Song of the Storm Dragon

by Marc Secchia

  Chapter 16: Escaping the Storm

  ARanya rolled to her knees, groaning, “You’re a beastly monk.”

  Her intensive training with Ri’arion, while the Foam-Riders built flexible metal armour upon Leandrial over the course of three days, had certainly been beneficial–and painful. After several further hours’ discussion, Infurion had departed for his happy and undoubtedly scorching home far beneath the Island-World. Now, they planned to travel on the following morning, but the monk had wanted to use the time wisely, which translated into walloping his companions, to Leandrial’s evident amusement.

  “I’m the beast who’s teaching you to stay alive.” Ri’arion extended his right hand graciously. He did not look even slightly flushed or sweaty, unlike the Immadian. “Get up. Once more, Princess.”

  Zip’s sniggering nearby did not help. They had all taken turns in being trained by the exacting, untouchable monk, even Ardan, because the famed Fra’aniorian open-hand martial arts techniques could be applied just as well in Dragon-form as in Human guise.

  Aranya stood, easing her thrice-bruised left shoulder gingerly. No excuses for her. She was slow, and she knew it. She was little better than Ri’arion’s personal punching-bag. But why should a Shapeshifter Dragoness be constrained by her Human form? Hualiama’s scrolls had spoken of channelling her Dragon powers even while in her Human manifestation, as Aranya was now; had she not lifted Ardan one-handed, and used her healing powers on Zuziana?

  “You punch like a girl,” the petite Remoyan catcalled.

  Aranya gritted her teeth, at least managing a Dragoness-worthy growl. Anger would summon her powers. Only, she wasn’t angry with Ri’arion. He was granite, but a nice sort of granite. He had pulled his throw enough to prevent her breaking any bones on Leandrial’s upturned palm. Sweet. Strength alone would not defeat the monk. But what if she pictured Thoralian, or worse, that vile palm-licker, Garthion? What if she used her artist’s mind to paint him in the colours of Zuziana’s blood and the screams of her torture …

  Aranya pleaded with her inner Dragoness, Help me, second-soul. I need to learn what you’re capable of, how we can work together.

  Dragoness-Aranya stirred within her breast. Her hands hardened into blades, every muscle and ligament taut yet loose, as Ri’arion had taught her. Power flooded her muscles as Aranya settled into her fighting pose, turning slightly side-on in relation to the monk, her left foot advanced.

  Not by strength alone, Dragoness. I need Dragon-reactions. Controlled power. Aggression.

  Feel our passion burn! snarled her inner life.

  Ri’arion’s depthless blue eyes appeared to flash as he mimicked her pose. Did he sense what she did, the dark flame curling within, while purpose flowed simultaneously into inner concentration and outward into preternatural awareness? Her blighted lungs laboured to flood her arteries with oxygen. Aranya rotated her stiff neck. If only she could be as battle-ready as a Dragoness.

  With a windroc-like cry, the monk swirled gracefully into the attack. Rapid-fire chops targeted her torso and kidneys. Aranya defended compactly with her forearms, absorbed his cunning low kick with a flexion of her right knee, and by way of appreciation, hammered a lightning-fast thrust-kick into his sternum. Ri’arion twined her left leg in his arms and lifted sharply, breaking her balance, but this Shapeshifter was ready to fly. Leaping perfectly in concert with his heave, using his strength against him, Aranya craned her head backward and flung her right leg into a furious axle-kick that came within a whisker of breaking the monk’s jaw. Only his reflexive head-jerk saved his blushes, but his right cheekbone still collected a mighty ding from her heel.

  She completed her somersault, landing neatly in her ready stance.

  Zip gave a shriek, clapping her hands to her mouth, while Ardan grunted, “Well, top of the dawn to thee, Dragoness-Aranya!”

  Ri’arion touched the split skin next to his eye. “At last!” he exclaimed, the sight of a smear of blood drawing a rajal’s snarl of delight. He beckoned with both hands. “More of that, Aranya! Test me–”

  Had he waited for this moment? Fury washed her world to flame-whiteness. Dragonsong raged behind her ears, a torrent that threatened to peel her scalp free of the bone beneath. Dance. Wrath. Power united with flesh; a fusion of Human and Dragon. This was her Dragonsoul. Two, but one.

