by Marc Secchia
“And through it, and keep right on going.”
With a throaty chuckle, she said, “Ri’arion, you said something about monks shielding themselves. Do you mean to imply they’re able to deflect crossbow bolts and Dragon fire?”
“Aye, possibly. Shields are a complex topic.”
“As a Blue colour, that might be a power I could learn. Do you think you could teach me? Or,” she grimaced, “I can’t believe I’m going to say this. Would you be willing to open your mind to me again so that I can experience it for myself?”
The man on her back gulped. He was silent for such a long time, the Azure Dragon began to wonder if her Rider had fallen unconscious–hopefully not–but she could not bring herself to meet his gaze. She had wounded him, last time, and had no desire to repeat the experience.
“Well, I asked you to trust me, before,” he said.
“I broke your trust.”
Ri’arion laughed hollowly. “And here I feared the Nameless Man taking over a Dragon’s powers, not the reverse. Nevertheless, you are forgiven, dear one.”
“I’m sorry, Ri’arion. If we mind-meld again, is there a way I can transfer some of my strength to you? Because, to be perfectly honest, you’re not allowed to die before I’ve had the chance to have my way with you for a hundred years, minimum.”
His tan Fra’aniorian complexion suddenly assumed a ruddier, more volcanic hue. “It’s like that, is it? I wouldn’t know how, Dragon-love, but I’ll think about it. First, let’s talk shields.”
* * * *
Three mornings after she had last seen Doctor Chikkan, a squad of four Sylakian Hammers appeared unannounced at Aranya’s cell door. They dragged her out over Jia-Llonya’s protests. One of them smashed the haft of his hammer into the Jeradian girl’s chest. “Shut it, wench.”
Jia-Llonya staggered backward, white-cheeked.
“I’ll be back,” Aranya called as they marched her though the narrow, Dragon-proof tunnels.
Upward they climbed once more. Aranya was stronger. This time, she made it halfway up the long stairwell before collapsing, panting like an asthmatic Dragon. Chikkan had been right. Her lungs had been scarred by the pox. The soldiers dragged her on until they reached the main level of the dungeons, where a chill, dank breeze ruffled her hair and brought a metallic tang to her nostrils. At least she was never cold, Aranya thought. Poor Jia. The stone-chill and damp had been unkind to her. Never cold? She puzzled over this idea. Wasn’t her magic dead? Collared and drugged into oblivion. Could it be less absent than she knew?
As the Hammers bundled her along a corridor lined with barred cells, Aranya suddenly caught sight of the doctor peering out of one. His head jerked back as soon as their eyes met. Aranya kept her gaze fixed ahead. What was Thoralian plotting now? Was he using Chikkan to manipulate her? Had the doctor come under suspicion, too?
Ducking through a short, connecting tunnel she had not noticed before, the Sylakian squad brought her into a new cave, a vast cathedral of hundred-foot stalactites, interspersed with spears and curtains of crystal formations. Moist heat filled her lungs, and a strong whiff of that cinnamon scent she had come to associate with Dragons. The cavern floor was flat and sandy, leading down to what appeared to be a bubbling underground lake of unknowable dimensions, for the far shore was lost in shadows.
A Brown Dragon awaited her there.
Sallow eyes, similar to Thoralian’s, examined her as she approached–or rather, as the soldiers lugged her unresponsive body toward him.
“I am Gurdurion the Brown,” he rumbled, “nephew of Thoralian.”
He stared expectantly at her. Aranya deliberately chose Dragonish for her response. The language was capable of so many more nuances. Aranya of Immadia, Shapeshifter and Amethyst Dragon. I’m … pleased to meet you.
A polite lie, of course.
The sulphurous greetings of the Dragon-kind to you, daughter of Izariela, he said, in neutral tones. “Give her to me.”
Grasping Aranya in his fisted paw, Gurdurion took off at once over the lake. She did not struggle. What would be the point? His forepaw enveloped her body from neck to knee. Had he wished, he could have ended her life with a twitch of his talons. Each was thicker than her torso.
After flying low over the lake for less than a minute, the Brown Dragon swept in to a landing on an islet made that much smaller by virtue of the three Dragons already crowded onto it–two Oranges, from what she could see in the darkness, and a Green. Some shuffling for space ensued, leaving Aranya as the centrepiece of attention between four Dragons’ muzzles. Great. She could be barbecued from every angle simultaneously.
