Song of the Storm Dragon

by Marc Secchia

  Ardan slipped around the small table, which held a pitcher of cool water and a basket of breads and unfamiliar fruits for their breakfast, to stand beside Aranya’s right shoulder. To his surprise, her hand found his. A tingling spread up his arm.

  Enchantress, he thought to her.

  Sha’aldior, I cannot–she began to reply, but Nak was being his excitable, voluble self.

  “Stop that private chit-chat and listen, you rude pair of white-crested lovebirds,” he snapped. “One. Ri’arion warns of disaffected monks and Humans banding together to act against the return of Dragons to these Isles. Be alert.”

  Sometimes, Nak’s mind wandered, but this morning, he was utterly lucid. Aranya’s fingers tightened; the skies grumbled nearby. Aye. Trouble in the air, or he was no Dragon.

  “Two. The Nameless Man has named, or not named, or whatever those mystical wind-breaking monks do in their spare time, his successor. Falling over the Isles for your delightful friend–ah, beauteous Remoy–was apparently a touch naughty on his part. Not quite vow-breaking or forbidden, but Ri’arion’s been demoted to chief skirt-chaser as a result. Three. This bride-snatching King and my incomparable Oyda and I, have been talking. We want you, Aranya, to have a good old sniff around Gi’ishior. See what that pretty dust-wrangler of yours turns up. What this impudent pup was about to say, is that one of the monks found reference to a legend that the Dragonfriend grew up in one of the roosts there. She was raised by Dragons.”

  “What?” Ardan and Aranya chorused.

  “No time. They’ll brief you at Gi’ishior. Four. Your tame Land Dragon’s due back tomorrow. You ride her down to Jeradia–”

  Aranya scowled across the table at him. “Nak, you don’t just ride a Land Dragon.”

  “You shut those luscious lips and attend old Nak’s words. Why, I pulled you off a cliff, I did. Taught you how to fly. Practically wiped your beautiful bottom …” His eyes glazed over. “Ooh, aye!”

  The Princess tossed a sweetbread at him. “Catch. Eat. What about Jeradia, Nak?”

  Nak seemed disappointed to be woken from his despicable daydream. Roaring rajals! Ardan suppressed a forceful urge to rush around the table and throttle the old man.

  The Dragon Rider scratched his beard. “Aye, Jeradia. Oyda and I agree that the last memories we have before that Pygmy scamp and her mind-tweaking Herimor Shapeshifter boyfriend scrambled our wits, as you allege, is that of beating the hells away from Jeradia as Marshal Re’akka–that was the beast’s name–descended upon the Academy volcano with all the armies of his Dragon Assassins and the power of the First Egg, and my Pip, oh my beautiful, lost Pip–” he paused to dash away his tears “–oh mercy, how the years have flown. Oh, I weep, Aranya … I weep for all that was lost. There were thousands of Dragons, my petal. Dragons to fill the skies, oh, and when they gathered there was such magic as would make your very bone-marrow tingle and dance. When they rose in their thousands above that Jeradian volcano to do battle, oh, it was a sight! What a sight! Their wings were a storm; their Dragon-rage shivered the very Moons. Flashes of dark wings, I see, and an Island floated across the Rift! And I don’t remember. I don’t … forgive me … remember …”

  He wept, rubbing his face with his sleeve. Aranya stepped around the small, hand-carved wooden table to clasp Nak in her arms. “It’s alright, Nak. We’ll work this out.”

  “Isn’t!” he sniffled. “We let Leandrial read our brains, Oyda and I did! That reckless, irresponsible mite pickled us good and proper, addled our scales backward, and added such a bastion-ward as made that Land Dragoness’ hackles rise! Can’t get a sparrow’s burp out of us, petal. Nothing. It’s all secreted in here.” He tapped his head. “But my heart’s true. Have I told thee how truly I adore thee, Immadia?”

  “Often,” Aranya smiled, sneaking a glance at Ardan. He unclenched his fists, hoping she did not read his jealousy. He had no right to be jealous of her love for this old man, even if the odd murderous urge crossed his mind.

  She prompted, “Tell us what happened, Nak. What about Pip?”

  “Well, I’ve worked it out, see? Old as these Islands, I am, but I’ve still got all my wits, aye. Haven’t I?” Grasping Aranya’s hands in his own, Nak said earnestly, “She pinched the volcano, see?”

