiet here?” he rumbled.
“Aye.”
Leaving the guards discussing the incident in low tones, the Princess slipped within. She found King Beran, babe on arm, staring at his map table in deep concentration. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, Sparky. Couldn’t sleep?”
“No. You? Leanya’s keeping you awake?”
He chuckled. “Just a little. It’s Silha’s turn to sleep. Two busy twin boys to run after in a couple of hours and this baby girl … what was that shout I heard?”
“An assassin,” said Aranya. King Beran blanched paler than the ice of an Immadian winter. “Dad–I’m fine.”
“A–what?” Boots thumped down the corridor outside. “Aranya … I’ll kill–”
“Dad, I’m not hurt. Can we talk?”
With an evident effort, the King uncurled his white-knuckled fingers from his dagger hilt. He sighed, “Aye. An assassin, you say?”
“Or a crazy man.”
“Forgive me, one moment.” Beran stalked over to the door and yanked it open. Aranya winced at the low-voiced but acerbic tenor of his interrogation of the duty guard. But when he returned, all he said was, “A trusted insider. It’s almost impossible to defend against such an attack. Are you truly unharmed?”
“Not a scratch.”
Aranya decided not to bother him with the question of the magic she may or may not have glimpsed. Seeing his daughter apparently rise from the dead was more than enough for a father to deal with for one week, wasn’t it? She touched her upper arm pensively. Not an inkling of magic.
On cue, King Beran said, “Apart from assassins, what’s on your mind, Aranyi?”
Aranyi–the intimate form of her name. She always considered it a special sign of his affection for her. She wondered what he had called her mother, Izariela. Izari? Izi?
She stared at the map table, which depicted the northern part of the Island-World from the northernmost Islands, the frozen spits of rock north even of Immadia, to a thousand leagues south of Remoy. The surface was a square thirty-six feet across, but separated into nine parts so that a person could walk between the segments rather than trying to reach across that width. It modelled every known Island and significant spire of rock. Each was meticulously labelled in Beran’s own hand. Aranya noticed that the volcano and the Dragon’s Foot had been added, near a label for Immadior’s Sea. Zuziana, with her obsession for maps, had probably added that detail.
But the disposition of Beran’s forces was what trapped her attention. Model Dragonships, Sylakian outposts … King Beran had been strategizing. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she grasped his intent.
Find me the Dragon of the Western Isles.
Trying to disguise her discomfort, Aranya held out her hands. “Let me cuddle Leanya for a bit, Dad, while you explain this two-front strategy. Do I not recall–”
“That I swore never to fight on two fronts? Indeed.”
Beran passed over Aranya’s baby sister–her half-sister, although she did not think of Leanya that way. She cradled the babe in the crook of her left arm. Her Dad was not fooled by her calm demeanour, she knew.
He turned to the table, saying, “I’ve been toying with this two-prong strategy ever since we defeated the Sylakians, Sparky. Let’s be clear. Despite the severe reverse we handed them, we still need to deal with the Sylakian Southern Dragonship fleet, currently under First War-Hammer Ignathion.”
“Given as we stole Ignathion’s son,” Aranya put in.
“Exactly. Even disregarding the remnants of the Northern fleet, we still face a force greater than any we can assemble.”
“There’s at least one more Shapeshifter Dragon.”
“Aye, that too.” He swept his hand across the map. “You see, the problem has always been that there are two viable routes to attack Immadia Island. One from the south, the other from the far Western Isles. There are sizeable enemy strongholds placed along both routes. The time to strike is now, while they are disorganised and dismayed. But we need to balance readiness against capability. Our forces are severely depleted. The Sylakians have vastly greater resources. So, coming to our strategic needs. Resources. Securing our borders. We know that Ignathion is the real strategic thinker, while Supreme Commander Thoralian is one-dimensional in his approach. So, if we’re dealing with Thoralian we must fight on two fronts. However thin that spreads us, it will cloud his judgement.”
“But my mind keeps returning to two Islands. And they lie reasonably close together, here to the west and southwest of Sylakia–Fra’anior and Jeradia.”
Aranya nodded, enjoying the spark in her father’s eyes as he expounded his views. She said, “Fra’anior I understand, because they’re our ally and there’s Dragon-lore to be found there–we discussed that. But, Jeradia? Dad, you’re not doing me
a favour because of Yolathion?”
