Song of the Storm Dragon

by Marc Secchia

  “Why don’t we raise our own army, Leandrial?” Zip said.

  The monk said, “Why?”

  Zip said, “Because there’s only one sure way to pick up Aranya and reach the Inscrutables quickly and reliably. Under the Cloudlands. Fast.”

  “Why?” he repeated.

  “Time’s against us, leopard-man,” said Zip, aware from his half-smile that Ri’arion was testing his wife–a hazardous pursuit, her Dragonesque smile informed him. “It’s clear these armies and the Thoralians are converging on the First Egg. We need to move in force. Leandrial said that most Land Dragons in Wyldaroon are not infested by Theadurial. But if we’re held up fighting Thoralian here, then we’ll be too depleted to face him further ahead. Leandrial, as an Elder, can issue the call.”

  “Smuggle a Star Dragoness around the Island-World?” In the semidarkness of Leandrial’s mouth, Tari’s fangs gleamed a brilliant white. “And shift an entire Dragon army through the Straits beneath the Cloudlands, if this Marshal Huaricithe will join us? The idea has merit.”

  “A brilliant strategic move,” said Leandrial, unexpectedly effusive. “Once we reach the middle layers, I will initiate longwave communication. Now is the time for Land Dragons to rise and fight!”

  Then, they dived in search of the current, deep into an area of darkness below Wyldaroon. Soon the great Island-forests surrounded them, where myriad Islands floated below the Cloudlands, anchored by the great flat-bladed khaki forests through which the Shuk-Shuhukii ran as if guided along endless, winding hallways demarcated by nodules for Islands and sprawling nets of vegetation stretching in every dimension. Great Hammer-Runners and Serpent-Clan Dragons inhabited the forests in enormous numbers, appearing periodically to query the intruders; each time, Leandrial’s explanation flummoxed and enraged them, positively, as the Land Dragons responded to confirmation of the plight of their Eastern kin.

  Querulous Dragonsong began to swell for tens and hundreds of leagues about the deep-swimming Dragon army, like the rippling effect of Islands dropped into the Cloudlands. Soon, the gloomy halls alongside and behind were rife with the snaking, luminous orange Serpent-Clan and the mighty Hammer-Runners, whose heads were broader and harder than Leandrial’s, shaped almost exactly like the business end of the Sylakian war-hammers Zuziana remembered all too well, with a mouth of legendary, crushing power running the full width of the hammer portion of their heads.

  A full twenty-six hours the Land Dragons ran and swam and sang, until they approached the area where Leandrial had identified the magical disturbance at the fortress of Marshal Huaricithe, Aranya’s owner at best, and captor at worst.

  “Go aloft and secure the Amethyst by any means,” was the sum total of Leandrial’s instructions for her companions. “I will rally the Land Dragons. If you need help, call.”

  Call and Leandrial would raze the fortress. The Azure Dragoness smiled grimly at her monk. Aye.

  Zuziana launched out of the Dragoness’ mouth with Ri’arion upon her back and Tari’s Dragonwing gathered in close array. From three leagues’ depth they winged upward, first passing through the dense, tangled forests that linked the floating Islands in great rafts of vegetation, avoiding or shielding from the numerous eel-like predators, any one of which could have snaffled her up like a bird supping on a tasty insect. Then, the expansiveness of the deeps surrounded them, a brilliant blue-in-blue ocean apparently without end. Still they soared, taking care for decompression and detouring around the flotillas of sub-intelligent, flora-like Land Dragons that floated peaceably in their native realm, harvesting the bioluminescent bacteria and microscopic life-forms with long, sweeping strokes of their tentacle-nets, and speaking to one another in a language of gorgeous flowers that opened, closed and waved along their lengths.