  “She–who? Did … what the hells?” spluttered Ardan.

  “Pip?” asked Aranya. “Pip pinched a volcano? Nak. Now, be straight with me. You’re saying–”

  “I am, Immadia. One moment the Dragon Rider Academy was there. Then, it was gone. Poof. Thousands of people and Dragons, buildings, stores, a whole lake … and a volcano!” His voice rose querulously. “How else do you defeat the undefeatable Nurguz, that unstoppable, magic-guzzling beast? You must go to Jeradia, petal. See the place and jog Leandrial’s memories, because she’s as senile as me. That’s where Shurgal defeated Leandrial and stole the Egg. That old Island-chewer will tell you that they’ll find nothing at Gi’ishior because all the good lore was compiled by Hualiama and left at the Academy. That’s why you need to go to Herimor and get the Egg. Understand?”

  Aranya looked baffled by the spillage of Nak’s chaotic thoughts, but her mind clearly flew to the Moons. Ardan joined her, bending upon one knee before the old Dragon Rider. He rumbled, “Nak, I’m a bit slower than these two Immadians. Help me understand. You’re claiming Pip stole the First Egg? Or the volcano? Leandrial said Pip betrayed–”

  “Nonsense!” Nak’s thwacked Ardan’s knee with the accuracy of a born swordsman, growling, “Use your wits, my boy. I know you claim to possess a few–debatable, if you ask me. If the Academy volcano had blown up, the Jeradian histories would record the explosion. If it had slid under the Cloudlands, Leandrial would have found the debris. It’s clearly not where it used to be. Eliminate all the possibilities and then whatever’s left, however crazy it seems–”

  “Crazy’s the word,” Ardan agreed, earning himself a swift clip across the earhole this time.

  “Don’t you sass me, boy!” Nak cried. “Doesn’t anybody understand what I’m saying? Am I speaking the ancient language of stars?”

  Aranya said, slowly, “I do. You’re saying Pip stole the volcano. Ergo, the volcano is inside the Egg.”

  “Genius!” Nak screamed.

  Ardan wiped spittle off his jaw. “Lunacy! Rajals dancing around the Mystic Moon. How do you even …”

  Beran just plucked hairs from his beard, dumbfounded.

  Aranya breathed, “No. It’s a talon-stroke of genius. It Balances, Ardan. It … oh, please don’t look at me like that. It feels right. Nak, once again I declare, you are the master.”

  “Master? Not I.” The old Rider hung his head. “Is now when I confess this was Oyda’s idea? Mostly. I did add a few important bits …”

  She kissed his cheek affectionately. “In honour of which I, Aranya, Princess of Immadia, do forevermore dub thee Nak the Incomparable.”

  Everyone pretended not to notice as he dabbed his leaky eyes.

  Chapter 8: Visions of Dragons

  Flying across the caldera with Ta’armion riding Lyriela, and Sapphire, Ardan and her father upon her back, Aranya turned her Dragoness-head to regard Ardan. “Have you accepted the truth yet?”

  “No!”

  Ardan folded his stalwart arms across his chest and stared at her from those black-in-black eyes. Mmm. Aranya remembered how he had held her, that first day they met, and blushed up a petite firestorm in her belly. He might be a Dragon-powerful warrior, but he also possessed startling grace and gentleness. Not now, of course. Not when he was being Ardan the granite-headed Shadow Dragon.

  Worse still, when he was right and she was being stubborn.

  He grunted, “Why head to Jeradia when a Dragon matching Thoralian’s description was spotted leaving Sylakian shores fourteen days ago, headed for the Crescent Isles? What will we find at Jeradia–memories? Crazy theories which are impossible by any known law of science, draconic or Human?”

  “I see, Ardan,” she purred,
making his scowl deepen.

  He growled, “Entire volcanoes do not disappear into eggs, nor do floating Islands, together with thousands of Dragons–no, I don’t care if that neatly parcels in a Helyon silk bow how you think the Lesser Dragons vanished from the North!”

  In a sepulchral voice, she intoned, “You fail to grasp how inconceivably vast are the powers of the First Egg of the Ancient Dragons, o Ardan–”

  “Aargh! I can’t argue with you.”

  “The sooner you learn that, my boy, the better,” King Beran put in, clapping his left hand upon Ardan’s shoulder.