“A teensy favour,” he said, illustrating with his fingers. “I’m hoping Yolathion can persuade his people to rebel. That would give us a pool of excellent warriors and a powerful bargaining-chip with Ignathion. In twelve summers’ fighting against him, I never enjoyed that luxury. Jeradia and Fra’anior are the keys to the Isles west of Sylakia. Hold those and you hold the West–if you don’t have a group of angry tribes or Sylakians backstabbing you. Hence the surprise tactic, the attack that sweeps north-south along the Western Isles before turning–suddenly–toward Sylakia.”
Moving between the tables to his side, Aranya quizzed him, “Dad, you aren’t planning to conquer the tribes?”
“No, Sparky.” His well-loved grey eyes rose slightly to measure her stature. “When did you rise from the Cloudlands to overtake your Dad, eh?”
With a grin, Aranya rose onto her tiptoes. “My, how you’ve shrunk, old man.”
“Huh. A father should not have to look up to his headscarf-less daughter. It’s not right.” But his complaint came with a wry grin and little force.
“Sorry.” Self-consciously, she began to brush her long, multi-coloured tresses back from her face.
“Stop that.”
“Wearing a headscarf is so awkward when I keep changing–”
His snort brought her up short. “I love it,” he said. “You’re so much the image of your mother, half of my heart feels as though it has flown back in time. Don’t you ever be ashamed of that glorious mane.”
Izariela! Aranya groaned at the weight of unbearable grief. Her pale, half-transformed face. Her unmoving chest. No, she had to hold firm to the hope that her mother had only been poisoned, that she could somehow be revived and brought forth from her strange crystal tomb. Seeking justice for Izariela paled in comparison to this hope which burned so hotly in her breast, it flickered as a living flame within her.
“Now,” said Beran, “you and I both know that the tribes would never be content to be yoked to Immadia, nor do I have ambitions to replace the Sylakian Empire with one of my own. But I will do what is necessary for the Island-World.”
Aranya gave him a one-armed hug. “You know, as a Dad you’re just about tolerable, besides being an adequate King.”
“Ah, you flatter me,” Beran chuckled in his beard. “I’m just trying to resolve all the trouble my prodigal Dragon-daughter has stirred up. If we accidentally fix the Island-World in the doing, that would be a smashing result. So, Sparky. Cough it up. Why the shadows lurking in those amethyst eyes?”
He knew her far too well.
Aranya considered the map for a space. His strategy was as clear as fine crystal. It made sense–but there were many unknowns, not least, what they might have roused now that the secret of Sylakian Shapeshifter Dragons was revealed to the Island-World. As her father regarded her expectantly, Aranya took up his unspoken challenge.
“Darron moves south to Yorbik Island,” she said. “He lays siege to the Sylakian fortresses and the Dragonship shipyards there. I adjudge from this blue counter that you have Zip and Ri’arion accompanying him?” Aranya rocked Leanya as she stirred. “The Commander tromps through Gemalka, Helyon and Ferial with all trumpets blaring, while your second line of attack stealthily makes the long westward haul to Yar’ola Island, then sweeps south, down toward Ur-Yagga Cluster. This chip of amethyst stone represents me, right?”
“Aye.”
“Having tied the Sylakians up at Yorbik Island, if the timing is right, we then broadside them from Fra’anior or Jeradia. We have a Dragon in each line of attack to give us a massive tactical advantage. The strategy, initially, is to capture as many Dragonships as possible. We send all the vessels we can with Darron, a big show of force, while the real target is these Sylakian outposts here in the Western Isles.”
King Beran clapped his hands softly. “Bravo. I didn’t waste my time whacking you into shape, did I? But you still haven’t told me–”
“Dad. Even a cliff-fox needs to learn patience.” Aranya placed her hand over the model of Ur-Yagga, a busy cluster of over two hundred Islands, small and large. “I dreamed of the Black Dragon last night, Dad. Fra’anior spoke to me. That’s why I find your strategy for the Western Isles so freaky.”
“It’s the only strategy that makes sense.”
“Dad, there’s a Dragon in the Western Isles. I’m charged to hunt it.”
Open-mouthed in amazement, Beran scratched his beard. “By the mountains of Immadia, are there Dragons dropping from the skies these days?”
“Yes, you can catch them like raindrops.”
King Beran smiled at his tall daughter with such a fierce pride it fairly took her breath away. That was what her mother, Izariela, must have loved in him. She saw it so clearly. “So, Sparky, let’s work the counter-strategy. How will Thoralian respond? When, and where?”
* * * *
Seventeen Dragonships plus one Azure Dragon and her Rider set out for the mineral-rich Island of Gemalka that same evening. A further eight vessels were well advanced in repair. Beran ordered a second wave to depart as soon as possible in support of Commander Darron. The King would command just six of the hundred and fifty-foot Dragonships, carrying full crews of fifty warriors apiece.