  With a wild, bleak cry, Aranya fell upon her tormentor-friend, intent upon savaging him. All that was Dragoness blazed through her now, unstoppable; there was thunder in her mind and a storm in her fists and elbows, knees and feet. She knew only the simplest techniques, the basic forms which were taught to toddlers and children upon Fra’anior, but the purity and speed of her execution was enough to pummel the monk with a relentless flurry of kicks and blows. Thrice, she flattened Ri’arion, only to see him rebound each time. She pressed his defence to the uttermost. Dragoness-Aranya forced the monk to retreat across Leandrial’s paw; each time he tried to launch a counteroffensive, she smothered his attack or thrust it aside, stronger and faster than ever before.

  The monk’s reaction was pure joy. Focus. Disciplined vehemence. His blows escalated in power as she tested him exactly as he wished. Twice, he had to resort to psychic buffets to prevent her close-up punches from rearranging his nose upon his face, his techniques expanding in range and complexity as she turned the fight and they stormed back toward her companions, scrapping like feral rajals. Panting. Hissing sharply. Aranya landed a perfect blow to the nerve of his elbow, extracting the first yelp of pain she had ever heard from the monk, but his answering side-thrust kick twisted her right knee. Still, the Dragoness within had the shrewdness to whirl with the blow, bringing her left foot up and over in a looping counter-strike, slamming into Ri’arion’s temple as he tried to duck away.

  “Break!” shouted Ardan, shouldering his way between them.

  Aranya stopped herself with a wrench. She doubled over, wheezing, her lungs afire.

  The monk wobbled into a decidedly unsteady ready-stance before shaking his head with a great laugh. “Bravo, Aranya! Oh, bravo indeed!” He held out his hand. “Peace?”

  “Like a volcano,” she coughed, gripping his hand in return. “Mercy, Ri’arion. Were you holding back?”

  “Not this time–well, with the exception of lethal techniques. Unlike you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry? Don’t be ridiculous. What’s to be sorry about?” Bless his shaven head, the monk practically glowed with satisfaction. “Remember this, Aranya–and all of you. What you saw today cannot easily be taught. This is the place where flesh becomes the willing, subordinate tool of a fighter. Technique can be honed to a point. After that, what matters is the spirit within, and that is what ultimately separates the good from the great. Fantastic match, Aranya. I think the one who was holding back, was you.”

  “Such high praise from Ri’arion?” asked Zip, hugging Aranya with an impish laugh. “As we Remoyans say, the stars really do swim in our terrace lakes.”

  * * * *

  In her dream, Human-Aranya climbed a mountain peak. Such a peak, she had never imagined. Mile upon mile of sheer, unrelieved grey-speckled granite speared into the night skies, attaining a ridiculously slender pinnacle wreathed in storm clouds. Lightning played constantly above her, while water sheeted down the rough, stippled surface, but Aranya clung to the damp stone like a determined gecko as she inched her way upward, toehold by toehold, and from one fingertip hold to the next. How many hours she had been climbing, she did not know, but her movements seemed mechanical and tireless.

  Wind moaned around the isolated peak, teasing her unbound hair. Aranya shivered, although she was not cold. Her outfit was wholly inappropriate–just a thin white cotton sleeping-shift, thigh-length. She was barefoot. Neither daggers nor sword adorned her waist, nor was there sign of Sapphire. The place from which this mountain rose was a vast, atramental abyss. She saw nothing else in any direction, neither land nor moons nor clouds, apart from those encircling the peak, and stars
. Myriad stars hung invitingly close, like shining fruit waiting for her hand to reach out and pluck.

  Hualiama? she whispered. Fra’anior? Where am I?

  The fragrant, playful breeze spoke no word of an answer.

  The near-complete darkness gave rise to the illusion that she climbed upside-down, descending toward the skies. Aranya focussed on the lightning-shot clouds. Those were her goal. Up there … she yearned, burned and hoped for whatever lay ahead, unseen and unattainable by any ordinary exertion of her physical body.

  Only the mountain existed.

  Left hand. Right. Toes moulding to the warm granite, as warm as her heart. Her hair tugged upward. Aranya clung, trembling, as the wind buffeted her and the thunder voiced its gruff disapproval, like Ardan warming up his throat when facing an enemy Dragon.

  Sha’aldior? Even he gave no reply. Where was her oath-magic now?