So this was what Thoralian was hiding? said the Green Dragon, thumping Aranya’s arm with a knuckle, talon sheathed, thankfully. A Dragoness, Aranya realised, appreciating that a bruise was far preferable to a Dragon’s claw speared through her limb.
Pay attention, said Gurdurion. This is Aranya, daughter of the Star Dragon Thoralian hates so manifestly. Aranya, these are my grown-up hatchlings–Bexuria the Green, and my twin-yolk sons, Vathior and Yathior.
Aranya inclined her head politely. My most sulphurous greetings to you all.
Suddenly, a talon ripped the skin at the nape of her neck as one of the Oranges snagged the collar, hoisting her off her feet. She speaks despite the Lavanias collar? What power is this?
Gurdurion snarled, Have a care, Vathior. Our Human forms are frail.
Aranya was too busy choking to hear much. The Orange Dragon dropped her again; on hands and knees, she coughed and rasped and eventually spat blood, massaging her bruised throat. The Dragons watched without lifting a digit to help.
This Shifter scum is not freshly woken like us, father, said Bexuria. What an ugly visage she has.
Why does Thoralian wake you now? Aranya asked.
The green paw knocked her over. In a trice, a razor-sharp talon rested against her neck, pinning Aranya to the rocky ground. We’ll ask the questions, ugly one. What does the Dragon killer want with you? Why does he hide you from us?
If she was careful, Aranya sensed, she might make allies of these Dragons. At least, they were not yet enemies. This was clearly a secret meeting, one to which Thoralian was not privy. Gurdurion and his kin wanted something from her. Could she reason with them? Drive a bargain?
Time for a few creative lies, Aranya decided. She said, Thoralian asked for my help in impressing his recruits at Yorbik Island.
She has mind powers, Vathior blurted out, sounding horrified.
But Gurdurion snapped his fangs half a foot from her face. Do not lie to me, little one. I too have powers, and one of those is to smell untruth. Your words reek of lies.
Aranya gulped. I apologise.
If you hoped to make allies of us, you just failed that test, he added. Speak truthfully, and we will consider your words.
So, fractured loyalties within Thoralian’s family? Aranya considered her next words carefully. Mercy–impressing his recruits? With his mind powers? Did that mean Thoralian was forcing Dragons to obey his commands by ‘impressing’ them, as some animals did their young? No wonder these Dragons hated him. Either he ate them, or he controlled them.
Thoralian poisoned my mother, she said. I harbour no love for him. In battle, I killed his son Garthion.
Gurdurion smoked at the nostrils as he thundered, Thoralian ate my mate! His clenched paw splintered the rock right next to her face. I await the truth, little one, and I grow impatient.
He seeks the power of a First Egg.
She might as well have exploded a volcano beneath them. Suddenly, the cave echoed with the thunder of enraged Dragons. She clapped her hands over her ears. Aranya rolled over, seeking a chance to escape, futile as the gesture was–trapped underground by four Dragons on an island in the middle of a boiling lake. She must have ralti wool for brains.
Thoralian would destroy us all! Vathior howled.
Bexuria cried, He chains Dragons to his bidding. By the First Egg–he’d rule unchallenged.
Be still, my kin, Gurdurion snapped. His cunning eyes fixed on Aranya once more. And he believes you have the power to help him, doesn’t he? A Star Dragon power. The brown paw closed about her again, with deliberation designed to intimidate. This changes things indeed.
Does that mean you’ll help me escape Thoralian’s clutches, o mighty Gurdurion?
Human-Aranya would never have asked the question so directly, but speaking in Dragonish had brought out a different side of her personality, she realised.
Gurdurion’s talon stroked her cheek with a pitiless, greedy touch. Perhaps we could come to an agreement, my sweet Dragoness, he said. Aranya shuddered as she grasped his meaning. Yes, little one. You will be a boon to us. However, we need to choose the hour wisely. Thoralian’s dominion grows no weaker. You will not escape–I and my kin can guarantee that. But I will offer you certain knowledge in return. Perhaps it will comfort you in darker times to come.
Aranya gazed hopefully at the Brown Dragon.
Thoralian takes with him a new weapon, some fifty fire-drakes of Herimor, said Gurdurion, his irises filling with fire before Aranya’s startled gaze. But his goal is not Yorbik Island. He flies more … westerly.
She gasped, No …
Ha ha, yes, little one! This day shall be King Beran’s last upon the Island-World. And we Shapeshifters shall rule at last!