Zuziana shed a few tears before her departure. “See you in a month, Aranya. Be safe.”
“Take care of that maniac monk, Remoy.” Aranya hugged her best friend as though she could somehow transfer her strength to Zip. “Work on your lightning powers. Fly strong and true.”
Zip did not say what Aranya knew–that she knew nothing about fighting other Dragons, should it come to that. Aranya’s Dragon hearts pounded in her chest. They were only juvenile Dragons. What if she or Zip ran into a Garthion-sized Red Dragon, two and a half times her size? The Sylakian forces still outnumbered them greatly. Who knew how many of Garthion’s siblings or relatives might be Shapeshifters, too? Would an Amethyst Dragon make the difference, scaring the Sylakian outposts into surrender? Beran had called her ‘the hand of justice in the Islands’, making Aranya squirm. Who was she to judge and avenge? According to the scrolls they had read back in Remoy, that was what the Dragon Riders used to do–judge disputes between the Islands. Keep the peace. Fight evil … but not all Dragons or their Dragon Riders had been good. Many had done exactly the opposite, or had simply not cared for that kind of work and sacrifice.
Therein lay another mystery. Why had all the Dragons vanished? Where to? One hundred and fifty years before, approximately, the Dragons had simply evaporated like a winter’s mist from the Island-World. The few survivors had dwindled, hunted and killed by men, or died of old age. Perhaps the Fra’anior Cluster hid the knowledge she sought. Or she could ask Nak and Oyda. Oyda was one hundred and seventy-six years old. Their long lives had overlapped with those events; surely they would remember some momentous war between Dragons, or a mass migration, or … what? She had no idea.
The following morning, having packed and made preparations all night, King Beran and his forces departed Immadia Island for the far Western Isles, starting with the Sylakian outpost of Yar’ola Island, six days flying by Dragonship. Beran ordered his Dragonship Steersmen to push hard. Hourly shifts of warriors worked the turbines manually, using the contraption in the common area fondly called the ‘back-breaker’, while they saved on meriatite.
“Otherwise we’ll hitch Aranya to a rope and she can tow us,” Yolathion teased.
Aranya took off so fast that the Jeradian’s eyes watered. Ha. She was not a pony or a water buffalo, she was a Dragon!
But she had to giggle at the sight of a hundred and sixty white ice-dragonets hanging off the gantries of one of the Dragonships, chuckling and chirping with their mouths hanging open in the breeze, bound as she had promised for Ha’athior Island in the Fra’anior cluster, and a reunion with their kin there. The dragonets had agreed to fight if called upon.
How strange it would be to travel and fight alongside her father. As she rose i
nto the still morning air, Aranya struggled to make sense of the mass of conflicting feelings swirling in her Dragon hearts. She loved being with Yolathion. She missed Zip and Ri’arion already. She worried about her friends. Human-Aranya felt anxious about the battles to come, but Dragon-Aranya’s chest swelled and adrenalin pumped into her veins as she blazed across the sky in glorious Dragon flight. The difference between her two minds made her feel dislocated. She wished Zuziana were on her back, chattering away and distracting her, rather than the serious-minded man gazing about in awe as they left Immadia Island far behind.
Why should she be so ungrateful?
Once again, she was winging away across the Cloudlands. Only this time, it was not in chains, but by the power of Dragon wings. Aranya stretched her flight muscles, accelerating to catch up with her father’s Dragonship. Yolathion needed to practise his airborne landings. And why, by the five moons, was she feeling so chary about Yolathion seeing her nude, as he inevitably would when she transformed?
Aranya snapped her fangs at a passing insect. There. That described exactly how she felt.
Chapter 3: Village Battle
Ants feasting on the hole in his skull resolved into a vague itch Ardan needed to scratch. His hands jerked, but only occasioned a jingle of chains. His eyes snapped open.
He was alive, for the second time since … whenever. His head pounded as though a blacksmith had set up a blast-furnace between his temples, working the bellows until the heart roared white-hot. He should be grateful, but instead, all Ardan could do was voice a long, dull groan as his body began to catalogue its aches and pains. His skull won a fierce competition by virtue of feeling as though he still had a scimitar stuck midway between his ears.
Ardan instinctively checked his surroundings. A ceiling hung with herbs and plants and all manner of healing paraphernalia met his roving gaze. A large tallow candle burned on a rude table nearby, lighting his small alcove and not much else inside the hut.
