by Marc Secchia
If she ever found out, she would slay them both.
Aranya, wavering within a hair of transforming, heard the Dragon in her snap, “Wave that blade somewhere else, you fool. You’ve no clue what you’re dealing with.”
Ardan began, “Aranya–”
Kylara said, “I find you in my caves with your dress tucked beneath your armpits, and you expect me to believe a word you say?”
Aranya shook off Garg’s restraining hand. Leaping down from the table, she advanced on the Warlord, clenched of fist and acutely aware of fires springing to life around the cavern. “I am a Dragon. And you are buzzing like an irritating insect I will squash with my paw.”
“Kylara, please–”
The scimitar flashed in Ardan’s direction. “Shut up, slave. I’ll deal with you once I’ve rid the Island-World of this whoring Northerner.”
“Kill her, Kylara,” said one of the women behind the Warlord.
“Shut your face, Rocia,” snarled Ardan.
Aranya’s laughter was rich with scorn, directed into the Warlord’s snarling face. “Just you try.”
Kylara lashed out with her blade.
Chapter 12: Old Fledglings
Workbenches splintered as Aranya’s transformation blasted them out of the way. The scimitar skittered off her scales. She rounded upon Kylara, roaring–but in her rage a touch of storm power slipped free, discharging a thunderclap within the cavern’s confines. Everyone froze. As the echoes faded, the Warlord scrambled backward with a yelp. She slipped and fell.
Rocia stalked up behind Kylara, dagger in hand, murder in her eyes.
“Kylara! Watch out!” Ardan flung himself toward the Warlord.
Dragon scales smashed Aranya in the face as Ardan transformed, too. The two Dragons snapped instinctively at each other, while the Humans around them panicked and fled. Ardan was so huge, he filled more than half of the cavern. He tangled himself up in the chains dangling from the ceiling and a clutch of workbenches as he lunged at Rocia.
Aranya could not pass the roaring, thrashing Dragon, so she sprang instead for the cavern’s ceiling, ran lightly along it with the help of her wings and claws, before slithering sinuously down the wall to the door, blocking the exit as Rocia came to a skidding halt between them. The woman whirled, only to face Ardan’s fangs. Now, there were four or five female warriors trapped between two Dragons. Ardan sucked in a massive breath.
“Ardan! No!” Aranya sidestepped the knot of warriors and flung her body between them and the huge Black Dragon. Dragon fire exploded over her back, narrowly missing her furled wings.
Let me at them! Ardan raged. I’ll kill them all!
No. You’ll hurt someone you love.
Now she was rescuing Kylara from Ardan, so that they could be together? Blind fool. She had not expected to find this response in herself, she realised with despair. Should she not be fighting for Ardan’s love, if love it was?
His restive thrashing ceased. Aranya held his gaze unflinchingly until the fire in his eyes simmered down. His muzzle lowered. Thank you, Aranya. I’ll–shall I transform back? I think I can.
He was not a Black Dragon, Aranya realised. Fra’anior was black. Ardan was something different, somehow less substantial-appearing, as though a shadow had begun to solidify, to grow feet and teeth and wings, but had not quite succeeded. Ri’arion might know what type of Dragon he was. Powers to stop blades, even in his Human form? Nothing in the scrolls she had read, or in her discussions with the monk, had hinted at such an ability.
Mysterious are the ways of Dragons and their magic, Nak would have said.
Aranya said, You should transform.
And you?
I’ve some unfinished business with your friendly little Warlord. Pretend to intervene.
But when Aranya unfurled her wings, she had a further shock. Rocia lay deathly still, one hand clutched to her chest. Heart attack? She sensed Ardan’s transformation. Aranya sucked in a breath. Kylara. She reached out with her paw. The Warlord thrust with her scimitar, piercing the webbing between her claws.
Shocked by the pain, Aranya bellowed, “That does it!”
In a trice, Kylara found herself captive of a highly peeved Dragoness. She struggled, but no amount of kicking or wriggling was about to loosen a Dragon’s grip–the three ‘fingers’ and two opposable ‘thumbs’ locked around her torso.
