by Marc Secchia
King Beran had chosen to sit on a large log on the opposite side of the fire, with his long-time friend Commander Darron, to his left. He had a genial smile for Aranya beneath his bristly white beard. The man who had once been Immadia’s arch-enemy, First War-Hammer Ignathion of Jeradia, hulked to Beran’s right; a seven-foot, Dragon-built man who held his honour as sacrosanct. His son Yolathion was still on the loose as a feral Dragon. Beside Ignathion sat another Blue Dragoness Shapeshifter Aranya did not know well, Tuzimi of Erigar, a short but powerful brunette, who spoke in an accent so clipped Aranya imagined her Dragoness’ talons slicing the fat off every word. Her mate Shangur was one of the few Dragons they had discovered who was not a Shapeshifter. His Brown bulk formed a gleaming backdrop to the group on the log, while his blunt muzzle curved around to rest against Tuzimi’s knee.
Aranya, Ardan and Zip–the youngsters–completed the circle, sitting cross-legged on the sand between Shangur and Ri’arion, who stood behind Nak’s left shoulder.
“Father,” Aranya said formally, “I fear I’m holding everyone back here at Yorbik. I propose we decamp to Gi’ishior–”
“We’ve discussed this,” Va’assia interrupted. “Many of the Dragon-Shifters cannot fly as yet.”
The fire flared in concert with the surging of Aranya’s emotions. “Aunt Va’assia, I’ve been working with Leandrial on trying to sense Balance, and I’ve a feeling–”
“A feeling?” snorted Va’assia.
“What kind of feeling?” growled Beran.
“We need to–”
The Red Shapeshifter snapped, “Your elders have settled the matter, Aranya. To question is pointless. The appropriate protocol is–” Thunder cracked across the lake, drowning out her words. Va’assia snapped, “Restrain your powers, child. As I was saying–”
King Beran said flatly, “Kindly allow me to speak to my daughter as I see fit, Va’assia.”
“Her Elders have decided.”
“Her self-appointed Elders? Who are deciding for whom, exactly?” asked the King of Immadia, drawing an inappropriate chuckle from Nak.
“She’s a Shapeshifter Dragoness!” Va’assia insisted. “A little support here, Ja’arrion!”
The Red Shifter leaped into the fray with, “Dragons demand respect, Beran! You may not be used to our ways–”
“She gave the ruddy scales off her back to save your necks and mine!” Beran blazed. “Or have you already forgotten? What is it about you Dragons that you have to be so hidebound? We’ve barely thrown off the Sylakian yoke and you, you …”
Aranya had seldom seen her father so riled. She half-rose, saying, “Father–”
Va’assia shouted, “Be silent, child!”
A curl of her Aunt’s Dragon magic slipped free, staggering Beran with an unseen blow.
She saw crimson. BOOM! The fire exploded in concert with the anger that detonated in her head. Aranya was just beginning to scream a mighty Word, and the persons gathered around the fire to throw up their hands in self-defence, when Shadow whipped between them and dumped the entire conflagration into the lake, thirty feet away.
Ardan’s dark eyes fixed upon her. He and Ri’arion, who surfaced now from the water, must have acted as one–so quickly! Aranya lowered her hands slowly, shivering. If ever she needed proof of the volatility of her powers …
The dark warrior seemed undismayed. He drawled, “Just a suggestion. Why don’t we all listen to the Princess of Immadia?”
Aranya was too shocked to laugh. How did Ardan remain so cool under pressure? She really must snitch a few scrolls from his rack.
“Aye, before she blows us all up,” growled Nak. “Besides, if we are being so strict about protocol, I might just claim right of incipient fossilisation over this entire company.” Aiming his right cane at Leandrial’s eye, he said, “This living mountain claims right of physical power. My Oyda is foremost in wisdom. But I say, Aranya claims right–” the grizzled Dragon Rider paused dramatically “–right of heart.”
Nak. Beautiful Nak. She had no words.
Chapter 2: Farewell to Yorbik
ARANYA’s lilting words flowed over Ardan, but his attention was focussed inward. Fear. Choking fear clung to his heart like the linger-vines of his native Naphtha Cluster. He touched the ur-makka upon his wrist, mumbling the ancient formula of protection from evil spirits, and felt ashamed. He hated superstition. Now, he had transformed into a Shadow Dragon. Creature of night. Powers of Shadow. A Dragon who, in a fog of feral passion, had gaily trampled over every moral precious to him as he overpowered the young woman now addressing a council of her peers. She was not just any Dragon. Aye, he had dared to breathe soul-fires with a Star Dragoness.
