by Marc Secchia
Zuziana was debating throwing a properly draconic temper-tantrum at this point, when Ri’arion brought the conversation around full circle.
The monk said, “I propose that we follow your Dragon-sense and see where it leads us. Logic is often linked to Balance and as you rightly point out, logic has availed us little thus far. What is needed is a grain of Imbalance, methinks. My Zuziana is just the Dragoness to bring that about.”
“Er … how?” asked the Azure Dragoness, uncertain if she detected a whiff of compliment, or a nasty rodent-like odour beneath Ri’arion’s words.
“Your talent for mischief creates Imbalance,” Ri’arion grinned.
Definitely the latter.
With a dignified sniff, she replied, “The only Imbalance that exists around lies between your ears, my very dear but sadly deluded bipedal life-form of the masculine persuasion. Allow Leandrial and I to bedazzle you with the mysteries of feminine intuition, that most Balance-honouring of all the senses.”
He bowed gravely. “Logic is Balance. Illogic is Balance. How do you propose to resolve this conundrum?”
The Dragoness pursed her lips. “It is only a conundrum to lesser minds.”
“Oh?”
“What is illogical about intuition, Ri’arion? Unless your methods of proof are so rigid as to exclude the admission based on some preconceived notion of testability.”
Ri’arion flexed his neck cheerfully. “Why, a rare woman with whom I can debate philosophy! See, I knew I hadn’t married you solely for your incomparable smile. This is bound to be a fascinating side-trip in entirely the wrong direction to the impassable Mesas. But–” he forestalled Zip’s irascible growling with a hand placed perilously on the fiery end of her muzzle “–I am always open to correction. Grumpy when corrected, naturally, but open to the possibility.”
Thus, they travelled directly westward for five straight days across the northernmost reaches of Herimor, braving an under-Cloudlands storm, a feral Water-Runner and three encounters with Thoralian’s Land Dragon forces, and after much philosophical debate, discovered a situation that made Ri’arion distinctly grumpy.
“What did you call them?” huffed the monk.
“Blast-Runners,” Leandrial clarified. “Foot for foot, arguably the deadliest of the Land Dragon Clans. They’re famously cantankerous. Just like monks.”
To hear the Land Dragoness chortling up an earthquake at her own joke made everyone inside her mouth laugh too.
Ri’arion said, “So we’re just going to defeat the fifty Mist-Runners having a gentle disagreement with said Blast-Runners, make friends and sail on down through the Northern Kahilate?”
As they peered out of the slit gap between Leandrial’s teeth, a brilliant flash lit the battle, showing a swirling melee of bluish Mist-Runners surrounding a tight knot of the much smaller, luminous violet Blast-Runners. A faraway explosion came to ears and ear-canals as a dull thud.
“That’s three less Mist-Runners,” said Leandrial, matter-of-factly.
“What’s the plan?” asked Tari.
“Mist-Runners are biters, with a touch of Harmonic magic, but no eye-cannon like my Clan,” said Leandrial. “I say you little ones go distract them, and I’ll come in fast from below and ambush any you deign to leave for me. We then join together and rescue those Blast-Runners. They’re untainted.”
Distraction or bait, Zip wondered privately as Dragon and Rider stormed out of Leandrial’s mouth, followed by twenty-four battle-ready individuals from Tari’s Dragonwing. Ri’arion helped the weaker Dragons form their camouflage shields.
Seven miles off, pressed against a vast, shadowy escarpment, the so-called ‘minnows’ engaged the compact, salamander-like Blast-Runners as if seeking to cut individuals out of the compact mass. The Mist-Runners attacked in tight groups of two or three individuals, each one and a half to two thousand feet long, but their quarry held together with tenacity that was frankly astonishing, given the disparity in size–almost as if they were one mind. Meantime, Leandrial’s wash bobbed them about as the huge Dragoness dived to take up her position.
Five minutes passed.
Now, said Tari.
The Azure Dragoness took up a flanking position on the Green Shapeshifter’s starboard side, with Brityx to port and Tux’tarax a muzzle-length behind and above Tari. The rest of the Dragonwing formed a dense wedge around them, adjusting to keep clear wingtips and an open field of fire.
BOOM! The Mist-Runners dodged as though slapped by an invisible hand, but not before one lost its head and another, split in half, raised a dying howl that was audible five miles off.
