by Marc Secchia
Ardan’s knees buckled. But the Amethyst Dragon’s fore-talon steadied him. Of all people in the Island-World, Aranya must understand how he felt.
She said, “Let’s get my Rider in the saddle.”
And then she spoiled it by referring to her Rider. Ardan bit down on an unexpected, bilious surge of jealousy.
Together, they worked out a way of lifting Yolathion into the saddle, laying him face-down over the worn leather seat and buckling a strap about his waist. For good measure, Ardan tied his ankles with an extra hank of rope to spare him the inevitable buffeting. Then he mounted up as directed, one spine-spike behind the Jeradian warrior.
“I’ll show you to Kylara’s hideout,” he said.
Aranya’s head turned completely about to check his seat. “Hold onto the saddle straps ahead of you, Ardan. Don’t let go. I’ll fly carefully. And whatever you do, don’t transform when you feel me take off, because I couldn’t hold your weight in the air.”
“I’m that big an … um?”
“Dragon? Yes. More than twice my size.” His eyes betrayed wonder. She sniped, “And six times my haunches. You’re built like a flying boulder.”
“Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Aranya?”
“Jealousy? Ha!”
The Dragoness leaped through the plume of her fire, off the edge of the cliff.
Great Islands! He was flying! Ardan howled for four thousand feet before he managed to clamp his jaw shut. A warrior should display courage. A warrior should not be zipping along, Dragonback, a league above the Cloudlands. With a shudder, he flung his fear into the abyss. The great flight muscles rippled in the body beneath him; supple Dragon wings buoyed her upon the breeze. Aranya was so large he was amazed she could stay aloft–but fly she did, more gracefully than he could ever dream of, he knew, sliding through the air with the ease of a sleek trout slipping upstream. This girl was more than beautiful. She was magical. Lethal, a predator from the ground up. And he had tamed her?
No, she could never be tamed. That thinking was pure ego. Aranya had let herself be captured, as surely as she had captured him. And an elemental magic had responded to his promise. What did that portend? What had she said–he had no idea what powers an Amethyst Dragon possessed? True. Nor did he know his own powers, apart from the ability to stop a blade with his skull. Dragon powers? The idea earned his healthy respect. Truth be told, it scared him ralti-stupid.
“Uh–head north, Aranya. There’s a huge hole up there, a hole through the Island–”
“Oh, we passed it on the way down. I remember.”
Ardan twisted around in his seat, taking in the length of the Dragoness from her muzzle to the tip of her rudder-like tail trailing far behind him, measuring her wingspan with his eyes, watching the flow of her muscles as her wings beat the air. His throat was so chock-full of emotions, it hurt to breathe. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream with jubilation!
Quietly, over her shoulder, Aranya said, “It’s something, isn’t it? Just wait until you fly, Ardan. Dragon senses are so much more sensitive. You’re going to swoon.”
“Aye. Your confidence flatters me.” He smoothed the gooseflesh on his arms. “Aranya, you shouldn’t even be flying. You’ve holes in your wings; are those burns on your back from the battle you mentioned? They look serious.”
“I fought another Dragon, Ardan. He had the power of acid attack.”
Ardan swore beneath his breath. “Tell me more about Dragons. Tell me everything.”
“How many days do we have?” the Dragon riposted. “I need to know everything you know about Kylara, first. We need a plan before we reach her hideout.”
“Well then, we’ve less than a quarter-hour at this speed. Slow down, my exquisite–ah, sorry. Twilight is the best time to sneak inside.”
* * * *
Landing in a secluded location a good ways back along the secret trail that led to Kylara’s hideout, Aranya helped Ardan transport Yolathion to the ground. He unbuckled and hid her saddle and straps behind a clump of boulders.
“My dress and cloak, please. Don’t peek.”
Ardan quirked one scarred eyebrow in her direction.
“Islands’ sakes,” she huffed, transforming, “you need to at least pretend interest in this Kylara.”
Appearing pensive, he helped her dress and settled a cloak upon her shoulders. He bent to kiss her cheek. He stood a good three inches taller than her, Aranya noticed, while the heroic brawn of his shoulders matched his Dragon form. He would make an awesome subject for a painting.
Great. Forgetting him was going to be so easy.
