Song of the Storm Dragon

by Marc Secchia

  Zip’s wings whisked her away instantly to take refuge behind Leandrial, who appeared to wait so that they could truly appreciate its size and ferocity before opening up with her eye-cannon.

  The Flayer took a goodly dint of killing. Shot after shot pounded the long, serpentine body and knocked the heads about like beans in a shaker, but the thing kept champing away at them long after it was apparently dead and both Aranya and Ardan had run out of fireballs. Leandrial calmly cleared a few mandibles locked around her right foreleg and forepaw, and turned to peer at a certain Azure Dragoness.

  Zip mooched toward her companions.

  “So, even a Land Dragon’s strength may be tested,” said Leandrial, apparently not in the mood for ruffling her companion’s scales. “There are creatures with which even I do not willingly tangle. As for Flayers? They haven’t much stamina. They’re best left alone, or you might simply flee.”

  “I’d vote for fleeing,” said Aranya, leaking smoke from the corners of her mouth.

  The Shadow Dragon stretched luxuriously. “I love a little light exercise in the morning, don’t you?”

  Leandrial took a lazy swipe at the male Dragon, who dodged smartly. She chuckled, “Courage, little ones! Below the middle layer, typically underpinned by a more variegated and fertile vegetable layer, come the middle-lower and lower layers, at depths of two to four leagues. Those are … like your forests, perhaps.” She considered the Lesser Dragons with a jaundiced air. “Only, our forests may measure five miles tall, rather dwarfing Dragons of your inconsiderable stature.”

  “Humph,” said Ardan, affecting a heroic, muscles-popping pose. “Do I look bigger like this?”

  Zip and Aranya fell about laughing, while Leandrial blinked in bemusement, evidently failing to understand that they were tugging her tail. The Land Dragon huffed, “Well, if you don’t want to know–”

  “Tell us more,” Aranya pleaded.

  “Please,” begged Zip, managing to stifle a treacherous giggle as Leandrial’s naturally overbearing nature won out.

  Dogmatically, Leandrial rumbled, “The putative deeps lie between four to five leagues below the clouds, while the impossible deeps dive down to seven leagues. This is the realm of the true deep-dwellers. Most life-forms feed on microscopic plant and animal life present in the air, called phytoplankton in the old Dragonish tongue. A Land Dragon of the Runner Clans would travel no deeper than five leagues, for the pressures are prohibitive. The draconic, insectoid, tershine and maxiocillic classes of animal life, to name but a few, are all adapted for living under such enormous pressures.”

  Zip shared a startled glance with Aranya. What?

  But the Land Dragoness continued, “Below seven leagues’ depth, even the lowest-dwelling of the Land Dragons seldom venture, and the air is so thick it behaves like liquid. I myself have several times dived to a depth close to six leagues, but that was under the extraordinary duress of crossing the Rift. I almost killed myself in the doing. Your Pygmy friend had an excellent joke–”

  Zip put in, “Leandrial, may I point out that you’re the only one among us who has actually met this amazing Pygmy Dragon?”

  “She was much like you,” the Land Dragoness conceded.

  “Like Aranya?”

  “No. She was a few sackweight of mischief.” Zip did not dare look. She could hear her best Dragon-friend fulminating clearly enough. “Aranya is more … stately.”

  “Stately?” wheezed Aranya.

  “Like a portly Dragonship,” Zip teased. “Flagship of the fleet. I–ouch! You shocked me.”

  “Sorry. Lightning-mad,” said Aranya, managing to look regretful.

  “Bah, so I’m monkey-mischief and she gets to be stately?” Zip muttered. “Let me guess. If I envision Pip’s personality correctly, the joke goes something like this: ‘By the five moons, why are they called impossible deeps when crossing them is indeed possible, and why is a bottomless rift called bottomless when it clearly has a bottom?’ Right?”

  Leandrial’s eye-fires brightened. “Perfect paws, little one! That was exactly her complaint. To which I replied, ‘Why do you high-dwellers have to take everything so literally?’ ”

  Ardan laughed, “Us, literal? You’re the ones with names like Shell-Clan and Flayer, Borer and … all that. All literal names, I mean.”

  “Huh, so they are,” snorted Leandrial, visibly taken aback.

