by Marc Secchia
On the face of it, Zip found no fault with the broad brush-strokes of his strategy. There was Leandrial’s objection to Entorixthu’s Cleft, however, which remained to be addressed. Her hearts thrummed joyfully in her throat. Anything that took her closer to finding Aranya felt … right. So right.
Ri’arion cleared his throat and rasped, “Consider my words, noble Dragons. Let us put this strategy to the test. Well is it said that he who holds the First Egg, holds power. But I counsel that he who holds the Star Dragoness, holds the best and only key to that power. Friends, I ask you to bind your fires to the hunt for Aranya. Let us forge a new destiny in the fires of this war.”
“To Wyldaroon,” whispered Zip.
“No,” said Leandrial. “TO BATTLE!”
Chapter 24: A Princess Purchased
LEaving the Forbidding, jagged massif of the Mesas in her wake, Leandrial and her disparate force churned southward with renewed purpose. This area of Herimor was a wasteland, with sparsely-vegetated Islands hanging low above the Cloudlands, trapped in the quaternary sub-cyclical weather system of Northern Herimor, sluggish doldrums confining a churning mass of resource-poor Islands. Many Islands sank below the gritty grey Cloudlands due to that slow churn, making navigation treacherous even for the Land Dragoness.
On the third morning, they ambushed half a dozen infested Welkin-Runners attacking two youngsters, who must have become isolated from the main Welkin-Runner Clan. The parasitic Theadurial drove Leandrial’s erstwhile Clan-kin at once to battle. A brief, sharp skirmish ensued. Those Runners that closed with Leandrial were ambushed by the Thunderous Thirty. Those further afield were harried by Tari’s battle-group of Lesser Dragons; being so much more manoeuvrable than the Land Dragons, they could harass them almost at will, but only the strongest shielding could save a Lesser Dragon caught in the blast of an eye-cannon. They lost four of Tari’s command in the opening salvo.
Then, there was a joyous reunion of Leandrial with her distant kin.
Zuziana paused near Leandrial’s haunches, panting. Oh, I feel … she threw up without warning. Oh dear. Ri’arion, we need to spend some time aloft. Detoxify … gaah, this stomach!
He patted her shoulder fondly. Don’t fret, petal. Probably just a taste of Herimor. I had that vile cold last week, remember?
Ah, the miserable man-fever, she observed, drawing a warm chuckle from her husband.
Having tucked away a few mouthfuls of bitter, thistle-like herbs the Dragons foraged for on Brityx’s orders, Zuziana winged southward with the Dragonwing above the Cloudlands for the balance of that day. To their right wingtips, the relentlessly black, column-fluted massif of the Mesas stretched skyward–the result of recent basalt flows, Ri’arion said, geologically speaking. Soon, Brityx pointed out several live volcanoes perched atop the mighty escarpment, cracked away in aeons past by Hordazar the Night-Blue, so legend told, who had betrayed Fra’anior and attempted to create his own separate Dragondom in Herimor’s far West. The Mesas were still growing.
Ever curious, Ri’arion asked, “What happened to that … ah, Dragondom? The maps never show it.”
Brityx recounted a legendary war between the Ancient Dragons which had sundered Herimor. Fra’anior, his smaller shell-brother Amaryllion, and Immadior the White for whom Immadior’s Sea was named, had trapped Hordazar and his kin-betrayers behind the Mesas and left them to starve. “Dragons don’t take kindly to betrayal,” she finished darkly. “It rings harshly upon the ear-canals now, but we must remember, those tumultuous times were subject to the rule of claw and fang. Fra’anior’s rule was regarded as surprisingly beneficent, even treacherously so, by many of his First Egg Dragon-kin. He famously loved Humans; the Pygmy peoples above all. That you seek to succour this Pygmy Dragoness must generate white-fires to warm every heart of the Great Onyx.”
The Azure yawned, thinking of Aranya’s recounting how Fra’anior had reacted to her apparent betrayal–wrongly, but viciously all the same. “How do you think Shapeshifters came to be, Brityx?”
“By the gift of Hualiama Dragonfriend,” said Brityx.
“How? By her tears?” asked Zip.