Lifting Kylara six feet off the ground in her left forepaw, Aranya raised her right paw and deliberately extended a single talon. Ten inches long, sharp as a dagger, the tool seemed fit for the job–if only she could control her seething anger. “You’ve a beastly temper, girl,” Aranya snarled, smoking at the nostrils. “Learn to control it, or I swear, I’ll reach down your throat with this and see if I can’t carve it out of you, piece by piece. Do we understand each other?”
Grey-faced, Kylara bobbed her head.
“And if you dare to hurt one of my friends …” She blew fire past Kylara’s head, so close that the sickly smell of burning hair came to her nostrils.
“Aranya, please.” Ardan tugged at her paw. “Islands’ sakes, be reasonable.”
He sounded very convincing, she thought, pleased. Aranya elbowed him away. “She tried to kill me.”
“I’m sorry!” Kylara shouted. “I’m sorry, so sorry for calling you a slug and–”
“She looks a succulent morsel. Plenty of meat.” A Dragon’s openly cannibalistic laughter echoed around the cavern, shocking Aranya into gulping it away. The silence hurt her ears.
“Don’t eat her!” Ardan grabbed her paw again.
“Go jump off the Island. Can’t you see I’m talking to my supper?”
“Princess, please. You’re supposed to negotiate with her, not eat her. Your father King Beran, said–”
“Let me show you how Dragons negotiate.” She put the edge of her claw to the soft underside of Kylara’s throat. “You’ll do exactly as I say, Warlord, or I will use my bluntest claw to saw your head off–slowly. Those are my terms.”
“Anything you want, anything,” whispered Kylara.
She was telling the truth. The dilation of her pupils, the smell of her sweat and the timbre of her voice, all confirmed it. Aranya hesitated. Suddenly, she felt sickened by her game. How could she best end this? For end it she must, before she did something she truly regretted.
Ardan said, gruffly, “Aranya, that’s enough. Let her go.”
“And I was enjoying the grovelling.” But she set Kylara down on her feet. She almost released her, but muttered, “Ha. You’re an idiot, pleading for her life.” Her claws tightened once more. “Kylara, you owe this man a heartfelt apology. If I detect insincerity, even the slightest hint of it …”
The young Warlord took a deep breath, clearly grateful to be alive. With a fearful glance up at Aranya, she said, “Ardan, I thought of you as nothing more than a slave. I was afraid of you and I let the fear speak through my scimitar. That’s why I left a scar on your head. But I was even more afraid of my feelings for you.”
Aranya’s Dragon hearts sighed within her. She should have known when Ardan hurled himself at the Warlord earlier, to protect her from Rocia’s sneak attack. She had allowed this; now she had to swallow it all. Bitterness stuck like a splintered bone in her craw.
“When I was a child, my mother told me over and over how much she cared for my father,” Kylara said. “And then she killed him in front of my eyes, before she killed herself, too.” The cave was silent, utterly still. “All that I have become since … I’m my mother’s daughter, see? The uncontrollable anger. It horrifies me.” Kylara waved her hands at Aranya, tears streaming down her cheeks. “And now the Dragon wants sincerity? Fine, beast. I love that man. You hear me? I defy fate! I will not be my mother. I love you, Ardan …”
* * * *
Dragon-Ardan squared up his shoulders, which was rather like an Island squaring up its foundations, Aranya thought. He muttered, “Right, breathing fire. I’ve done it before.”
For safety’s sake, Aranya had requested that Kylara clear the entire ledge outside her hideout. But many eyes watched from just within the cave mouths, including Kylara herself. How could she not feel bitter toward the Warlord? But last night’s Rider-less flight to brief Beran’s troops about the success of her mission had given her the space she needed to clear her head–somewhat. Now the ache was only as if her heart had been quarried out by those flesh-eating slugs which had scourged Ardan.
Every time her eyes touched him, they leaped away again. Echoes of ardour! Yet, self-loathing and despair weighed heavily upon her spirit.
She expected the Dragonships to arrive any moment, now that the suns’ light touched the Cloudlands all the way to the horizon, and the Island’s long shadow had begun its retreat toward noon. Kylara’s people were supposed to be readying one hundred and forty warriors to depart the hideout and join King Beran’s forces. Instead, everyone watched the Dragon.
He was beyond awesome. Aranya freely admitted it.
He was also utterly fascinating. Ridiculous! She had no control whatsoever of her feelings any more. She, in her Human form, was ogling–unashamedly ogling–a Dragon’s musculature. The breadth of his chest, the tree-trunk legs, the gleam of his flanks, it all made her feel as giddy as a girl enjoying her first glass of berry wine.