His need had raged uncontrollable until exposed to the cold light of day; until riven in the crucible of regret. There had been an instant’s decision. Abdication. And now fate had torn the Princess of Immadia from him, and Ardan of Naphtha knew a new truth. His soul sang her song. His fires burned for one alone. Eternally.
Leandrial claimed the creature of old, the Nurguz which the ballads called the Shadow Dragon, and he, were not one and the same creature. Yet she had not seen the moment Ardan, consumed by the heat of battle and fear for his beloved, tore the living pith out of those Chameleon Shapeshifters. Ardan beseeched the heavens that what he had sensed was not the truth. Should any creature divide body from soul? That creature was he.
He was Shadow. No shadow deserved the love of starlight.
Inasmuch as they were physically dissimilar, his dark Western tones and stocky muscularity contrasting with a pale and slender, yet whipcord-strong Northern Princess; her artistic, passionate nature so unfamiliar to a man of his rough-hewn warrior sensibilities; her refined Immadian ethos at odds with the earthy, uncomplicated ways of the Western Isles; for him, the dichotomy went deeper. All that was dark and light of Dragon powers, applied to them both. Star and Shadow. Could he hope for complementarity of souls in light of this, the starkest of all contrasts?
And he accused her of mysticism? Ironic.
Did anyone suspect how gossamer-thin the margin had been between him containing the fire, and tearing into that vicious aunt of Aranya’s with claws of Shadow?
Quietly, but with conviction that wrapped her listeners in a subtle web of enchantment, Aranya laid out her intuition and the reasons they should proceed to Gi’ishior. She could continue to recuperate there. Ta’armion would secure the alliance of Fra’anior with the restored Dragonkind. Gaining access to Gi’ishior’s incomparable libraries of Dragon lore and history, they would inform and arm themselves regarding the First Egg and Thoralian’s powers, and research the esoteric and powerful branches of anti-toxin, filtering, healing and shielding capabilities they would require to survive the journey beneath the Cloudlands to the Rift, and beyond. She neatly summarised the benefits and historical significance of the Dragonkind resettling the Ancient Halls of the Dragons at Gi’ishior.
Beneath her elegant arguments, Ardan suspected guilt. Aranya believed her incapacity daily abetted Thoralian’s plans.
When Aranya indicated she had finished speaking, he said lightly, “In conclusion, Aranya and I are leaving Yorbik tomorrow at dawn, and if you disagree, you can all go talk–” he supplied a graphic Western Isles gesture “–with a windroc.”
So mild was his delivery, it took a very long breath for everyone to grasp the exact obscenity he had suggested. An act to make the leatheriest Sylakian soldier blush, Ardan congratulated himself.
Beneath her face-veil, Aranya’s jaw clearly dropped. An expression between shock, awe and respect–he hoped–brightened her magical eyes. The other Dragons’ reactions were more predictable. Va’assia acted outraged and Shangur snorted in amusement, while innocent Lyriela apparently mistook his meaning.
Darron laughed gruffly, “Kids, eh?”
“Kids,” echoed King Beran, eyeing Ardan with a flinty gaze that promised trouble.
“Immadian intricacies are enough to make a Land Dragon�
��s head hurt,” Ardan growled. “We Western Isles barbarians value brevity.”
Or, calculated provocation.
Nak said, “Well, that was anatomically infeasible, and as offensive as–”
“Nak!” snapped Oyda.
“–as a very fine allusion with which I shall not trouble young ears,” Nak ad-libbed smoothly, nodding in Zuziana’s direction.
Zip smiled sweetly, “I’ve two words for you, Nak. Polygamous libertarianism.”
Nak’s eyes misted over. “Ah, beauteous Remoy, thou art a tease most beguiling!” Then, he shook himself with the air of a wet, playful hound. “Very good. It’s a splendid idea, if done my way–to wit, I propose that Va’assia, Ri’arion and Prince Ta’armion appoint a mixed delegation to oversee matters at Fra’anior Cluster. Dragons, monks and Humans.”