Aranya began to back up, but only as far as the Green Dragoness allowed her.
Gurdurion’s gnarled old claw returned to her cheek. A girl as hideous as you should be grateful to be mine.
* * * *
Thoralian’s Red Dragonwing arrowed toward Fra’anior Island, boring steadily into the wind with the primal power of the ultimate predators of the Island-World. Nothing preyed upon Dragons. At least, Ardan had considered himself such a predator, until Nak had described the Shadow Dragon of old–his namesake, the true monster. That was his least favourite recent conversation, second only to Kylara’s sad realisation of his feelings for Aranya.
Ardan flexed his flight muscles anxiously. Those Red Dragons were in no hurry. He checked Zip’s position one more time. The Azure Dragoness shifted in and out of Fra’anior’s vapours, rising from the massively cracked, overheated caldera floor. She disappeared over the far rim wall. Could she not return already? He’d welcome the help.
“Jumpy, Ardan?” asked Kylara.
He eyeballed his Rider, resplendent in her new Dragon Rider armour, which was on loan from Fra’anior’s less official stores–those which had never featured on a Sylakian manifest. Amazing how many hiding places a twenty-seven Island volcanic cone could boast, he chortled privately. King Cha’arlla had fifty blacksmiths working night and day to modify a suit of Dragon armour for him. It would not be ready for this battle. The mass of metal was so bulky, it would probably need a Dragonship all of its own to lug it to Yorbik Island.
Kylara flexed her new bow. “Love this thing,” she smiled. “It’s a beast.”
“Takes a woman like you to draw it,” said Ardan, admiring the flexion of her forearm muscles.
“You love someone else.”
The Warlord had a shadow in her eyes that made him feel a rotten traitor to the one with whom he had shared his soul-fire, who had inhabited his dreams ever since. Would he ever have the chance to right the wrongs he had done to Aranya, he wondered? What would become of Kylara if he admitted her accusation was accurate–but were his feelings for the Princess of Immadia truly love? Or just the magic? He shook his head slowly. How could he ever be certain? All that was clear to him now, was that part of his soul lived hundreds of leagues distant, and that he would stop at nothing to cross those leagues and assault the very heart of Sylakia, just for the chance to hold her again.
He said, “So you’ve decided, lady. Right now, this is pure, Dragonish lust.”
“Save your energy for those Dragons,” said Kylara. “Have you seen the craftsmanship of these arrows? Amazing.”
“Nak said they were designed to penetrate Dragon hide,” he replied.
“Can I test one on you?” She was not entirely joking. “There’s Beran’s signal. Let’s go burn the heavens, Dragon.”
Ardan dropped off the edge of Fra’anior’s league-and-a-half tall cliffs, spreading his wings to catch a thermal. The ground receded rapidly. Beran’s Dragonships rose more sedately, their engines whining with the effort. King Cha’arlla had ordered an evacuation of the outlying villages, but did not want the city to descend into chaos. Ardan hoped the people would be sensible enough to hide in their cellars, usually used to store the Fra’aniorians’ much-loved berry wines. A dozen Dragonships hung back over the city. The rest broke into four groups and trailed behind him as he powered skyward.
His hearts swelled with strength. A Shadow Dragon was made for this.
As they passed over the southerly tip of Fra’anior Island, two of the incoming Dragons swooped low enough to casually drop a fireball each onto the tiny village there. Smoke and flame billowed into the sky. A second pair of Dragons peeled off to the east, making for another village, also close to the cliff-edge.
“They’re dividing our defences,” Kylara said.
Signals rippled across the Dragonship groups as they changed orientation to engage the Dragons.
“Let’s make our presence felt,” Ardan growled, letting the image of Naphtha Cluster’s barren, Dragon-scorched earth fill his mind.
With a terrible roar, the Shadow Dragon swung into the attack. At once, the incoming trio of Red Dragons sounded their own challenges, accelerating as they rushed toward him, tons of fire-filled Dragon flesh bent on mutual obliteration. Fireballs volleyed across the intervening space. Ardan presented his flank, holding his wings well out of harm’s way, while his target Red was forced to duck the Shadow Dragon’s twenty-foot wide fireball. Molten fire engulfed his lower body. Ardan’s magic rippled as he surged onward without pause. He knew the Reds would have learned from the last battle. Sliding beneath the foremost Red Dragon’s slashing claws and rolling simultaneously, Ardan reared his head for a bite, nipping a sizeable chunk out of the Dragon’s tail.