The powerful Dragoness regarded Zip with a soft, lemon-yellow tint to her eyes. “No, little one. By the gift of her fire-soul. It is said that when Hualiama breathed her Gift into a person, it roused their inner fires. To adherents of Line-Bound thinking, it is blasphemous to consider that Humans possess fires like unto Dragons, or that Shapeshifters can arise spontaneously, which the monk noted, occurs in the North. Their avowed goal is to procreate widely in order that all Dragonkind and Humankind might become pure–that is, that they might become Shapeshifters like us. I would keep your friend’s tears secret, here in Herimor. To act as the Dragonfriend? That is … heresy. Even, perhaps–or especially so–for a Star Dragoness.”
Hualiama had breathed soul-fires into people? Zip goggled and stretched sleepily. Great leaping Islands! What a gift, even if it might be heresy–and her Amethyst friend clearly followed in those mighty paw-prints.
Brityx added, “Now, you haven’t stopped yawning since midday, Zip. Why don’t you and your monk ride upon my back? I’ve never had a Rider, but considering what you have done for my kith and kin, I would be honoured to bear you aloft. You should sleep.”
Her warm, mother-Dragon manner bore no refusal. Shortly, Zip slept in Human form. She dreamed of her Human and Dragoness hugging each other warmly and doing silly dances all night. How odd.
Come morning, Zip found herself tucked up in Leandrial’s cheek-pocket with a trio of Dragon eggs. So beautiful. She touched their surfaces wonderingly. Like jewels. If Dragon lore held they were so tough that no ordinary force could break through the shell from the outside, how had the Heripedes and Jagok Lizards penetrated them before? Strange.
Where was Ri’arion? Zip stood up, and promptly launched the contents of her stomach over the eggs. Oddly, she immediately felt better. How could she clean up? It seemed wrong to leave the eggs sitting in a messy puddle. Zip slipped out of the pocket and found herself nose-to-muzzle with Brityx.
The Dragoness smiled like a cat, narrowing her eyes as her lips curved upward. “Slept well, little one?”
“Ah, yes?”
“Ri’arion was worried. You slept thirty-nine hours, right through another battle. We have gained six Living Springs. Nice Dragons, but very old, so they aren’t so full of water anymore. But they tell the most marvellous stories.”
Zuziana tugged her hair self-consciously about her body. “Why are you looking at me with that gleam in your eye, Dragoness? Am I not scarred–”
“Not that. How’s the tum, little one?”
“Wobbly.” She grimaced. “Do I have to eat more of those herbs? Mercy, I could eat a whole ralti sheep. I feel bilious but starved at the same time. Is that normal, Brityx? Am I ill?”
“Perfectly normal.”
Zuziana stared at the huge Dragoness. Apricot colours in the eye. Totally unreadable smile. Belly-fires purring like a busy blacksmith’s forge. What under the heavens was she … Brityx was up to something. She touched her stomach self-consciously. She really felt quite peculiar.
“A little bulge there?”
Annoyed, Zip growled, “No, flat as a pancake. I’m a spare sort of girl. Could do with a few bulges elsewhere, but Garthion–”
“Strange flutterings inside?”
“No, nausea.”
“Well, I suppose it’s probably too early for flutterings. But your clever monk could probably tell. Ri’arion! Come here, would you?”
“Tell what?” Zip demanded.
“This mysterious illness,” said the Dragoness, growing less comprehensible by the second. Zip opened her mouth to protest, and promptly doubled over to start retching again. Ugh. Stomach shilly-shallies. Whatever could she have eaten?
Ri’arion trotted over. Brityx had her lie down on her back; Zip tried to ask for clothing but was shushed by the Dragoness. Shortly, the monk was examining her stomach while the Remoyan
Princess diffidently rearranged her hair to cover the essentials–one bonus of having Shapeshifter locks. Much more, and she could start selling hanks of hair for spare cloaks.
After thirty seconds or so, the monk’s expression grew considerably more intent than before. Zip yelped in shock as he slumped over her stomach in a dead faint!
“Thought so,” said Brityx, appearing vastly contented.
“He’s heavy!” Zip complained. “Can you help me shift him?” But Ri’arion was already showing signs of revival. She stroked his cheek. “Ri’arion? Monk-love, are you alright? Ri–”
“Whaa!” he spluttered, leaping off her as though burned. She had never seen his eyes appear wilder. “I didn’t … hurt? No? You’re alright, my petal-flower darling girl?”