  “Alright,” Ardan challenged, “assuming for a second all of this moons-madness is real, what happened to the Pygmy Dragoness? Where did she vanish to like the mists of dawn?”

  “Inside the Egg.”

  “Why would she put herself inside, if she couldn’t just climb out again? Which she clearly hasn’t or, I’d wager, history might read somewhat differently.”

  “I don’t know,” Aranya admitted.

  “Assuming she’s stuck inside together with thousands of Dragons and a whole freaking volcano–”

  “And the floating Island,” Beran put in.

  “How big is that benighted Egg?” Ardan waved his hands angrily. “Don’t answer that! How do you plan to get her out again? Ask sweetly? And how will we move an egg that size back over the uncrossable Rift? And what if you release thousands of enemy Dragons, those Night-Red Assassins lurking in Leandrial’s memories? Have you paused to think this through? Clearly not. Aranya, this is crazy!”

  She whirled her eye-fires at him. “I agree.”

  “Aargh!”

  “I agree with that, too.”

  Beran put in, “Aranya, will Oyda be alright?”

  “I checked her as best I know how. It was a bowel irritation,” she said. “I relieved the inflammation. I’ve had Ja’arrion swear upon his own wings he’ll send a healer-Dragon to Oyda every day while we’re away. I couldn’t stand … I know she’s very old, Dad. But if this was the last time I saw her …” She gulped. “I know Shadow-britches over there thinks I’m being maudlin–”

  “No, I don’t. I love your heart best of all.”

  Ardan bit his lip and looked away across the caldera, clearly embarrassed and even defiant; Aranya could not quite stifle a quiver of delight that rippled through her wings and body, bouncing her about on the volcanic thermals. Lovely man. He wore his heart as openly as one of his tattoos, only he would not admit it to anyone, least of all to himself. She had tried to convince herself that he saw only a disfigured woman. O foolish, treacherous heart!

  Grief and gratitude stuffed her throat so intensely, she could barely breathe. Aranya thought to him, Sha’aldior, know that I appreciate … all this, with my very soul. Yet it can never be–

  It can.

  How? You’d have a broken, stunted travesty; this half-blind wretch? You deserve better.

  He snapped, What’s blind is your heart, Aranya! In time, you will learn to see. Then, his mind shuttered away behind an impenetrable barrier.

  She whispered, You must find another. I declare, you are free.

  Ardan pointedly examined the horizon.

  Learn to see … what? He must find another to love. Aranya saw his pain, and did not understand. She had no choice! All they could ever be, was friends–the oldest cliché under the twin suns. Time would show him the way; he was the one who must learn not to stoke his fires for her, who refused to accept her brokenness. Did he not compare her to sleek, beautiful Lyriela, with her perfect scales, and cringe? In concert with her mood, thunder crackled around the caldera. Sapphire, who had been riding the Amethyst Dragoness’ left shoulder with her muzzle open, tasting the wind, flipped over and settled in Ardan’s lap for the first time. Dark thunderheads rose to occlude the suns.

  She was Storm. Storms cleansed the soul.

  Rain good, Ari, Sapphire chirped.

  Conceivably. King Cha’arlla had mentioned a severe drought lasting four months. Aranya tasted the moisture on the breeze as Sapphire might. One of Fra’anior’s legendary monikers was ‘Storm Dragon’. If she could be as great as just a few scales off his paws … that would be a trick. Aranya could not detect any conscious effort on her part, but the storm continued to build as she winged five points west of true North across the great caldera, angling for where she knew Gi’ishior Island to be from the maps. Hot air caressed her scales from below, the thermals inconstant and tricky, forcing her to concentrate on her flying form as she tried to smooth the ride for her Riders.

  “Don’t hurry, Sparky,” Beran said. “We’re in for a dousing no matter what, it seems. Oho. Do I detect a hint of Azure disappearing around that volcano, Ardan?”

  “Aye. And Ri’arion, I think.” His voice was pure gravel. Aching.

  The breeze soon picked up to a squally westerly, flinging Aranya sideways as she adjusted. She checked Lyriela’s wing-orientation and stamina, and helped her cousin set up a shield. Then, with a resounding crack of thunder the Black Dragon himself would have appreciated, the heavens opened and steel curtains of tropical rain crashed down everywhere except upon her Riders. Blessed, life-bringing liquid cascaded off her sleek amethyst flanks and outspread wings, while her secondary membranes set to work, flicking rapidly to clear her eyes.

