by Marc Secchia
“We can hope,” said Aranya.
“War is no place for useless old men,” said Nak.
“You’re not useless!” Her fires surged up. Aranya hastily damped her response before the cloaks of the Immadian soldiers guarding her caught fire.
“Can you feel your Dragoness yet, petal?” asked Oyda.
“No. Nothing.”
Nak said, “Don’t you worry. The disguise I have planned for you will work, and I’ll bet three Islands to a rajal’s dinner that your Dragon will not stand idle at the first clash of battle.”
Aranya wished she had his confidence.
Her father painted visions of a peaceful future. Her visions included Ancient Dragons … Fra’anior, are you there?
From impenetrable darkness, he spoke. You have chosen your own path, little one. Now you must walk it to its end.
She bowed her head in shame.
No. If she had a choice, then she would choose to be unashamed of her failures. Besides, the guilt and loss would only act like an anchor thrown from a Dragonship. Thoralian would find a way to turn her unshed burdens against her.
All she needed to do was learn to fly through life unencumbered. Simple.
Unbidden, her thoughts returned to the Shadow Dragon. Thou, my soul’s desire … Aranya bit her lip as his muzzle turned, singling her out amongst that great throng. Oh, great Islands, how had Ardan heard her murmur, inaudible as it was? She had spent weeks in that dungeon, trying to forget him. Now the awareness of his dark, ardent regard made her tingle inside, as though that deep fire breathed within her, gently radiant. Aranya could see only the shape of his muzzle, not his eyes, but the sense of connection between them caused heat to race from her belly, up her spine and explode into her face. Her scalp prickled. Her hair stirred, straining against its confining braids.
Thou, he whispered to her soul.
N-Noooo … she fled the fire in her mind, but the shadow was faster, trapping her just as he had ambushed her in the cave.
She did not want to escape. Aranya bowed her head, shaking as that memory of the Shadow Dragon thundered through her mind. Broken promises; renewed vows. How could she find a way to be true to both?
Later on, the evening was full of chatter, ideas and strategizing, argument and counter-argument, and all around, the sounds of troops singing, bantering and sharpening weapons. Ignathion, Beran, Ri’arion and Nak tossed viewpoints about as enthusiastically and warmly as the sparks flitting from their fire, while Aranya tried not to brood, nor to think too hard about Ardan and Kylara, who had departed with a cargo of six message hawks to fly ahead to Yorbik Island. Zuziana kept watch somewhere in the star-drenched skies above.
Idly, Aranya scratched the base of Sapphire’s skull where the dragonet liked it best.
Are you hungry, Sapphire?
The dragonet did not open her blissfully shut eyes. Ari sad?
I’m missing my Dragon–my Amethyst Dragon form.
Dragon sleeping. Ari wake up?
Aranya bit her lip. Mercy! I wish I knew how, Sapphire.
Oyda, mending someone’s leather greaves, looked up. “Where’s your cousin, Aranya?”
“Shaking those bushes over there with her husband,” said Nak, pointing with his cane.
An activity she would never enjoy again. Aranya sighed. Perhaps she should become a monk. They were supposed to be masters of their mortal flesh. Since Beran had ordered the young couple not to stray too far, Nak’s prurient interest had an obvious target.
“Your fires, Aranya,” Oyda warned, as the fire roared upward unexpectedly.
“Not mine,” she replied. “Oh dear–”
With a roar, the bushes exploded. Aranya was on her feet, running, when she cannoned off Prince Ta’armion. He came pelting out of the little thicket, trouser-less and dishevelled, shrieking, “Who hid a Dragon in my pillow-roll? Who?”
“GRAAAGH!” snarled the Dragon in the bushes, rolling over and standing up.
Aranya was about to hurdle a low boulder when she tripped over a large paw and landed nose-first in a patch of soft, damp soil. The Dragon stepped on her legs. What have you done with my mate?
Lyriela, please. Calm down. You know me. The pressure eased, to her relief. You’ve transformed into a Dragon. We knew this would happen, dear cousin. We spoke about this.
A Dragon? Help me!
Shh, easy on the hackles there, girl. Aranya leaped to her feet, reaching up to pat Lyriela’s neck. By the mountains of Immadia, she was huge! Let’s take a look at you. She swallowed her fear. Oh, you are a beautiful beast. What lovely scales you have, Lyriela. Such pretty colours. Aye, four paws, perfect Dragon wings and a slender tail, and the most gorgeously magical pair of violet eyes I’ve ever seen.