Zip said acidly, “Has everyone gone stark raving moons-mad? Brityx, explain yourself this instant. Ri’arion, can you stop wringing your hands? Flying monkeys, man, what’s the matter with you?”
Ri’arion spluttered, “She’s p-p-p …”
“Aye,” purred the Dragoness.
He held up three fingers.
“Aye, clever man. No more fainting, alright?” said Brityx.
“No,” said the monk.
CAN SOME DRAGON KINDLY EXPLAIN? roared Zuziana, managing to produce a flare of lightning, and a mini-roll of thunder that silenced every Dragon in the cavern of Leandrial’s jaw.
Brityx was enjoying herself so much, Zip dearly wanted to hit her. Now she knew how Aranya felt when people tugged her hawser. “Hearken, little one,” crooned the Dragoness. “Everyone! Lend your ear-canals to this exciting news! I’ve a mathematical problem for you, Zuziana–add up unusual sleepiness, hunger and cravings, plus a wobbly tummy, and what do you get?”
Zip bit her lip for fear she’d shout something truly regrettable. “Sheer bewilderment?”
The Dragoness rolled her fire-eyes with an exasperated snort. Very slowly and pointedly, she asked, “Doth mine ear-canals thrill to the fluttering of teensy wings in your womb?”
Finally, the twin suns dawned upon her Island. Zip glared at her stomach as if it had risen up to slap her cheek a resounding blow. “Uh … mercy! How did that happen?”
Leandrial’s maw resounded with hoots of laughter and celebratory bugles.
* * * *
Charge!
They charged along with skill, Zuziana thought. Ri’arion was such a bright boy when he was taking orders from his wife. She beamed at him.
The monk sniffed, “Ruddy little genius. Remind me never again to take the deviousness of Remoyans for granted. Telepathic ventriloquism? However did you come up with that Island-slapping, Moons-jangling idea?”
Zip smirked and made monkey noises.
“Right, monkey-mischief,” laughed the most gorgeous hus-bandit in all the Island-World. “Those Theadurial-controlled Land Dragons out there are mighty peeved. Thoralian’s forces are chasing phantoms down every abyss under Herimor or scrapping with each other because they believe they’ve been betrayed, and the good ones join us daily. Two hundred and sixteen allies is the latest count, Snoozy Zuzi. Not counting the nine additional Blast-Runners we picked up an hour ago.”
“Fourteen,” said Leandrial.
“And we have this current sweeping us along at a sweet eleven leagues per hour–”
“Fifteen point two,” said Leandrial.
The monk glowered sagely. “Meaning we cover four hundred and ten point four leagues per day without even trying. We’re outrunning the current at present thanks to shaped shields, and thanks to the Azure Miracle, we don’t even have to fight battles.”
“Except for yesterday,” Leandrial noted.
Ri’arion elected not to lose his rag. “That was a scuffle.”
Clearly amused, the Land Dragoness rumbled, “Tomorrow, we shall split our forces. It is decided that we Welkin Runners, our original Thunderous Thirty and Tari’s Lesser Dragons shall attempt Entorixthu’s Cleft, since the monk has convinced us with his cunning schemes. The balance will try to cut through to reach the allied forces we detected near the Vassal States.”
“Are you alright, Zip?” asked Ri’arion, checking Human-Zip’s forehead with the back of his hand. “A bit clammy–”
“Mercy!” gasped Zip, and threw up over his left foot.
* * * *
Gangurtharr seized Aranya by the throat and squeezed wrathfully. “Fight me! You will fight! This is beyond dishonourable!”
“I will not fight a friend,” she choked out.
He hurled her against the arena wall. Aranya shielded, but the brutal impact still made her see white spots behind her eyelids. “Fight, you null-fires coward!”
“No.”
Gripping her tail, Gang whirled the Amethyst Dragoness around his head and executed his signature body-slam manoeuvre. She rebounded off the unforgiving stone, groaning, but did not lift a talon to protect herself.
The arena was packed. Two powerful Marshals had come to view the fights this day. Montorix had picked an ‘excellent bout’ for her, but both he and Gang had carefully managed not to mention who her listed opponent would be in mortal combat. Now, every creature in the arena booed and hissed and roared their disgust at her shameful display.
Let them. This was wrong.
I’LL KILL YOU! thundered Gangurtharr.
Then I shall die with my honour intact. Let it be.