“Monks are Human, too,” Ri’arion noted.
The old Dragon Rider just folded his arms, snorting, “Hmm.”
The day Nak succeeded in riling the Nameless Man was the day toads turned into princes, as they said–had once said–in Naphtha Cluster. Ardan rubbed his temples furiously. Before the Sylakians had exterminated his people.
Leandrial’s low rumble quaked the ground. “A short run beneath the Cloudlands would constitute an ideal test of the protective constructs we have designed. Pip’s ideas were excellent, but even she did not perfect the environmental factors. I’ve developed a number of theories which will help us to isolate the contamination’s exact nature.”
Theories, aye. Ardan valued Leandrial’s great learning, but her ability to pontificate for hours rubbed his scales the wrong way.
“I wish to bring one more matter before my respected elders,” Aranya said, managing to deliver her statement without resorting to sarcasm. Because only her eyes showed, the emotions, fires and passions that flashed in their extraordinary gemstone depths seemed accordingly magnified. “I don’t say this to build a personal platform. Unlike what you assume, I want you to grasp that I see Ardan and me playing a role in future governance, but not assuming overall leadership.”
Ardan’s eyebrows crawled as Shangur the Brown and Tuzimi, and Aranya’s Uncle and Aunt, all voiced dissenting growls. Dragons were all for power. He had observed the bickering, the settling of the pecking order, as those Dragons newly released from Thoralian’s thrall came to terms with their position and prospects, and the loss of mates, roosts and treasures. Aranya’s way was different. If he understood her in the smallest measure, Ardan knew that despite her apparent youth, the Amethyst Dragoness would wing her own flight across the Island-World and none of these would be able to stop her. His upper lip curled. They could try. They would, for they were Dragonkind; inclined to be the power, or to possess the power.
Thus, they were blind to a Star Dragoness’ purposes.
Aranya continued, “In this new order, we Shapeshifters, the so-called third race, have attained pre-eminence as a result of Sylakia’s depredations. Most Lesser Dragons remain lost–my regrets, noble Shangur. It is the Lesser Dragons who previously ruled Gi’ishior and boasted the great Elders of yore, Dragons such as Sapphurion the Blue, the Green Iridiana, and Kassik the Brown at the time of the Pygmy Dragon. One hundred and fifty years ago, we lost a huge proportion of the Lesser Dragons to the ravening beast, the Nurguz–a word which originates from a Dragonish dialect lost to memory.”
The shuffling of Va’assia’s feet clearly suggested impatience with a youngster recounting the histories. The Immadian Princess, however, seemed to have processed to another place, far from petty politicking. Was it this very transcendence which riled them most? Ardan made a mental scroll-mark. These Dragons must be handled well.
“If our mission to Herimor succeeds,” Aranya added, “there’s a distinct possibility that Lesser Dragons will return to Gi’ishior. We all know it’ll require a miracle. But for Balance to exist, I believe we require all three races to be present and accounted for, which includes Land Dragons. That is non-negotiable.”
“Aye,” Leandrial sighed, gusting hot, richly spiced air over the company.
Aranya pushed to her feet with evident discomfort. “Therefore, I declare my ancestry.”
This was a draconic tradition, one of Va’assia’s core teachings. She placed great emphasis on lineage, on the traits and powers that supposedly bred true through the generations.
Utter silence greeted the Immadian Princess as she firmed her spine laboriously. Here was another quality of the Immadian that snatched the breath from his lungs. She had strength of character like the roots of Islands, and an apparently inexhaustible well of that adamantine integrity so valued in Western Isles cultures. But even as these thoughts raced through his febrile mind, her gaze lit upon him and Ardan’s Dragon fires ignited in response. Oh! What unknowable intention stoked the fires of fate, raising his hackles–she was majestic! How did she command without word or gesture?
The slim girl declared, “I am Aranya of Immadia, Shapeshifter Princess, daughter of King Beran of Immadia and Queen Izariela of Ha’athior. King Beran is the son of King Torlan and Queen Ayana, of the line of the Immadian Kings of old. Izariela is the shell-sibling of Ja’arrion and Hualiama, and the shell-daughter of–” she paused as if seeking to gauge their reactions “–Istariela the Star Dragoness, by the Onyx Dragon, Fra’anior.”