Lyriela subsided, almost purring at the compliments. Aranya stifled a giggle with a stern inner admonition. Warming up the new Dragoness’ fires now would help no-one.
“Aye, by the mountains of Immadia, as some people might say,” said Nak, leaping to his feet to describe a bow that threatened to pitch him into the fire, “thy draconic finery doth outshine the very brilliance of the dawn. What awe and delight is mine!”
Prince Ta’armion stuttered, “W-W-What? Have you all g-gone stark, raving mad?”
“Petal, go fetch the poor man his trousers.”
“Yes, Oyda.”
When she returned, seconds later, the Prince was scanning the campsite, in a frantic state, exclaiming, “Where’s Lyriela? Who stole my darling wife? We were just in the middle of–” Oyda stepped on Nak’s foot to stop his snigger in its tracks “–well, we were just over there, when that creature–Aranya! Where’s that wretched girl? You played this trick on me once before. Twice is too much, I own!”
“Here, o Prince,” said Aranya, holding out his trousers.
“Thanks. What? That’s not you? Who is … oooooh, I don’t feel good. This was a nasty joke to play on a man of my delicate sensibilities.”
Nak said, “Bah. You’ll be fine. Pass the wine, someone.”
It was King Beran, of all people, who began to laugh–and once he started, the hilarity rippled around the circle. Aranya moved over to stand with her cousin, her fifty-foot, oh-so-Dragonish cousin, who seemed quite taken aback by the spectacle of all the Humans around the fire crying with laughter. Her scales were violet, a much lighter shade than Aranya’s rich amethyst, fading to a delicate white-purple on her belly and beneath her neck, and her form had a muscular sinuosity about it that made her movements decidedly hypnotic. Would that be Lyriela’s power, Aranya wondered? What powers would have transferred through their family’s lineage to her?
Ignathion raised his water flask in salute. “Come and sit with us, Lyriela.”
But I’m not wearing anything.
You’re wearing your Dragon hide, said Aranya. Easy does it on the first step. You don’t want to squash any of us little people.
“Oh, by the Great Dragon’s own fires,” groaned Prince Ta’armion, finally doing his sums and arriving at the right answer. “Aranya, I swear … you put your cousin up to this, didn’t you?”
“No, Prince Ta’armion. You married into a family of Shapeshifters. What did you expect? Songbirds?”
Last time he had been shocked by a Dragon’s transformation, in hardly less comical circumstances, the Prince had collapsed insensate. Now, he clutched at the shreds of his courage.
“I do declare, upon my honour as a Prince of Fra’anior, she is a most resplendent beast,” he said, looking the Dragoness up and down. “Quite magnificent. I think this cheeky rebellion can be forgiven. First the scandalous trousers, now a Dragoness–you’ve had quite the day, Lyriela. Give your husband a kiss, my petal.”
Lyriela stumbled forward and butted him so hard the Prince sat down abruptly. “Oof!”
Sorry. A sweet smile curved her lips as Lyriela scooped up her husband in her forepaw. How about a cuddle, dear husband?
“Save me!” wailed the Prince.
Chapter 28: The Tea
rs of War
KylARA BIT HER quill pen in concentration. “I’ll have you know, writing isn’t my strength.”
“No, but writing on peoples’ heads with your scimitar is.”
“Your Dragon hide conceals the scar.”
“Aren’t you lucky I’m still so pretty?” the Shadow Dragon chortled horribly, pressing his muzzle closer to Kylara. “Can I help?”
“Stop breathing, you monstrous lump,” grunted the Warlord. “You’re scaring the birds and blowing my scrolleaf away.”
“All the quicker to swoosh the birds over to Beran,” growled Ardan. “I’m sick of waiting.”
“Fine. Tell me why you still make moon-eyes at Aranya.”
“It’s called sympathy, Kylara. Pity, more like.”
The Warlord slipped the rolled-up scrap of scrolleaf into the message pouch on the hawk’s left ankle. She made the signs for her instructions, holding an image of Beran’s Dragonship steadily in her mind. The bird cocked its head sideways, accepting the directions with a firm squawk.
Kylara launched the hawk with a smooth sweep of her arm. “Fly true, my beauty.”