  Leaving the flower-Dragons behind, they ascended directly, passing through the acidic wash of the opaque clouds and into the upper realm of Wyldaroon, shielding with every artifice known to Herimor Dragons. Tari did not know this area well, so it took them several hours to locate Marshal Huaricithe’s well-disguised fortress-complex amongst the Archipelagos floating between three and seven miles above the Cloudlands. Again, the characteristic tangled masses of Islands first roped together by ragions, then literally grown together, caused confusion as they attempted to navigate the extremely busy airspace without being detected.

  So many Lesser Dragons on the move, Ri’arion wondered.

  There’s been a major battle here, Tux’tarax added, pointing at blast-points on the side of a reddish sandstone Island. Fireballs. There, foliage destroyed by acid. Yet Leandrial gave an indication that Thoralian lurked further East–

  Pressuring these Dragons to essay the trap waiting in the Straits of Hordazar, Ri’arion realised. Thoralian plays his strategy. Above the Cloudlands or below, it’s all the same to him.

  Tari the Green purred, You even think like a Dragon. It’s uncanny.

  Blame it on the gorgeous flying rug, he teased.

  Testily, Zuziana said, It’s like before. Everyone wants a bite of Aranya. She rubbed her forepaws together. This smells of armies gathering. Why don’t we just fly in and introduce ourselves, Ri’arion?

  Because this Navy-Blue, Huaricithe, might just conscript Aranya’s luckless friends, too?

  Then I will.

  Not without your Rider, Ri’arion growled.

  Ooh, Mister Monk, is it you stirring my fires up there?

  He chuckled softly. I’ll do more than stir your fires, you wretch, if you plan to leave me behind again.

  Tari said, Alright, soul-bound lovers, let’s touch wingtips with this delegation.

  And with that, the Green Shapeshifter unshielded and winged off between the Islands, calling out a friendly greeting.

  Shortly, their relatively small Dragonwing tucked in behind the larger and much grander train of Marshal Guragiirr, a Yellow male of suitably impressive dimensions and bearing. They weaved between Islands overrun by a pernicious creeping vine with poisonous lavender flowers, apparently toxic even to Dragons, before crossing an open space patrolled by more Lesser Dragons than Zuziana had ever seen gathered in one place at one time. The level of scrutiny increased, but so did their surprise. Everyone seemed to know about Aranya the Assassin. Everyone expected to find this monumental champion at Huaricithe’s fortress; others whispered about the rumoured advent of a Star Dragoness, talking about her in whispers, with the greatest reverence. Only she could destroy Thoralian, they said.

  Shortly, they arrived at a tangled Archipelago more battered than most, finding Huaricithe’s fortress firmly on a war footing. After a further two hours of questions and barriers and guards and suspicion later, Zuziana the Azure was a pregnant, vastly annoyed and therefore decidedly dangerous Dragoness.

  “I’m her best friend, from Remoy. That’s North of the Rift,” she growled at the huge bruiser confronting her, Gangurtharr by name.

  “I’m a purple-headed slug passing as an S’gulzzi, robed in gossamer and starlight,” he agreed.

  “If you’d just mention my name–”

  “For the freaking twentieth time, Azure, the answer is ‘no’,” growled Gang. “I don’t care for pretty, whirling fire-eyes. I don’t care if your shell-uncle owns the suns. You’re only the sixty-first creature to request an audience with Her Worshipful Highness today, not counting the assassins who have a different type of audience in mind. No means no. And you can tell your bald-headed brolga-brain over there to stop trying to probe my mind.”

  Ri’arion folded his arms stiffly. “We’ll just call Aranya.”

  Gangurtharr flexed his oddly burgundy-tinged scales, suddenly transformed from a chunky middle-aged beast into a dangerous, muscled predator. Zuziana realised how very strong he likely was, and shelved her ideas of trying to trick him or nip past his forbidding bulk. He said, “Maybe I’ll just whistle down a moon. Aranya is shielded by ten Blue Dragons. And, she needs her sleep.”

  “You haven’t fallen in love with her, have you?” Ri�
��arion asked conversationally.