Slow-firing but deadly, Ri’arion commented, his mind filled with strategic computations. Imagine that power magnified? Or focussed upon a different vector?
You’re the one being distracted, not them, Zip sniped.
I promise to ogle thy impertinent haunches later, Remoy, he grinned, drawing a sharp but amused reproof from Brityx.
Tari counted down, Three, two, one …
The Dragonwing shook the torpid air with their powerful challenges. Fighting under-Cloudlands was an idea none of them had ever envisaged, but Ri’arion and Leandrial had taken the time to instruct them while Thoralian’s Dragonwings fruitlessly watched the Islands floating above. They closed in with a steady sweep, not at their top speed, aiming to draw Mist-Runners into the open. It worked. A dozen of the carnivorous lizards peeled away from the battle, co-ordinating their movements with guttural cries and clear surprise at being faced by Lesser Dragons. Fangs flashed in the semidarkness. Harmonic magic probed, but Ri’arion had them shielded tighter than a Dragonship battened down for a storm.
Try not to become a morsel, Brityx said drolly to Zuziana, eyeing the enemies’ fangs with respect.
Mighty Dragoness, I shall slip between their fangs and tear their tongues out by the roots.
I never understood the attraction of having a Rider like the Dragon Rider forces stationed–well, across the Vassal States but especially in Wyldaroon–until I saw the strength of your meld with this Fra’aniorian Enchanter, said Brityx, with a throaty laugh. The Thoralians of old were never enamoured of Dragon Riding, regarding them as a plague or an aberration, and a threat to Shapeshifter dominance of the Lesser Dragonkind. Why form a mutualistic relationship with a species one sees as needing to be stamped out, or at least, held in abject slavery to draconic rulership?
History repeated, said Zuziana, shuddering. I was once Human.
Tari snorted, You were never Human. You’re a Shapeshifter.
I am a Shapeshifter made, not born, said Zuziana, explaining about Aranya’s tears before she thought the better of spilling that secret.
The Dragons around them shook their muzzles in astonishment, and Brityx murmured, Wondrous indeed are the ways of Star Dragonesses.
Aye, but Aranya had Named Ri’arion and bidden him follow her! Zip’s paws clenched jealously. Arrogant Immadia, tromping about in all her pomp, expecting the Island-World to swoon at the merest flash of her scales–only, Aranya’s first thought as a Dragoness had been to save her Remoyan friend from Sylakia’s Tower. Zip hated that wheedling, envious inner voice as much as she hated being little Zuziana, the oft-overlooked. Aranya did not mean to overshadow; besides, she was loyal to a fault. Best friends with a star, Zip? A blemished star …
Battle-cries shocked her out of her cesspit of unworthy reflections.
The Azure held back slightly, shaping a lightning-bolt in her mind as she allowed her powers to taste battle, to imbibe the roaring of fireballs and the air trembling as if in fright as the Dragonwing launched their attacks, to scent Mist-Runner blood and to know the chittering, oily presence of the Theadurial concealed within their flesh, linked to the spinal column and brain-stem of these luckless beasts. So many infected! Leandrial said she had never known such a state of affairs in her four centuries of life.
Zip picked a target. SSSKKIIISSSS!!
A Mist-Runner jerked horribly as his muscles locked up i
n spasms induced by electrical overload.
BOOM! BOOM!
Light flashed from below, carving up the Mist-Runners before they knew what had hit them. Harmonic shock-waves belted the Lesser Dragons’ bodies, but Ri’arion drew them together with the steel of his mental presence. Tari’s group closed with the nearest Mist-Runner, targeting its head and three eyes. Acid! Fire! Lightning! Brityx’s shaped lava-bolt exploded on impact, knocking out one of the beasts before light flashed again from below, finishing the job in a flesh-vaporising flash.
The Mist-Runners scattered with gruff barks of alarm.
The Blast-Runner group gave them a rousing send-off, pulverising five departing tails with a perfectly synchronised psychic discharge, while Leandrial cleaned up the stragglers. By the time she was done, only two or three Mist-Runners escaped.
Withering cowards! snarled Leandrial.
The Blast-Runners turned with the same peculiar timing as the Land Dragoness approached. Up close, Zuziana thought, they were only a little larger than her. The largest individuals approached sixty feet. Their hides were a perfectly smooth, eye-watering violet hue that almost screamed ‘venomous!’ Certainly, the opposite of disguise.