He said, “Fair Aranya, we return to real life after flying to the heavens.”
“Unfair Ardan, if you continue to tease me …”
Ardan said, gruffly, “Princess, you are not allowed to feel guilty about what happened. No blame. Understood?”
Aranya lowered her eyes, appalled at how easily he had read her emotions.
Yolathion had never read her like an open scroll. How would she ever summon the courage to see this through? Or would it be wiser to end her relationship with Yolathion right now? Would a Jeradian care about her physical state–well, he would surely care if she loved another! But this magical madness could not be equated with love, surely?
“Keep a cobra’s eye out for trouble,” he warned. “Kylara’s fast. I don’t want you eating her scimitar–not as a Human, anyway. Put your hood up. Hide your face and hair.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. “Oh, and now you believe in Dragons?”
Ardan puffed out a breath. “Because of you, Aranya, I’ve no idea what to believe any more, and–will you stop snarling at me? Islands’ sakes, girl, I apologised!”
“One little apology sweeps it all off your Island into the Cloudlands?”
Aranya knew she was being irrational, and his expression clearly said the same–irrational, or as crazy as a rabid rajal. But his reply was soft. Thou, Aranya. “I could never forget. I just feel Kylara deserves a chance. Any less would dishonour her.”
Oh, fine words! Chew on that, Aranya. She stilled her fires, hearing the inner laughter cackling as it prowled around the edges of her sanity.
Ardan picked Yolathion up with a grunt, whispering something about her boyfriend weighing more than the average ralti sheep. As they proceeded along the narrow trail, hardly more than two feet at any point from the edge of the drop, Aranya stooped her shoulders, bent one foot inward and began to hobble. The warrior’s startled whistle told her she was doing a fine job.
Beneath the hood, her eyes shifted restlessly over the throng beneath the huge rock overhang–the children playing, the men guarding the cliff’s edge; the coming and going of couples, families and female warriors. Her Dad was right. They looked a savage bunch. Not a single guard’s hand strayed far from her scimitar. Aranya had never quite appreciated how large those swords were until she saw one close up. And the faces owning those swords were the snarl-like-a-leopard type.
But they were not alert enough to stop her or Ardan.
As Ardan led her confidently though a series of caves and tunnels, Aranya studied the Western Isles warrior from behind. This was the man she had tossed Yolathion to the proverbial windrocs for? A shaven-headed, tattooed, scarred Isles warrior with biceps thicker than her thighs? A man with enigmatic eyes that, though shadowed in their depths, turned her insides into prekki fruit mush? How would she ever mist the Island enough to fool Kylara?
The Warlord he loved, rather than her. Oh, volcanic hells! She wished Nak or Zuziana could have been present to crack a few inappropriate jokes. She had to take her mind off the drumbeat in her mind thumping out, ‘What have I done? What have I done?’
They came to a very large cavern, lit by lantern-stands around the edges and further lamps dangling from the ceiling. As Ardan pushed the heavy wooden door open with his foot, Aranya slipped inside with a chary gaze at her surroundings. The floor space was surrounded by workbenches laden with projects in process. A forge bla
zed cheerfully at the far end of the cavern, its orange heart calling brazenly to her inner fires. She saw a half-opened meriatite furnace engine, three turbines standing along a wall, many chains and strange tools hanging from the ceiling, and crysglass windows stacked neatly in a storage enclosure to her left.
A hunchbacked man approached her. Garg.
Ardan introduced them. Aranya swept back her hood and offered her hand. Garg bowed over her fingers and blew upon them in the courtly way, before describing two circles with his forefinger before his deeply wrinkled, fire-scarred face for the peace, and placing three kisses upon her palm that struck her as heartfelt. Bright green eyes twinkled up at her. Aranya resisted the urge to bend down so that he could see her better.
“How is it that you have Fra’aniorian features, my lady of Immadia?” he said, in a gravelly voice.
“My mother’s from Ha’athior,” she explained. “Pointy ears, see? King Beran is my father, who you call the Immadian Fox. He–”
“Kidnapped your mother. Great story,” said Garg. “Please, I’d love to hear it first-hand from the Fox’s daughter while I set this leg. Then I’ll patch you up, I will. Tangled with a few slugs, boy?”