  What if he remembered his past? What if his loved ones had escaped the Sylakian scourge? Could she ever be the one he needed if they both harboured doubts? So much lost. Damaged beyond a Star Dragoness’ power of repair. Aranya pressed her forehead against the rock, trying to deny her weeping, but her emotions billowed like thunderheads–or perhaps they hearkened once more to her grief–and the lightning played about her now, the clouds enshrouding her ravaged body like the softest of blankets. Blindly, she climbed, careless of the electrical potentials in the storm.

  Perhaps from the top, she might simply fling herself into space and fall … and fall …

  And abdicate responsibility for her life and the Island-World’s future? The horror! May she cry, ‘Never!’ She had never been suicidal–had she? Perhaps, facing the long, dark halls of soul-deep despair after her Shapeshifter pox had changed her, and made her think the unthinkable. Perhaps she was not as strong and heedlessly self-confident as she had been before.

  Perhaps she should learn to dance.

  At this thought, Aranya’s hands seized the rock so hard her fingers cramped. Hualiama! How dare she intrude … or did she? How could she be certain of anything anymore?

  She must climb.

  Infuriated beyond rational thought, Aranya climbed through the storm, stretching her aching body to seize handholds recklessly. Lightning? Who cared. Winds? Let them blow! Thunder? But the blustering of a noisy giant; it could never shake her loose.

  She ascended. Hours passed. At last, her bloodied right hand grasped only air. Gusts raged around her spent body as Aranya pulled herself over the edge, her legs yet dangling in space as she arrested her movement, never more shocked. Only her fingers clawed upon the stone, holding firm.

  A ravaged whisper escaped, Dragonsoul? Is it you, Dragonsoul?

  My precious Humansoul, said the Dragoness.

  The voice was Dragonsong over misty terrace lakes; the Amethyst Dragon facing her was perfect in every detail. In her Dragon form, Aranya was a slender female fledgling, her scales having a mesmerising, semi-translucent gemstone quality about them, as though amethyst had unaccountably become infused with Dragon scale-armour–Aranya had never seen herself from quite this perspective. Separate, but one. Here but also there. Every hair on her head, every note of her heart’s Dragonsong yearned for that other-manifestation, yet what burst from her mouth was distressingly inane.

  You can’t be me. You … you’re–

  The Dragoness’ eye-fires mellowed to a rich yellow. We are what, Aranya-of-my-soul? Not what we expected?

  You can’t be perfect! This isn’t real! This isn’t me–I’m wounded, broken, ugly …

  The Amethyst Dragoness reached for her. Oh, Aranyi, if you would only believe–

  Fake. Fraud! IMPOSTER!!

  Her battle-roar blasted Human-Aranya backward. She tumbled into space, screaming, Dragonsoul!

  The muzzle peering over the mountaintop was that of a Yellow-White Dragon. I’ll help you, Aranya. Huge, pale wings spread against the storm, another ghastly blow to the pit of her stomach. Come to me, little Dragoness.

  No …

  Thoralian dived into the void, yet he was in no hurry to catch the flailing, plummeting Princess of Immadia. Call for your Dragoness, he jeered. Expend your pitiful breath, you wasted, accursed fool. I’ve stolen her just as I will steal your soul …

  No!

  Endless falling!

  Screaming, wailing–Ardan!

  Aranya woke in the heated cage of a Dragon’s paw, pressed against his muzzle! She landed a wild, shattering blow upon the side of his jaw.

  “Flaming windrocs!” growled the Shadow Dragon, reflexively casting her aside with several added execrations for the punch.

  Transforming mid-fall, the Amethyst Dragoness caught herself with a wing-snap. Another set of clothing fell in shreds around her. She had slept inside Leandrial’s newly armoured jaw. For the first time since entering the Rift-Storm, the drain upon her magic seemed greatly diminished.

  “Stupid woman, I was only trying to comfort you,” he added, feeling his jawbone.

  “Sorry–aye, I’m sorry!” Aranya hated the tenor of his gaze. Did he fear her lack of control? She began to turn away, then steeled herself. “Did I hurt you, Ardan?”

  “No!”

  “Well, I definitely hurt myself,” she said, wringing her paw.

  “Let me guess. Bad dream? Like having Kylara try to sharpen a scimitar upon my head? Curse it, Aranya, I think you did–something’s loose.”

  He did not flinch, but neither did he bend from a posture of stiff-legged outrage as Aranya reached up with her paw. She tried not to touch him too tenderly. Even so, the oath-magic arrived in a flash of lightning that sparked from her palm to his face.