Then, thirty-one sets of eyes blinked in chorus and Zip’s scales crawled. What?
Leandrial seemed unperturbed. Inhaling so mightily that the Blast-Runners had to backpedal or face being sucked into her nostrils, she cried in audible Dragonish, May the scent of blast-power ever char thy nostrils, explosive kin!
A decent bid to deafen them all.
Thirty-one muzzles bowed as one. I honour thee, greatly aged one. I am the Thunderous Thirty, the most explosive independent troop of Blast-Runners south of the Rift!
BLAST-FIRES FOREVER! roared Leandrial. This time, Ri’arion dampened her enthusiasm. Still, Zip’s wings shuddered as though caught by storm winds.
They fired a thirty-one mind-cannon salute upward, well away from the curious Lesser Dragons. Still, fangs rattled and wings flared in shock. Wow! The Azure observed inquisitively. So, they were a communal mind? Extraordinary, the level of melding she sensed within them–far beyond anything she and Ri’arion had achieved so far.
The Welkin-Runner inclined her muzzle. Who is your Primacy?
One Blast-Runner made a swirling gesture with his left forepaw. Blast-honour scorch your nostrils, great one. You are deeply cognizant of our ways. Are you the Primacy of these kindred species? His speech was given in sharp staccato bursts, like drums rattling to foreign rhythms.
Nay, I am the … federation leader, Leandrial replied, clearly translating with care for cross-cultural clarity. These are federated creatures with loose non-controlling mind-links characterised by shared purpose and practical imperatives.
Except for this pair, said the Primacy, waving a talon toward Zuziana and Ri’arion.
They are roost-mates and mind-mates when they choose, said Leandrial.
They follow the excellence of our model, the Primacy boasted. You are the young-mother-nurturer for all these?
Aye, I am. Opening her mouth, Leandrial showed them the hatchlings tumbling over her tongue. When they noticed all the attention, the tussling hatchlings squealed in surprise and dived for shell-mothers or flexed their muscles bravely, trying to look large and important. Our enemies sought to destroy these younglings and many eggs, and they would have succeeded save for the brave actions of this Azure Shapeshifter known as Zuziana, and her mighty-in-magic mate, named Ri’arion.
What is your purpose here? rapped the Primacy. You saved our Thunderous Thirty. We are not ungrateful.
I would ally you to my federation and heap massively explosive blast-honour upon the cannonade of your future deeds, Leandrial replied directly.
Oh? Describe this blast-honour, aged one. I shall consider your proposal.
Zuziana almost chuckled aloud as thirty-one openly sceptical muzzles spoke like a class of Remoyan schoolchildren reciting their lessons. The huge Welkin-Runner took another cavernous breath, and launched into a rendition of the deeds, exploits and glories of the magnificent quest she had dedicated her fire-life to, delivered in a flowery style suited to the most loquacious, adjective-happy balladeer. Zuziana was the ‘irrepressible Welkin-Runner of the skies’, Leandrial crowned Ri’arion ‘King of the monk-Enchanters of ancient Fra’anior’ and Aranya became ‘the glorious starsong of the heavens’. Beginning with her reasons for leaving Herimor, the Land Dragoness skilfully laid out the history and many trials and triumphs of their quest to defeat Thoralian, return the First Egg to its rightful home at Fra’anior, and restore the Dragon Rider Academy of Jeradia and by extension, the races of Lesser Dragons and Shapeshifters to the North.
Three hours of non-stop story-spinning followed. Zip very badly wanted to turn Ri’arion over her knee for chuckling periodically at her twitches of impatience. Sudden cries of oath-fires and a celebratory cannonade startled her into paying attention.
Oh, time to leave? she grumbled.
O Dragoness of mighty snoozing, her Human chuckled.
I was not snoozing! I am … well, a little more tired than usual. Nothing a decent nap won’t fix.
Ha, said the inner voice. Naps and constant snacking. Must be all this trotting around strange parts of Herimor. Are we a growing little Dragoness?
The Azure flexed her wings as best she could. About ruddy time I added a few inches.
Ri’arion, evidently unawares of this soul-deep conversation between her two Shifter forms, replied, Aye, Princess. Aren’t we glad one of us pays attention to the nuances of protocol?