The only saving grace was that most likely, no-one else watching thought the same. They probably also thought a Princess should set the moral standard and not toss her beliefs gaily into the Cloudlands with the first Dragon who–oh, great Islands, what now?
His throat worked. Ardan coughed. A ground-shaking rumble emanated from his stomach, followed by an ominous silence. The mouth clamped shut. Panic clouded his eyes. Her monstrous Dragon friend hiccoughed and belched so hard that he flew backward twenty feet. A bonfire of his own making enveloped his head. Suddenly, the Dragon was on his hind legs bolting for cover–the Human brain having taken over. But he had a long, thick neck and a tail to take care of, now, besides that he stood over sixty feet tall on his hind legs. Ardan smashed his skull on the overhang and flipped onto his back with a thud that shook boulders loose from the mountainside.
Aranya fell over, too, laughing so hard it hurt her stomach.
Ardan squirmed onto his feet with a bellow of rage. Aiming his muzzle at the laughter, he let rip with a fireball wider than a man’s outstretched arms.
When the smoke and flames cleared, an Amethyst Dragon fixed him with a fiercely rolling eye. “Alright, you great big ralti sheep. Do that to the enemy and you’ll be fine. I am not the enemy.”
“Hurt my throat,” said Ardan, managing to look contrite despite his epically massive stance. “Islands’ sakes, Aranya, how do you control yourself as a Dragon?”
Not easily when you’re crouching opposite such a toothsome beast … oh. Aranya inserted her tongue between her fangs and bit it. Of course Ardan, being a Dragon, could understand her telepathic Dragon-speech. His eyes narrowed, unimpressed rather than amused.
“You learn,” she gritted out. “Focus the fire, Ardan.”
“And think with my Dragon brain. Aye. You said. Perhaps I’d look less foolish, then.”
Aranya nodded. “I had a great teacher, Ardan. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” She turned to crook a claw at Kylara. “Warlord, come here. Ardan–keep working at it.”
Kylara approached warily. “I’ll need another dress,” Aranya said. “Could you send someone?” Once this small task was put in process, she added, “Kylara, if you’re going to ride Ardan, you’ll need to–what?”
“Ride him? Like a pony?”
“Ride on his back. Be his Dragon Rider, I mean,” said Aranya. Right. Time to focus on practical matters. “I need to teach you about Dragons. Garg is already working with your leather-workers to make a saddle for him, based on the one I have. But there’s a great deal for the Dragon Rider to know. Most importantly, especially for your Dragon–for Ardan–you need to know that he can go mad or feral in battle, or if he’s simply angered enough.”
“As you just demonstrated.”
“Ably and foolishly,” agreed Aranya. “Have you asked him?”
“I–no.”
“It’s a little beyond your experience as a Warlord?”
Kylara shuffled her feet. “I treated him like an animal, Aranya. Now I find he’s a Dragon. Is a Warlord allowed to admit fear?”
“A wise man called Nak once taught me that only a fool feels no fear.”
“Here comes something for you.”
Once she had transformed and tugged the simple dress over her head, Aranya grasped Kylara by the hand and pulled her impetuously around to Ardan’s towering flank. He had to be eighteen feet tall at the shoulder, she estimated. He was beast, Human, Shapeshifter Dragon–and the mere glint of his scales … stop! She loved Yolathion. Loved? Did she truly mean ‘loved’?
“Aye?” rumbled Ardan. Unlike her, he had mastered Human speech at once.
Aranya shivered. She noticed that Kylara did, too, showing the Dragon-fear the scrolls spoke of. Even Human-Aranya felt it in her gut.
“Go on.” Aranya pressed the shorter girl forward.
Kylara said, “Dragon–er, Ardan, I’d consider it a great honour if you’d have me as your Dragon Rider.”
His lips curved into an intimidating Dragon-smile. “Aranya wants you to fight with me?”
“Aye, pick Sylakian bones from between your fangs, wipe the tears from your eyes, cosset you to sleep,” Kylara retorted.
Aranya chuckled. Despite her raging case of Dragon-jealousy, she was starting to quite like the fiery Warlord. Then she yelled, “Duck!” as Ardan’s shout of laughter came accompanied by a twenty-foot plume of fire.