  Gang’s belly-fires ticked upward several notches. “No.”

  “Or fallen under the spell of her power?”

  “Listen closely, puny man,” snarled the Dragon, “before I sharpen my fangs on–”

  Zip interjected, “I’m pregnant, Gangurtharr. Do I need to tell you how cantankerous a pregnant Dragoness can be?”

  His gap-toothed grin widened. “Amply proven.”

  GRRRAAAARRGGH!!

  * * * *

  Aranya swam up from a very peculiar dream of her Dragoness hugging Zuziana, wondering if she had heard her best friend speaking. Surely not. Impossible, or not impossible if she simply missed her so sorely, she was starting to imagine the dulcet tones of the oversized blue wasp?

  Gang’s argumentative tones rumbled through the arboretum which had been given over to her as the only sleeping-space large enough for her to be entirely surrounded by Dragons, with enough space around her personal shield-troop for the Blues to deal with nasty specimens of Herimor life that specialised in assassination, such as the deadly poisonous, projectile-firing Scorpiolute that could climb sheer walls with its twelve insectoid legs, flatten its body into a one-inch gap, run faster than a furious Dragon and which possessed magical camouflage capabilities to boot. If that was not enough, she had just endured a spectacularly dull lecture by the Marshal’s scholars on expert Dragon-saboteurs and assassins, vipers, intelligent assassin spiders, poisons, toxic birds and flesh-mutilating insects, which framed their brief introduction to the more charming methods of murder, not to mention thousands of species of poisonous plants. On top of this toxic menagerie came sixteen major classes of Shapeshifters that specialised in the elimination of minor complications such as roving Star Dragons.

  As if Thoralian did not present her complications enough for one lifetime!

  Herimor was lethal.

  Aranya wandered over to the arboretum’s self-contained waterfall, powered by steam, apparently, and scrubbed her face vigorously. Alright, back to–

  GRRRAAAARRGGH!!

  The wide crysglass panels vaulting above her head vibrated in their casements. Aranya whirled with a pained wheeze. That bellow! She’d know the Princess of Remoy’s soothing roar anywhere! She ran. How she ran, dodging beneath the trees and skimming over the flagstones! There, in the crack of light beneath Gang’s substantial belly, she spied a trim set of sky-blue paws! Aranya screamed, Zuziana!

  Whang! The Immadian slammed face-first into the Blues’ shield and rebounded, crash-landing flat on her back.

  “Islands’ sakes!” She tasted blood. “Gang–Zuziana! Let me out. Let her in!”

  Mercy! Gangurtharr poked his muzzle through the doorway, goggling at her unravelled state. Aranya’s fingers returned from her forehead wet with blood. Great. Now she’d split another lesion, but what did she care? For Gang’s eyes bulged comically as the pointy skull-spikes of a certain Azure Dragoness inadvertently socked him firmly in the family treasures. Zip wriggled beneath his belly, causing Gang to thump his head on the wide lintel. His bellow was an ode to bruised machismo.

  As the Blues around the arboretum responded, the Immadian escaped the shield and crashed to her knees, scramble-crawling beneath Gang’s chunky neck, throwing herself upon whatever she could reach of Zuziana, sobbing, exclaiming and howling the overflow of her riotous heart. Aranya found herself squeezed on top of the Azure Dragoness’ muzzle, hugging her with both arms and legs as she stared right into her friend’s effervescent, bubbling eyes. Dragon joy in rainbow colours! Human laughter! Love! A paw squeezed through to cup Aranya’s head and back tenderly, stroking her cheek as if Zip beheld her Immadian friend for the very first time. They chuckled in one accord.

  Zip gasped, “Petal, it is you …”

  “Are you well, petal?” Aranya asked at the same time.