  Aranya advised, “Ignore those two jokers, Leandrial. I would like to get to the bottom of this teaching about bottomless rifts, and the S’gulzzi.”

  “Her mental process has clearly bottomed out,” suggested the Shadow Dragon.

  “Making Aranya the butt of the joke?” Zip chortled, shielding and dodging at the same time, just in case. The Immadian Princess folded her forelegs with a longsuffering air.

  Oh, Aranya. Zip could jerk her hawser all day long and never tire of the sport.

  Then, the Amethyst Dragoness revealed one hundred gleaming daggers in her jaw, and declaimed, “Hear my royal judgement, o Zuziana of Remoy. For your deserved punishment I shall repeatedly kick your scaly butt all the way to Fra’anior, by which time, you shall be the one who is bottomless!”

  Chapter 4: Up for Breath

  ARDAN WISHED HIS lungs could have turned into shadow. By the time the foursome reached Jendor’s roots, two days at Dragon-speed, he was coughing and hacking so violently that flecks of golden blood speckled his shield. Aranya’s touch eased his symptoms, but her healing magic seemed fragile, delivered from a place of great desire but little capacity. Her wordless frustration accompanied by that determined jut of her chin, moved him more than his pugilistic Western Isles heritage would claim was right for a warrior. Had this not been his experience since first he met the incomparable Princess of Immadia?

  Grief. Furthermore, Aranya did not know the meaning of ‘give up.’ Nor did the girl appear to possess a shred of phlegmatic Western Isles common sense. She was a burglar, a convicted criminal under Sylakian law and apparently, her tears turned people into Shapeshifter Dragons. Pure Aranya.

  She tilted her chin. Down went an empire. What under suns did he think he was doing with this kind of girl?

  Endlessly falling.

  Ardan gritted his teeth. So they had learned that the bottomless rifts lay between seven and ten leagues’ depth and the fiery realm of the S’gulzzi, beneath that level even, deep inside byzantine cracks that penetrated the very heart-fires of the Island-World. The Theadurial, members of the maxiocillic class of magic-reliant parasites, were apparently able to survive even beneath that awful compression. They had learned that their clever shields were not half as clever as they had assumed. He, Zip and Aranya had travelled a mere two days beneath the Cloudlands and poisoned themselves thoroughly. Success!

  Leandrial theorised that the Pygmy Dragoness had possessed natural resistance to poisons. Fine for a jungle girl. Rather less useful for three Lesser Dragons who intended to cross the uncrossable Rift. Zip and Aranya were starting to show signs of bite-and-growl every time Leandrial mentioned Pip, which was often, and always in the most effusive terms.

  He was above jealousy, of course. And lies. Aye. Far above any lies, too.

  What he was jealous of was their histories, or more accurately, the fact that his companions remembered their pasts. Not all had been good. Ardan remembered fire, fleeing, flying; just recently he had begun to dream that he had once had a smiling wife. Children? He did not know. He did not know what kind of man he had been, only that he had taken some manner of savage revenge upon the Sylakians; his next memory was that of waking beneath a prekki-fruit tree at the westernmost edge of the world.

  It was the not knowing that hurt most.

  Leandrial led the upward surge, lecturing them about decompression. Dragon bodies handled changes in pressure exceptionally well. Their physiques were built for feats of physical resilience, recovery and self-healing. Still, there were complex techniques involved in removing gas bubbles from the circulatory systems, tissues an
d organs, before one’s innards exploded. Literally.

  The wonder of being a Dragon still left him agog. Flight. Dragon-sharp battle instincts. Nostrils that could sniff out prey from twenty miles, given a favourable breeze. His fantastically pliant, nerve-rich wing membranes captured every nuance of the wind’s buffeting, transferring the sensation to a mind that thrilled at the delicate play of airstreams and sifted the world’s scents with staggering sensitivity. No warrior had ever boasted such an awareness of his surrounds. Not to mention the side-set eyes that afforded him vision around a full three hundred degrees, and other Dragon senses that he was just beginning to grasp. His reaction-speed seemed almost prescient. He found himself magnifying the detail of a butterfly’s wings merely to appreciate their form–the draconic power of Harmony, Aranya teased him, clearly pleased by this admission.