Slugs? Her mouth fished for flies. What kind of slug could do that to a man?
“Rocia and her cronies tried to kill me,” Ardan grumbled.
Garg did not miss a beat. “Clear that workbench and set the little man on top. Fix this yourself? Not a bad job. Bit twisted.” Garg untied the hammer and examined Yolathion’s broken thigh. “Hold him still. Still, boy! You made of cotton fluff?”
Aranya stifled a giggle as she caught Ardan staring at her ears. He had been too distracted, earlier, to take in all the details. Coyly, her eyes slid away from his scorching regard. She should focus on Yolathion. But a sable Dragon danced in her mind, and her magic seethed like the open lava pits of Fra’anior’s caldera. Deliberately, she made herself swallow it down, deep down. She should feel nothing. Do nothing. Admit nothing …
Aranya watched Garg’s supple hands checking the lie of the bones beneath Yolathion’s lean, muscled leg. He dug his fingers in this way and that. “Hold him, boy,” he snarled at Ardan, and twisted sharply. She distinctly heard the bones grate together. “Good,” he grunted. “I’m waiting for a story, Princess.”
“Aye, he’s always this cranky,” said Ardan.
While Garg splinted Yolathion’s leg with three curved wooden shapes and a device that bolted them together, Aranya told him the story of how her father had abducted her mother and whisked her to Immadia Island. Garg raided his cupboards for what he dubbed ‘slug ointment’ and tossed it to Ardan. “Sort yourself out, boy. So, Princess, what’s ailing you?”
“Me?”
“Walking funny, you are. Back trouble?”
Ardan’s eyes gleamed at her over Garg’s shoulder. Aranya blushed to the roots of her hair as she realised what kind of backache he was thinking about, the rascally Cloudlands pirate!
“Burns,” she spluttered. “I got burned.”
“Acid,” said Ardan, helpfully. Aranya wanted to slap him–or better still, kiss him. Repeatedly.
“I’ll need to take a look. With your permission, Princess. And yours, Ardan.”
As Ardan choked out that it was nothing to do with him, Aranya accepted Garg’s helping hand onto a workbench not far from Yolathion. She handed her cloak to Ardan before stretching out on her stomach. She sighed inwardly. It was not as though the Princess of Immadia had much left in the way of modesty, these days.
Cool air touched her lower back. “Hmm,” said Garg. “That’s a mighty fine … mess, Princess. What do you think, boy?” Aranya found it fascinating that a dark man could blush, too. “Lost our tongue, eh? Go get me pads, tweezers and the disinfectant concentrate. We’ll need to clean this before it gets infected. What type of acid made these wounds, lady?”
“Dragon acid,” she replied.
Garg went so still she thought he’d had a fit. She looked over her shoulder to find him regarding her with wary, eloquent attention. “You are … the hair? The Dragon all these Isles have been talking about, who so infuriated the Sylakians, is a Shapeshifter?”
She nodded. “I am.”
“Well, now,” said Garg. “You defeated the Sylakians? You actually defeated the Supreme Commander?”
“I killed Garthion, his son,” Aranya replied, uncertain if she quite enjoyed the tenor of the glance Ardan flashed at her. Respect? A little fear? Well, he might have given that a modicum of thought before he attacked Amethyst Dragon!
“A service to the entire Island-World, that is,” Garg grunted.
“There was a great battle at Immadia,” Aranya added. “Yolathion, there, is Jeradian, but he used to be a Third War-Hammer in the Sylakian army. He led a rebellion against Sylakia. Yes, we defeated the Northern Dragonship fleet, but the Sylakians still hold great power. Now my father plans to free the Western Isles. That’s why we’re here.”
“A bold strategy,” said Ardan.
The old man, Garg, made a mystical symbol with his right hand. I greet thee, Dragon.
Aranya’s jaw nearly struck the table’s surface. You speak Dragonish?
Garg shook his head. “That’s all the Dragonish my grandfather ever taught me. He was a fledgling trainer. There used to be a secret school for training Dragons and their Riders at Jeradia. My grandfather headed up the fledgling training programme, before the Sylakians defeated us. He was killed in that battle.”