Kylara buried her second arrow up to the feathers in the Dragon’s flank, right in the armpit beneath the primary wing joint. “Strike!” she yelled.
“One out of two,” grunted Ardan, annoyed at having done so little damage. He back-winged abruptly, presenting all four paws to an incoming Red. They grappled, snarling and snapping at each other. Ardan howled as fangs punctured his right hind paw. He kicked a ten-foot, three-toed trench into the Dragon’s underbelly in response.
From his back, Kylara could find no clear shot. Ardan heard an arrow zing off to his right. He swivelled by instinct, tossing his attacker into the path of his fellow-Red. Another arrow dived into a Red’s knee-joint. Ardan began to brake–too late. Two Red Dragons smashed into his chest. Hugging them together with his fullest strength, Ardan hinged open his jaw and savaged one of the Dragons’ muzzles. Kylara shouted as she loosed an arrow. It skittered off the scale-armour covering his flight muscles and deflected, by good fortune, into the second Red’s left nostril. His sneeze of Dragon fire came accompanied by a spurt of golden blood.
That surprised sneeze was his last. Ardan’s foreclaws punched spear-like into his right eyeball and through to the brain.
“One out of seven,” called Kylara.
Dragon-Ardan howled as the other Dragon’s jaws clamped down on his right wing-bone, between the second and third joints of the wing. Fire splashed inadvertently across the sky.
“Use the shadow,” yelled his Rider.
Split-second Dragon reactions took over. Ardan’s wing rippled before the idea registered consciously in his brain, effectively saving him from a crippling bite. He fired a fireball full into the Dragon’s face, following up with series of punches from his forepaws, so fast that they blurred before his eyes, quarrying holes in the other Dragon’s neck.
The third Dragon, who he had savaged first, tore into him from below. Ard
an bellowed in pain, thrashing about to try to throw off his attacker. The Dragon gripped the Shadow Dragon’s right wing with both forepaws, clutching it close to his chest, and hung on with the grim certitude of death.
Deprived of the use of one wing, Ardan discovered that he had all the flying prowess of a very large boulder. He bugled in panic as they plummeted toward the rocky shore of Fra’anior Island.
Stupid flying monkey, you’ll kill us both, he roared, contorting himself into nigh-impossible positions to claw at his attacker, but the best he could do was gash his leg open. That was not about to stop a Dragon who had gone feral. Kylara pelted him with arrows, but without shooting right through Ardan’s wing, could not do enough damage–and most of the Dragon dangled around beneath his flank anyway. She tore at the buckles fastening her legs and waist to the saddle.
“Kylara, what are you doing?”
“Saving your scaly behind,” she retorted.
Ardan knew she had a wire-reinforced safety rope, part of her new equipment, but she had never trained to fight Dragonback as she intended. There had not been enough time. Now, his Rider stood up gingerly on the ridge of his spine-spikes.
“I’ll try to hold steady,” he offered.
“Concentrate on missing the Island,” she said, drawing her scimitar. “He’s mine.”
With a wild yell, the Warlord of Yanga ran down Ardan’s flank and slashed at the other Dragon’s elbow. He would not relent. Kylara fell to hacking at that limb like a demented woodsman, spraying bits of Dragon scales in all directions, putting the full force of her back and shoulders into every blow. The Red Dragon let out a hiss of pain. His muzzle appeared beneath Ardan’s wing.
“Jump, Kylara!”
Fire raced along Ardan’s flank. Kylara leaped outward, over the licking orange flames. Twenty feet on, her rope pulled her up with a sharp jerk. She crashed onto the Dragon’s head. Struggling to her knees, Kylara immediately laid about her with her scimitar, but his tough skull defied her efforts.
Ardan shouted something about the eyes, flapping his free wing, desperately trying to manufacture some margin of safety from the rock and bushes rushing up to meet them. Stowing her blade, Kylara drew an arrow from the quiver strapped to her back, reversed it in her hands, and plunged it as hard as she could into the top of the Dragon’s head. He roared in a mad rage, but she was not finished yet. Kylara smashed her armoured fist down on the arrow, driving it into the Dragon’s skull. She struck again and again with her fullest force, filled with a madness of her own, ignoring or perhaps not even feeling the blood running between her fingers. Ardan could not tear his eyes off the spectacle.