The message would summon the fleet to Yorbik, the first stage in Beran’s plan. It appeared that Thoralian had concentrated his forces at the shipyards–as best they could tell, skulking through the night and flying a league and a half high by day. Thoralian intended to confront them at his stronghold, and did not care if Beran and Ignathion wasted time invading the rest of the enormous Island, thirty-one leagues tall by one hundred and nine wide. Seventy percent of the world’s known meriatite deposits were located at Yorbik, making it the most important Island north of the rift, bar Sylakia itself.
Ardan wondered if Kylara had cooled toward him, and he toward her. Was she hinting that he should pursue the Immadian Princess? He could not, for he suspected that Aranya’s physical condition would become a source of bitterness and misery for her. No mind that she was the only one he desired–that did not figure in her noble self-sacrifice. His paws clenched painfully. Worst of all, he understood. He saw the hollowness in her eyes.
This could not go on. How could he bring Aranya out of the place she had hidden herself?
“Ready, Dragon,” said Kylara.
“Let’s burn the heavens!” Coiling, the Dragon flung himself skyward like a dark thunderbolt, choked up with fury at Aranya’s helpless situation. Thoralian would answer for this.
They spent the late afternoon and evening flying eastward around the top of Yorbik Island, bound for the fingers of Ferial. Ardan pushed hard, making over twenty leagues per hour as his restless energy and a truculent breeze combined to generate impressive speed and stamina. Far below, the tremendous olive-green hardwood forests of north-western Yorbik rolled by, and then a glimmer of reflected suns-shine announced the largest terrace lakes in the world, up to ten miles wide in places.
As for the shipyards? All was still. Thoralian conducted his preparations under a shroud of secrecy–or, as Ri’arion had suggested, a magical shield. Ardan did not have the skills to penetrate it, nor did he want to alert Thoralian by making the attempt.
Ardan, squinting ahead to Ferial, suddenly cried, “I see a battle!”
“Drat,” said Kylara. “I was so enjoying the hours of uninterrupted flying.” Packing away the flags with which she had planned to signal Commander Darron, the Warlord pulled out her Fra’aniorian warrior bow instead. “Roaring rajals, I do love a good weapon!” she enthused, testing the draw. “How many Dragons, Ardan?”
“At least two Reds, and a fleet of ten Dragonships flying the Sylakian windroc.”
“Huh. A dinnertime snack for you, isn’t it?”
The Shadow Dragon surged through the air. “We’ve a ways to go yet. Let’s ambush them.”
“Ooh, are you planning to imitate a nice fluffy cloud? I’ve always imagined you like that, Ardan.”
Ardan wished she would save the insults for when they were closer to the enemy, when he could release the fire boiling inside him. Kylara was right. A cloud would be perfect. Honing his Shadow power, Ardan began to build his illusion, an idea which the Fra’aniorian monk had floated by him, briefly, before they left the fleet.
“Let me light the fire-pot before you make your attack, alright?” said Kylara, checking her armour. She clipped two braces of arrows in place. The monks had come up with the innovation of arrow-clips, ensuring that no arrows would be lost during flying upside-down or other Dragonish hijinks.
“Aye.”
Two slow, fat Reds, supported by two of the new-technology Dragonships Zuziana had described, were giving Darron’s forces a pounding. Slow and fat hardly counted when those Reds were armoured with Dragon scales and possessed fire attacks that rivalled his own fireballs. Ardan described the dangerous dirigibles to Kylara, meantime, flexing and retracting his talons. Remember Aranya. Remember her face. He would have no trouble burning the heavens today, for the Dragonsong of retribution wailed within him, producing its own peculiar form of madness.
The Shadow Dragon revelled in the power of muscles fed by a triple-heart cardiovascular system, taking great gulps of air to supply the needed oxygen and angling his wings to maximise the forward thrust as he aimed for a position high above the clash.
If the Sylakian or Immadian forces saw a cloud diving vertically from the face of the Jade moon at over forty leagues per hour, they did not respond in time. Ardan aimed at one of the Red Dragons. The luckless Red had begun to turn, sensing danger, when Ardan crashed into his neck with an accompanying thrust of his hind feet, taking the full impact through his heels. Even a fully-grown Dragon’s neck could not survive that impact. Crack! The vertebrae splintered, killing the Red instantly.