  Now, the Amethyst slept inside the pocket of Leandrial’s cheek. He and Zip enjoyed no such luxury. They did not want luxury. What they yearned for was clear, cool air and a chance to detoxify.

  Free to go, crowed Leandrial, smashing through the final barrier leading to the upper layer. Shall I clear the path? I am certainly irritable enough.

  Zip’s cheerful, irksome laughter tinkled upon Ardan’s ear-canals. He did not mind cheer. Unstoppable, irrepressible cheer? Grr. Unjustified cheer like Sapphire’s carolling at the top of her lungs just before dawn, waking one hundred Shapeshifters with piping descants and chirruping? GRR!

  Fire away, thou mighty heart of a star’s truest fires! cried the Azure Dragoness.

  On cue, heat bloomed in his fire-stomach and Ardan saw crimson. He wobbled in the swampy, polluted atmosphere, firing his own echo to Leandrial’s massive, judiciously-spaced cannonade. Pleasingly, he neatly fricasseed both ends of an amber-coloured Borer which had been prowling two hundred feet above with the air of a con-man scouting a busy marketplace for potential victims. Then, the song of Aranya’s mind soared unexpectedly and she burst out of Leandrial’s mouth, gaining a dozen wing-lengths’ lead before Ardan and Zip belatedly kicked off in pursuit.

  Rascally Amethyst-eyes!

  Feed well, Leandrial, called Aranya as she accelerated away.

  Leandrial would travel northwest of Jendor to the edge of a current that swept northward into Immadior’s Sea, washing the eastern fringe of the Western Isles all the way North to Yar’ola. She had fed, but there were specific nutrients she required for her own healing, the outcome of spending too much time in the thin, dry air above the Cloudlands.

  Ardan stretched his wings as he chased the Amethyst Dragoness upward through decreasing pressures and air densities, maintaining a narrow over Zuziana. His body vibrated unexpectedly as he burst through thermal inversions and twice, through foul, stagnant patches of air that left a greasy aftertaste on his tongue. He could not catch Aranya. Weak as she was, the streamlined shape of the Amethyst Dragoness remained stubbornly ahead of the labouring Shadow Dragon. Her tidy wing-stroke was ideal, slowly broadening as they rose through the opaque auburn clouds into thinner air, taking advantage of the decreasing friction. His eyes narrowed. Surely, a larger Dragon should be the more powerful flier? Unless she was cheating?

  There’s a difference between cheating and being smart, Ardan, Aranya broke in waspishly.

  Fine, instruct the bumpkin, he growled back. Ugh. First the mind-reading, now an apology that rubbed his scales backward?

  Before he could unstick a few more reasonable words from his craw, Aranya shot back, Fine. Keep wallowing back there, you insensitive granite-brained lump of Dragonflesh!

  The glint of her scales pulled ahead with infeasible ease. Ardan’s jaw cracked open, dribbling fire. Unholy freaking windrocs! No way a fledgling could out-fly him like this–at least, according to conventional wisdom. His lips curled contemptuously. Aye, because Aranya always heeded the accepted wisdom of Va’assia and her ilk, didn’t she? Accepted wisdom would have led her to grow grey of hair as a political pawn in the Tower of Sylakia–

  GNNAAA-OOAARRR! he bayed in shock as Zuziana whipped past!

  Slow-slug, she sang out.

  Ardan’s eyeballs almost popped with the effort as he launched out of the lapping Cloudlands like a dark, vengeful spear, but no volcano of anger or jealousy could make him fly like those two wretched, tantalising females. Amethyst and Azure rippled up the sheer grey-stone cliffs of one of Jendor’s many Islands. One mile. Two. He ate their dust, falling further back by the second, and … his flanks convulsed with laughter. Oh, they were sneaks and he was so going to wrestle this secret out of their sassy little hides!

  Time to hunt.

  The Dragon summoned his Shadow power.

  * * * *

  Aranya and Zuziana dug into the saddlebags which the Azure Dragoness had transported from Yorbik, toting weapons, supplies, spare clothing and basic foodstuffs. Leandrial had instructed them to Shift, surmising by some fantastically convoluted draconic logic that Shapeshifters healed better from poisoning when their second-soul ‘rested’ in whatever mystical plane of existence they disappeared to after transformation.