The oath-magic settled between them as delicately as petals blown on a breeze. The wild, desperate light faded from Gangurtharr’s eyes. His paw unclenched, for his hearts had never been in the fight, Aranya realised. So, let the fates favour the bold, Aranya. I shall not fight you either.
The pitch of the crowd reached a rabid pitch as the massive Grey-Green stood down, genuflecting with his wings.
Aranya’s hide threatened to lift off her skull. Magnificent Gangurtharr!
Suddenly, there was a greater commotion, before silence rippled around the arena. Mentally-induced silence, she recognised.
“I declare the honour of the House of Montorix is a debased, broken vessel!” thundered an Orange-Red Shapeshifter Dragon. Aranya froze. That could not be. A two-headed Dragon? He looked as wide as two Dragons bolted together, which was close to the truth. “By the fires of true Dragonhood, I demand the satisfaction of arena combat against that putrid louse down there!”
His fore-talon picked out Aranya. FIGHT ME, LOUSE!
The crowd exploded in a frenzy of approval. Aranya shook her head. Quietly, to her alone, Gangurtharr said, Well, you certainly pick your battles, Scrap. That’s Tahootax the Terrible, once a Dragon of these Pits, now a Wing-Commander in Marshal Thoralian’s armies–as best I know. He’s probably out recruiting because they like to expend Gladiators as shock-troops. First into battle, first to die. Watch out for his mental capabilities. Beware his meriatite-fuelled explosive attack. It’s deadlier than your fireballs. He’s only the biggest, bloodiest brawler in all of Wyldaroon, so keep your wits sharp and your talons sharper.
He had not seen Leandrial.
The Gladiator-Dragon added, You can defeat him, Scrap. I know you have it within you.
With that, Gang retreated to the observation portholes. Bets raged amongst the crowd. No doubt, Marshal Montorix would be sniffing Dragon gold this day–but would the Great Dragon’s wing tilt for him, or for his enemy?
The two-headed Tahootax was so colossal, he could barely squeeze between the arena doors, and that only by twisting his shoulders sideways. But when he did, he did not wait for the announcer-Dragon to do more than clear his throat before he charged Aranya. She moved fluidly, but the mountain of Dragonflesh adjusted quicker than any Dragon she had ever faced. His shoulder struck true; the impact of her body cracked the arena wall.
Tahootax stood a head taller than Montorix and had to measure a jaw-dropping thirty feet wider across the shoulders, giving room for his two titanic heads. His body-shape made him resemble a squat wedge with two lethal, fang-lined caverns on one end and a powerful tail on th
e other, but she still recognised the similarly long, distinctive abdomen, akin to Thoralian’s unusual body structure. A relative?
Barely had she thought this, when a Dragon power snatched her up out of the dust and Tahootax whirled beneath, striking a devastating uppercut to her gut, talons fully extended. Her half-formed shield collapsed under a finely-synchronised, overwhelming mental strike. Aranya flew upward in a spray of golden Dragon blood and severed guts to strike the cage.
KAAABOOM!!
The tenfold amplification struck her a concussive blow.
Whiteness. Wisp-Dragons. The sweet flowering of white-fires around her body.
Izariela …
Regaining consciousness with a convulsive jolt, Aranya squirmed to her paws, her nostrils filled with the scents of cinnamon and the freshness of a starlit void. Nonetheless, a mewl of pain escaped her lips. She stood in a four-foot deep crater caused by the impact of her body. Tahootax had strolled off in a celebratory round of the arena, flexing his almighty shoulders and bellowing up a fine thunder.
Aranya promptly slapped him in the buttocks with a lightning bolt. Hey! Aren’t you forgetting something, you … uh, overgrown toad?
Mercy, when would she learn to insult a Dragon properly?
Tahootax whirled, both jaws dropping in astonishment. What?
She grinned like madcap Nak formulating a choice phrase. You dancing fool, are you the local comedian? Aranya flexed her shoulders and impishly waggled her hindquarters for good measure. Cotton-puff kisses are hardly the pith of draconic behaviour.
To her mounting astonishment she felt rattled, but never more alive.
That signature mental power she had sensed so keenly in Thoralian plucked her up again, but this time, Aranya was ready. She blinded Tahootax with a storm of magical petals. Accident? She had been aiming for a real storm, but edgy, low-pitched laughter burbled from her throat as she realised she had no idea what her powers were doing. What fun!