“I AM ARDAN!” bellowed the Shadow Dragon.
He hurled himself at the Dragonships.
“Fireball left,” rapped Kylara. Ardan barrel-rolled instantly, letting the fire pass between his outstretched wings. Then he passed out of the other Red’s range, closing in on the Sylakian Dragonships before the catapult engineers could do more than catch their breath in horror.
“Taking the port shot,” said the Warlord.
The bowstring twanged sharply; such an innocuous, musical sound presaging what came next. KAARRAABLAM! Bits of Dragonship rained out of the sky.
No need for flags, Ardan thought, banking away from the resulting fireball. The Immadians could harbour no doubt as to whose side he was on. As if responding to his thoughts, signals flashed and bells clanged urgently on the Immadian Dragonships, signalling the attack.
“Nice,” he grinned. “I’m going to like that Commander.”
“Shut the trap and worry about that other Dragon.”
“Coming around, Rider.” Ardan swore as four crossbow quarrels stitched holes in his left hindquarters. “Flying monkey droppings, they’re fast.”
“Stop bleating! Your fireballs aren’t for toasting bread.”
That had the needed effect. Ardan’s roar stupefied the Sylakians. He followed up with a raging fireball that expanded to well over thirty feet wide. With such power, he had no need of good aim. His roiling fireball skimmed the nose of the new-technology Dragonship, setting it afire, and splashed liberally against the Sylakian vessel directly beyond it.
Ardan saluted the blasts with a withering round of laughter. Then he was menacing the Dragonships and the remaining Red, hounding them as if he were a huge black rajal scattering a herd of slow-moving ralti sheep, sweeping through the field of fire as the battle closed in, vessels from both sides grappling and pounding each other with catapult-shot and six-foot quarrels, until Kylara suddenly thumped him on the shoulder, crying that the green flag had been run aloft.
The Shadow Dragon alighted on the platform of Commander Darron’s flagship, making the dirigible groan and sink. “I’ll transform.”
“You’ll do nothing so stupid!” rapped his Rider.
“Aye, the crossbow bolts.” She had saved him again.
Kylara slapped his shoulder app
reciatively. “Four feet of metal stuck in my Dragon’s rear end isn’t an issue, but as a man, that might be awkward.”
Then she slid down his flank, braking with her boots, before taking the leap onto his knee and from there, another hop to the ground. Ardan glanced over at the welcoming committee climbing aloft to meet them. The first man had to be Commander Darron, from Zip’s description.
“Ardan, listen,” said Kylara. “When I give the command, use your Shadow power. I’ll pull those quarrels out–that’ll save you the cutting.”
“Aye, but not the bleeding,” said the grizzled Immadian. “I’m Commander Darron. We’re grateful for the help.”
“Kylara, Warlord of Yanga Island,” said the Dragon Rider, making to clasp forearms in the Isles way, only to have her palm kissed and fingers blown upon. Ardan was surprised to see her blush. “Er … well, we shake like this, Commander. The Shadow Dragon is Ardan, also a Western Isles warrior.”
“I see they grow puny Dragons in the Isles,” said Darron. “Are you double Aranya’s size, Ardan?”
He rumbled, “More than that.”
“We had intelligence. Aranya and Yolathion were captured–”
“It’s a long tale, Commander,” said Kylara. “Thoralian had them both tortured. Aranya is alive but can’t summon her Dragon, and Yolathion is dying.”
“Sorry to hear that. Come down, we’ll speak,” said Darron. “When will King Beran move against Thoralian?”
“Yesterday,” said Kylara and Ardan, together.
A Dragonish smile curved the Commander’s lips. Ardan could almost imagine the fangs as he snarled, “And not a day too soon. I’ve a hankering to beard that so-called Emperor in his den.” To the man who had climbed up behind him, he barked, “Sub-Commander Urgon–round up those Sylakian Dragonships, would you, and drop our captives off at Ferial Island.”
“Aye, Commander!”
The Shadow Dragon growled appreciatively, “Aye indeed. We’ll brief you, Commander, and then we need to sneak off to Yorbik. Thoralian’s about to discover he’s built his throne on top of a live volcano.”
Darron looked to the southern horizon as though he could see all the way into Thoralian’s lair, deep beneath the shipyards of Yorbik. “At last, the endgame has begun. Tremble, Thoralian. Your doom is upon you.”