  “Honestly, Sparky, your shields are this good?” laughed Beran, still dry and a little dusty.

  “Need a shower, Sting-King Dad?”

  “I think we should cool his kingly brow,” Ardan suggested.

  “At once, Rider Ardan.”

  The King of Immadia laughed happily, turning his face to the heavens to drink in the water sheeting down his care-lined face and over his white-shot beard. He was in no danger, Aranya reminded herself, strapped in place on a worn, double-seat fledgling-sized saddle Ardan had filched from the old stores at Ya’arriol Island. Apparently there had been a Dragon Rider presence there once, at one of the secret monasteries.

  With visibility reduced to mere tens of feet, the Amethyst Dragoness maintained her heading, trusting herself to cover the forty or so remaining miles to Gi’ishior without flying slap into a mountainside. How did Dragons navigate in blind conditions? She’d have to ask Ja’arrion or Nak. Ugh–inexperienced fledgling! Blind navigation would be essential beneath the Cloudlands, however … the rain abruptly doubled in intensity, great fat drops whacking her sensitive wing-membranes and rebounding off her nose. Hail! That wasn’t the plan. Aranya shielded her Riders and wings as hailstones the size of Fra’aniorian grapes pinged off her scaly length. Fra’aniorian storms were legendary, dangerous even to Dragons, she suddenly remembered–from which ballad? To her relief the hail grew no more powerful, but the storm endured for half an hour more, tossing her about with seething abandon until she felt as a hatchling chastised by Fra’anior.

  This is my choice, grandfather, she thought acidly. Had you wished otherwise, you could have changed my fate.

  Shift the blame to Fra’anior. Aye, Aranya? What a show of maturity …

  The Dragonfriend had once dwelled upon these Islands. What would she have been like? Had she fought storms like this one, with her Tourmaline Dragon, Grandion?

  Preoccupied with drawing a detailed mental picture of a tall, elegant Fra’aniorian Shapeshifter, Aranya suddenly broke free from the stinging hail and rain. Right before her startled eyes, perfectly framed between departing battlements of fuliginous cloud as though a fortress peeled aside its fortifications for the admission of majesty, stood the Island of Gi’ishior. A single, slender secondary volcanic cone, it perched upon the caldera’s northern rampart with curiously organic elegance, as though positioned above a Dragonship’s air sack to provide an exhaust funnel. The dormant peak was delicately and uniformly robed in lush, avocado-green foliage.

  Yet a waking vision transported her. The creak of a Dragonship’s running-ropes. A strange sail configuration to port and starboard, as if the vessel sported wings. Aranya watched small, deft hands of a
n unfamiliar golden-tan cast adjust ailerons to scud her around the volcano’s western periphery. Her heart thudded in her throat–many Dragons spiralled in the skies above the rim. Attack! A trio of Orange Dragons sizzled past, one launching a fireball across her nose, thundering, Turn back!

  Aranya’s body juddered.

  Peace, cousin Aranya, Lyriela’s melodious voice soothed. Where were you?

  Uh … I … her muzzle rose. She rasped a couple of deep breaths. Steady! Only two Dragons patrolled the skies, as best she could tell. Where had the rest–recognising the vision for what it had been, she relaxed. Odd. A solo Dragonship? Not many of those about, these days.

  Aranya trimmed her wings to descend quickly toward a terrace lake that skirted the volcano to the western and northern quadrants, the waters serene and apparently unruffled by the storm they had just passed through. Famously, this lake contained giant whiskered carp capable of sating the most voracious Dragon’s appetite. When she mentioned this to Ardan, he enthused, “Now you tell me! They’ve languished untouched for a century and more!” Grinning rather dourly, Aranya stretched her wings, easing her way up the lake in the hope that no more visions would seize her unawares. Despite obsidian shores, the lake waters were so translucent that she could see clear to the bottom, a depth of perhaps four or five hundred feet. Silvery scales winked …

  Hunger!

  Aranya! Lyriela yelped, pulling her back timeously.

  Uh …

  Her cousin asked, Are you a bit–forgive me, Aranya–unstable of mind?

  No. How she burned! That surge of silent, mutinous fury carried her through a cavern mouth into a wide tunnel that led to a realm of glorious light. She inhaled sharply. Oh, Emburion! It’s amazing!