  Hairline fracture, she whispered.

  Thou art yet my Dragonsong, he replied.

  Wretched Dragon! All three of her hearts set off on a crazy gallop. Aranya stuttered, A-A-Ardan … I’ll … heal you. Aye. Hold still.

  His wing curved over her back. What does holding still gain a Dragon?

  A Princess’ undivided attention, she returned pertly. And, no more undeserved punishment. Sorry.

  He drawled, The thoughts I’m having about you right now, Amethyst-eyes, you should punch out a few fangs in the bargain. You know, it doesn’t entirely fill a Dragon with confidence when the Fire of Fires, the most ancient draconian earthquake-muncher himself, says his farewells with the air of glumly shooing us off to the executioner.

  You felt the same? she asked. She could not trust herself to say anything more in the face of his ardour. Why would he not just stop? Leave her alone?

  Aye. Armour or no amour, I suspect we’re in for it this time–not that we have any choice in the matter, do we?

  Aranya champed her fangs at nothing in particular. According to dear Aunty Dragonfriend, we’ll just dance our way through, rainbows over the Isles–

  –Shadow chasing Starlight. His fire-eyes gleamed down at her.

  For a gruff old warrior, you aren’t half the sappy old balladeer sometimes, she returned, rolling her eyes to express droll humour. Dampen the oath-magic, ignore its seductive call … she asked, When are you planning to turn properly barbarian on me, you bone-chewing, muscle-popping Western Isles popinjay?

  When I first see dawn gild the skies over Immadia–if I might safely compare thee to an Island, Immadia! Her expression triggered guffaws from the Shadow Dragon. He said, Somehow, I feel my paws tread unsafe ground …

  Their laughter woke Ri’arion, Zuziana and Sapphire. Aye, it was dawn. Time to fly the Rift-Storm.

  * * * *

  The beat of Leandrial’s tail chased them urgently into the fires once more. The Foam-Riders had brought them as far and low as they dared. Turbulent titian waterfalls buoyed the Land Dragoness on the final leg of their journey through the Rift, one hundred and thirty leagues to the relative safety of the impossible deeps beyond.

  Encased in flexible metal armour, the disruptive magic was muted almost to nonexistence within her mouth, but Leandrial’s sight showed them metal already beginning to b
oil off her muzzle and flanks. Not boiling physically, Zuziana noted aside to Ri’arion, but magically. Perhaps degenerating or decomposing was a better word, his mind suggested. They understood the process better now, but even with magical shielding imbuing the metal with additional cohesive factors, there was no way they could halt the process with their Sky-Fires-based capabilities–unless they developed a taste for urzul, Ardan muttered darkly.

  Zuziana lent her strength to Ri’arion, who sat cross-legged beside her in a meditative posture, concentrating deeply on the mind-meld with Leandrial. Slight change to slipstreaming, he directed. One percent improvement.

  Leandrial accelerated, the beat of her legs changing fractionally according to the monk’s instruction. He had no need to help her with his developing Kinetic ability at this stage. Instead, Ri’arion focussed on power output and reducing friction. The Land Dragoness’ mighty furnaces roared higher as she charged as if into battle, at maximal output, even shutting her eye-cannon so that she could focus every iota of effort upon swimming the storm.

  An hour passed. Two. The fires grew choppy, knocking them about severely, tossing them a mile upward before dropping the Land Dragoness into an abyss beyond.

  Zip said suddenly, You’re like the ultimate Dragonship engine, Leandrial. We’ve heard meriatite furnace engines aplenty, haven’t we, Aranya? You’re a living engine, magnificent and powerful beyond imagining. So fly, Leandrial! Fly!

  Rough laughter spread through Leandrial’s being. Aye, little one? She surged through the billows with renewed strength, her legs pumping in concert. Like this?

  They swooped. Aranya-Ardan locked in as planned, lending the Land Dragoness wings of white-fires. She encouraged, Strength to your paw, Leandrial!

  Even Sapphire joined in, her presence a tiny spark of light.

  Leandrial ploughed through a mighty upwelling at her top speed, sheeting streamers of crimson and green-blue fire from her flanks like a leviathan breaching from a terrace lake. Through Ardan’s Shadow they watched the outer world seething with greater and greater violence, colours painted now in livid tangerine and sheeting rufescent flame, explosions coming thick and fast, searching with every sense for what they knew must come.