Most of the Shapeshifters sprang to their feet, shouting furious accusations. Ja’arrion fainted outright. Oyda’s brilliant eyes danced for the girl who had crash-landed on her doorstep, while Nak cackled, “Strength to your arm, petal!”
“Blasphemy!” spluttered Va’assia.
Shangur bristled in a four-pawed battle-ready stance, his fires bubbling like an overheated furnace, but the Brown only regarded her belligerently, unspeaking.
Firming her chin, Aranya shouted, SILENCE!
Leandrial made a vast wheeze, but she was the only one capable of response to the sevenfold thunderclap that emerged from Aranya’s throat. What a roar! Thunder rolled over thunder, deeper and richer and more stirring than any storm he had ever heard. As she stood unbowed beneath a sky rent asunder by thousands of chains of branch lightning, her magnificent multi-coloured locks swirling about her slender frame with a life of their own, the thunder avalanched back over the group gathered at the lake shore, impossibly multiplied by the throats of a monumental presence from beyond:
SHE IS BORN! ARANYA, DAUGHTER OF STORM!
Now Aranya bent the knee, stiffly. Noble shell-sire. You honour us exceedingly.
THE HONOUR IS MINE, crashed the thunder. SPEAK THINE OATH ONCE MORE!
Ardan knew his life for but a mote compared to the fires of Fra’anior, but a curl of dark flame seemed to emanate from the stormy presence of the Ancient Dragon, to lodge in his breast. By shielded telepathy, the Great Dragon added, Thou too art mine, Sha’aldior, and mine fires regard thee as ardently as a father doth regard his shell-son. The whitest fires of mine hearts thrive in thy breast. Be strong, Sha’aldior! Be strong, for Aranya must lean upon thee.
Into the soft falling of his failing consciousness, Ardan heard Aranya cry:
For thee, shall I rise anew!
The heavens crashed down upon his head. All was white, and starlight.
* * * *
Nak rapped Ardan’s left forepaw with his cane. “Shrinking lily.”
“I do not faint often,” snarled the Shadow Dragon, looming over the old Dragon Rider.
Dragoness-Aranya elbowed his starboard flank. “Vacuous maiden.”
GRRRAAAAARRRGGH!!
Nak wriggled delightedly at Ardan’s throat-clearing exhibition, and then declaimed:
Arise in dark splendour, thou ancient Lord,
Brooding over thy Isles in majesty resplendent,
For dread foes hath arrayed themselves against thee …
“Anyways, ’tis a fine morning for poetry,” he broke off, giving Ardan another prod of his cane for good measure. “Touch of Annals of the Dragonfriend there, my lad. My Shimmerith had the sweetest v
oice you ever heard, but that Emblazon of Oyda’s–he was a fulminator like you, Ardan. Helps that I’m half deaf. Saves me from listening to your nonsensical babbling.”
As Nak blithely goaded the Shadow Dragon, Aranya flexed her major wing-joints and examined the leathery wing-membranes, particularly her still-tender left wing. Oyda had removed the rows of neat stitches two days before, leaving numerous long, puckered wound-scars to testify to how Thoralian had shredded the flight surface. Those scars should heal into near-invisibility, but the pox operated on a different level. Could a Shapeshifter’s spirit-form be scarred, she wondered? Leandrial seemed to think it both magically and existentially possible.
“Good, Zip and Ri’arion come at last,” said Ardan. “Seventy-one Dragons accompany them. Beran’s aboard Ja’arrion. I see fifty … no, fifty-four Dragonships cresting the horizon.”
Aranya appreciated his description. The mighty Dragonwing was a shifting blur of colours to her, and the Dragonship fleet a patch of brown fuzz against a pink-chased dawn sky. After her performance the previous evening, which had drawn an approving back-slap from Commander Darron, a quiet word of approval from her father, and the everlasting enmity of her dear aunt, they had hammered out a simple plan. Part of the Immadian Dragonship fleet would return north, taking the wounded soldiers home. A second group would fly directly for Remia, carrying the monks and soldiers of Fra’anior Cluster on a south-westerly run to their home Islands. A number of Dragons and monks elected to remain behind with the weaker Shapeshifters rescued from Thoralian’s caverns, to continue the hunt for the scattered fire-drakes of Herimor.