You don’t pay me for those skills, said the Azure Dragoness, managing to turn her statement into a lewd proposal. Ha. Another day, another monkish tongue-tied moment. She was so good at this. And her Dragoness was so awfully modest.
Leandrial and Ri’arion conferred and quickly proposed a new travel arrangement that suited the slow-moving Blast-Runners perfectly. The ‘Thunderous Thirty’ took up residence in Leandrial’s relatively modest neck-ruff–modest in that it could shelter entire villages–which protected the single-minded Thirty from the wash of her passage. The Lesser Dragons retreated to her mouth. The beat of the Land Dragoness’ tail picked up as she poured southward.
The Land Dragoness immediately fell to interrogating Ri’arion about his strategy.
He said, “Our first priority should be to track down Aranya. The geography, as I understand it, is that West of us lie the Mesas–a messy, broken wilderness which is too high and cold for most habitation, save subdraconic ice-adapted species. There are Icewurms, ice-dragonets, furry Dragons called Ice-Runners, and a host of other legendary beasts. The Mesas describe the boundary of the Kahilate all the way South to Entorixthu’s Cleft, which lies at the end of a kind of pocket called the Sea of Dragons’ Tears. That is one possible route into Wyldaroon. Extremely difficult for Land Dragons, however.”
“Impassable,” said Leandrial.
Ri’arion smiled thinly. “Aye? So, the Mesas then curve in a great ‘S’-bend, first North, then back South past the Vassal States sandwiched on the border between the Kahilates. That route adds a mere two thousand seven hundred leagues to the journey to the Straits of Hordazar, named for the Blue Ancient Dragon. It’s the traditional route into Wyldaroon. The only worm in that fruit is that Hordazar is a perfect location for the Marshal to ambush us. One of him will be waiting for us there.”
“However, the Vassal States are likely allies, besides boasting the largest population of Dragon Riders in Herimor,” Leandrial pointed out. “We’ve no guarantee Aranya landed in Wyldaroon, although my calculations–as discussed–appear tolerably accurate, if philosophically troubling.”
Zip growled unhappily, not for the first time and certainly not for the last regarding the subject of Her Starship the Amethyst Wonder, whom she missed worse than her Dragoness would miss her third heart. Plainly put, they had no idea how Aranya might have survived a trip into low orbit, where she had apparently languished for four weeks bef
ore abruptly making alternative travel plans for a region of Herimor that lay beyond the backside of beyond. How she regretted the loss of the gruff Western Isles warrior and his oath-magic link with her best friend! He would know the truth–but where the volcanic hells was that Shadow lurking?
Her Humansoul suggested, Perhaps a Shadow Dragon might best be found by starlight?
The Azure chuckled inwardly. Certainly a romantic idea, Humansoul.
Aloud, she said, “How close do these Vassal States lie to the Straits of Hordazar?”
“Eight hundred and twenty leagues,” said Tari. “Interesting lands, those. The rule of the Southern Kahilate lies loosely upon that fringe. We’d pass your favourite Cluster, the Inscrutables.”
“I’ve my own handbag-sized Inscrutable right here,” said the Azure, patting Ri’arion’s head fondly.
He took a playful, Dragon-like snap at her paw. “Alright. I’ve a plan that shall whisk the art of the inscrutable right out from under the Thoralians’ collective muzzles.”
“Whatever that means,” Zip said tartly.
“Hmm. Upon reflection, I’m not entirely certain either.” The monk rubbed his bald pate. “It’s risky, however.”
At least fifty Dragons snorted fire at this statement.
“Moving swiftly on,” said the monk. “First, we round up the isolated pockets of Land Dragons left scattered around this province of the Northern Kahilate. We charge South as if aiming for the Vassal States. We don’t skulk–I’ve a few ideas about that, and about how best to use our Blast-Runner allies and the Lesser Dragons to help Leandrial punch through enemy lines.” Suddenly, his mien was as fierce as that of any of the surrounding Dragons. “Then, if we’ve gathered enough allies, we split our force, one group to make the dash for Wyldaroon, the other to make a concerted effort to join the allied Land Dragons near the Vassal States. The medium-term plan is to bring the two forces together in a pincer movement–one group striking from the North, while the other makes a reverse pass through the Straits of Hordazar from the West, attacking the underbelly of Thoralian’s forces. We force the Thoralians to fight a war on two fronts.”