A secret Dragon Rider school? Her interest piqued. What if they could find that old school? What might they learn there? She stored those questions in her mind for later, saying simply, “I’m sorry, Garg.”
“Thank you.” Garg bent over her back and began to pick bits of dirt and rock out with his tweezers. “Bathe her wounds a little, boy, if you dare to touch a live Dragon.”
“Oh, I dare,” Ardan said, very dryly.
Scratch the kisses, he had definitely just earned a slap.
The old man said, “Tell me, have the Dragons returned to our Island-World? What colour are you?”
“Amethyst,” said Aranya.
“Oh, aye?” said Garg. “Never heard of an Amethyst Dragon. This doesn’t hurt too much, lady?”
Aranya wondered why she trusted him so instinctively. Was she too free with her trust? It was like Nak and Oyda. She had trusted them from the first–not that she had much choice in the matter after crash-landing on their doorstep.
“Aye, she’s a rare one,” said Ardan.
Aranya bit her lip. One word from him and a storm roiled in her belly. She had to smother her responses. But her heart was deaf, and bent on another path–well, an entirely different Island. No! Swallow, deny, crush those feelings. Make a promise, keep it. Beran’s watchword was ‘integrity’, and his voice in her head spoke it now.
Despite her healing efforts, her burns still stung as though the acid had been freshly applied. She felt someone’s breath on her skin. From the corner of her eye, she caught Garg’s sharp glance at Ardan. Oh, ralti sheep droppings. The old man knew. That glance said everything.
Garg said, “These are serious wounds, Princess.”
“I’ll live.”
The two men bent over her back, picking at and cleaning her back and buttocks. Aranya pillowed her head on her arms. What a Cloudlands storm of a day. What would she tell her father? His girl had become a woman. Would his eyes spark with fury and disappointment? But how could she ever forget Ardan? How could she entrust him to another woman? Wouldn’t her Dragoness just want to bite Kylara in half?
Exhaustion shuttered her gaze as though her eyelids were sacks of sand.
Next she knew, a soft footfall sounded nearby.
Aranya sensed tension in the air. Glancing up quickly, she saw a dark, striking young woman staring at them from several paces away, her face twisted with emotions Aranya could read as easily as a scroll–curiosity and amazement, which flipped immediately into a towering, jealous rage. Kyla
ra. An old Immadian saying sprang into her mind, ‘Better to bait a windroc than scorn a woman’. The woman’s barely-decent body armour and tight leather trousers filled Aranya with disdain. No wonder Ardan liked her. The Warlord wore four daggers at her belt and a massive scimitar slung crosswise behind her shoulders. She was half a head shorter than Aranya, but much more muscular. Human-Aranya felt a pang of panic at the expression twisting her lips. Dragon-Aranya mocked that response.
“So, slave, you dare to show your face again after running away?”
Kylara had a windroc’s voice. Aranya plastered her best diplomatic expression onto her face. She needed to set everything aside and do the job with which her father had entrusted her–or, more accurately, rescue it from the wreck she had just made of it with Ardan.
“Kylara, I have someone I’d like you to meet,” said Ardan, lifting his fingers from the small of her back as though he had touched acid.
“Oh, no, you seem very … preoccupied,” she sneered. “Do carry on.”
Ardan said, “Kylara, Warlord of Yanga Island, may I present Aranya, Princess of Immadia?”
Kylara drew her scimitar and fingered the blade with her thumb, approaching them between the workbenches. Aranya’s gaze took in several other warriors looming behind her. By Ardan’s gasp, she deduced one of them at least must be from the group who had tried to kill him. Aranya smoothed her dress down and swung herself into a sitting position, ignoring the pain as she rubbed her raw flesh on the rough work surface.
“The guards told me you sneaked in about an hour back with a woman who did not walk like a Western Isles woman,” said Kylara. “Where on your travels did you pick up this white slug? You revealed the location of our hideout to her?”
“Rocia tried to kill him,” said Aranya. “I rescued him.”
“Oh, I can see that!” spat Kylara, her voice rising along with her temper. “I’m no idiot! What kind of Princess wears neither shoes nor underwear? And the slave’s wearing foreign-made trousers. What exactly were you doing with my slave while you were ‘rescuing’ him?”