  “Did you see Ardan’s face?” chortled Zip. “Lace up the back for me, would you?”

  Aranya whistled at the daringly-cut gown. “Keep this one for Ri’arion, would you? I don’t want Ardan entertaining any Remoyan notions.”

  Zuziana swished the skirts about to show the slits cut to mid-thigh. “Causing her man occasional eyeball-strain is a healthy pastime for a girl. It’s necessary and more fun than a warren full of dragonets have in a year. Oof. Not so tight, you beastly northern icicle. Reminds me of the time you kissed Jia-Llonya. Yolathion almost, almost combusted right there on the dance-floor.”

  Aranya propped her hands on her hips, hissing, “She kissed me. And, you weren’t there.”

  “You made her–your uncontrolled Storm magic did, anyways. Since Nak described the incident well enough–”

  “He also wasn’t there!”

  “Monogamy is so–” Zip affected a huge yawn. “Where’s your imagination, Immadia?”

  To her intense exasperation, Aranya blushed up a storm worthy of the name. Dragon-fire-blast that scamp! Between her and Nak, they seemed bent on opening her eyes to cultural practices that Immadians regarded as licentious and wholly immoral, not to mention embarrassing her within an inch of her life. She yanked the dress-ties crossly, making her fiery Dragoness-friend yelp again. As for showing leg above the ankle … well, maybe she could learn a trick or two from Remoy.

  Besides, Ardan was clearly not the sharing sort. Scrummy like sweetbread, if only … was that real thunder or just Fra’anior warming up three or four throats? She stilled her reflexive shiver crossly. Aranya said, “What’s the bet Ardan tries to scare us in his Shadow form?”

  “Payback? Aye. Males are so predictable. That shaped aerodynamic shield was cleverer than a certain seven-headed ancient ancestor, Aranya.”

  “Not my idea. The all-powerful Pip strikes afresh. Although, Leandrial did concede that the idea originated further back, apparently from Shapeshifter lore penned by my illustrious Aunt.”

  “Va’assia? No way.”

  “Another Aunt, on my mother’s side. Take a guess, Remoy.”

  The Zippy one wrinkled her nose, and rattled, “Help you with your skin creams? Peace? Don’t beat up the diminutive Remoyan troublemaker?” Aranya gave her a huge hug. “Double-oof with Jeradian sweetmeat on top! Can you please try to remember how strong you are?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Aunty, aunty whatshername …” Her vivid blue eyes, agleam with magic, narrowed as Zip slathered herbal ointment on the open wounds on Aranya’s face, chest and back. Aranya hissed through the stinging. She said, “Izariela and Ja’arrion … now, there would be a third egg in the clutch… unholy smoking volcanoes, Aranya! No. You don’t mean Hualiama, do you? The Hualiama?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Don’t give me that diffident Princess you dust off on random occasions,” sniffed the Remoyan. “Impressi
ve lineage there, girl! You sure your paws are quite big enough?”

  Aranya laughed at Zip’s droll humour, then shuddered. Thunder, again? That old, familiar tightness between her temples? No. Calm down, stormy girl …

  Zuziana added, “So, let’s get you decent before Mister Murky-Paws drops by to scare us. And then, shall we indulge in a spot of deadly dressmaking, or how’s about a session of indiscriminately violent hair-brushing?”

  “Ah …”

  “Now listen here, Amethyst-eyes, or I will–”

  “Or what? You’ll endeavour to beat me with a stave?”

  She might be a foot shorter than an Immadian tree, but her fellow-Princess gave no quarter whatsoever. “All over again? With pleasure.” The Zippy one laughed uproariously at her own joke, before adding, “You and I once vowed to start a new fashion trend. We said we’d burn all headscarves. What say you, Immadia? It used to be that head coverings were simply decorative, but Oyda holds that they’re a symbol of Sylakian oppression. I’m not overly political, mind–”

  “But you are radical.”

  “Oh aye, I’m a raving royal rabble-rouser.” Zip shook out her chestnut curls. “Seducing monks, slapping Sylakian Dragonships about with impertinent flicks of my tail–”

  LADIES!! Ardan thundered.