“Sorry,” said the Dragon, trying a sketchy bow.
He thumped down on his nose.
Aranya remembered that feeling all too well. That great lump of Dragon-flesh had a few things to learn–and here came three Dragonships, flying the purple of Immadia. She remembered that one had already departed the previous evening to convey the news to her father.
Kylara marched over to the Dragon’s muzzle and put her boot on the edge of his lip, which was a fair stretch upward for her. “I have conquered a Dragon!” she yelled, punching the sky. Aranya’s jaw dropped open.
Then Kylara had to leap to save her skin one more time.
* * * *
The following morning, with Yolathion recovered enough to travel and all preparations completed, the Immadian Dragonships negotiated the amazing sinkhole and rose above Ur-Yagga. Most of Kylara’s women had never travelled by Dragonship. They lined the external gantries to watch as their home receded.
Ardan wondered if they realised what King Beran wanted to gift them–freedom from tyranny. Freedom from the empire which had razed his homeland.
They would fly over Naphtha Cluster on their route back east. His heart wept already.
There was Aranya, taking to the forward gantry, wearing just a cloak, her unbound hair swirling in the wind to wreathe her tall, slender figure in kaleidoscopic colours. Ardan chewed his lip as his eyes followed her involuntarily to the corner. She slipped out of sight. She said she was alright. But that perfect-Princess exterior could not disguise the fiery inner turmoil that his developing Dragon senses had picked up. He should know. It matched his feelings in every detail.
He jumped as a pair of arms encircled his waist. “Pretty, isn’t she?”
“Not like this ugly beast, you mean?”
“You … like her?”
“She says I’m an old fledgling. I was just wishing I could jump off a gantry so easily. But my Human brain is having none of it.”
Kylara rested her head against his shoulder. “You heard her story, Ardan. You know the intelligence we received. She and a Remoyan Princess smashed an entire Sylakian Dragonship command. Do you think she just woke up one morning and said, ‘Today I’m going to change the Island-World’?”
“Aye, I like her,” said Ardan, drawing Kylara int
o his embrace. “She’s brave, loyal and attractive–as far as a white slug goes. But I love a Western Isles warrior.”
Who had not breathed fire with him, nor exchanged words he recognised as vows. Thou, my soul’s eternal fire. Did his choice to pursue Kylara make him an oath-breaker? Or merely the Island-World’s greatest fool? Who was Ardan, Island-less warrior, Shapeshifter Dragon, and a man who dallied with innocent Princesses, if not a fool?
Perhaps a Dragon who had destroyed the Northern Dragonship fleet and killed Garthion was less innocent than he supposed. One thing was for certain, he liked the man he seemed to be around Aranya. Her fire filled his dreams.
“Mine were idiotic, jealous words,” said Kylara. Her eyes followed Aranya’s flight as she powered skyward ahead of the Dragonships, scouting. “I wish I were a Dragon. She’s … magnificent.”
“Would you settle for kissing a Dragon?”
“Sounds like a dangerous job for a Warlord.” After a short interlude, Kylara put her hands on his chest to press them apart. “Ardan, do you truly forgive me for how I mistreated you?”
“I could be persuaded.”
But even as he spoke, from above, Aranya’s Dragon-voice floated down to his awareness. I see Naphtha Cluster. I grieve with you, Ardan.
The playfulness in his spirit evaporated.
* * * *
A one-moon darkness mercifully shrouded Naphtha Cluster as the three Dragonships hurried to catch up with King Beran’s forces, who by agreement, were already taking up position to make the long crossing to Mejia Island, south of Jeradia. Many years before, Mejia had been an ally of Immadia. Beran expected a fond reunion there.
Unable to sleep because of nightmares about the Black Dragon, Aranya padded up to the forward navigation cabin in the early hours. She untied her headscarf and shook out her braids. Dragon-Aranya hated to feel restricted in any way, but Yolathion’s eyebrows crawled toward his hairline every time he saw her ‘naked’–by which he meant wearing her hair unbound. Fussy, toothless old rajal, Aranya thought uncharitably. He acted so morose and jealous over the time she spent training and briefing Ardan. She wished she had the courage discuss these things with him, rather than acting like the sharp end of a crossbow bolt without rhyme or reason.