  “Actually, I’m quite nauseous,” the Remoyan blurted out. “But fine. Mostly in the mornings–”

  To her embarrassment, Aranya shrieked again. Dragoness-Aranya was rolling her fire-eyes, deep inside, but her Human playfully swatted her nose. Alright, I’m making a scene, Dragonsoul. Live with it.

  You’re precious, petal, laughed her Dragoness.

  “You are–”

  “Pregnant,” Zip confirmed.

  “Oh, Zip-Zip, that’s beyond awesome! Best news in all of Herimor! Best this century! How’s Ri’arion? Did he faint again?”

  “The freaking hells he did!” the monk shouted from behind Gang’s tail.

  “He fainted,” Zip confirmed. Yet there were shadows in the Azure’s eyes. Aranya’s mouth compressed into a pensive line as she stopped gushing and started looking. Zip protested, “I’m fine, honestly. I just toss my breakfast around at random intervals and sleep a lot.”

  “Triplets?”

  “Do Dragons have babies–eggs, I mean–some other way?”

  “I guess not,” replied the Immadian Princess, wondering for a fleeting second about her own heritage. “I kind of missed you–hope you noticed.”

  “The nose-hug and the windroc-screeching were somewhat telling,” Zip suggested slyly. “So, you need to tell me–what do Star Dragonesses do for fun in orbit, apart from just shining prettily?”

  “Where’s Ardan? He’s here too, right? And Sapphire? Did you find my precious–”

  Zuziana’s eye-fires darkened. “I’m sorry, Aranya.”

  “No! Oh, no, Sapphire …”

  Gang’s neck curved at a surprisingly acute angle to enclose the two Shapeshifter Dragonesses in the space between his neck and chest. He snorted gently, “I’ll gladly hand this one over to you, Azure. She’s trouble.”

  “Oh she is, is she?” Zip’s eyes gleamed brightly.

  “Although, my every Dragon-sense tingles with a sense that you might just be more mischief than your Star Dragon friend, Zuziana, which is Dragon-tonnage-significant.”

  Aranya said, “You’re right about that too, Gang.”

  Even Zuziana’s light-hearted giggling and a decidedly heated Dragon kiss that swamped the entire side of Aranya’s head, as they fell into their old, snarky ways, failed to convince. Aranya decided to watch her friend closely. And Ardan? Where in the Island-World could he be? She still could not sense his presence, but perhaps that was due to her wild, misbehaving magic. If Leandrial lurked below, then she would ask the venerable Land Dragoness for assistance in pinpointing Ardan’s location.

  Gangurtharr added, almost mournfully, “Accordingly, my prescient white-fires conclude that Thoralian’s days number few indeed. Come, Dragonesses. We must incite these Herimor Dragons to war. Did you bring reinforcements?”

  Zip batted his neck with a kittenish paw. “A few, noble Dragon. Some paltry eight thousand Land Dragons gather beneath your Island. And one unstoppable monk.”

  “All we’re missing, then, is the dragonets,” drawled Ri’arion. “And now’s when I say, noble Dragon, get your filthy mud-grubbers off my gorgeous wife!”

  Flexing his power, he levitated Gang into the lintel again. Thump!

  The Grey-Green Dragon’s displeasure struck an ear-splitting note of thunder.

  Chapter 29: Straight through the Straits

  Ardan’s awakening was that of a Dragon with a fractured skull. A headache worthy of Kylara’s scimitar-blow sawed at his throbbing brain, making blinding lights explode behind his eyelids. Still, he forced his eyes open. His Human hand scratched his nose. Still no Dragon.

  “Fainting firiliflower,” Bane greeted him.

  “Uh … water?”

  Lurax sniffled, “You were unconscious for two days.”

  “What?”

  Ardan tried to sit up, which was easily the worst idea in his recent past. Pain washed over him with the glee of Marshal Tixi applying herself to breaking a Shapeshifter. He slumped back in his … hammock? What, with purple dancing rajals thrown on top? And a troupe of giggling acrobatic dragonets, for he lay in a painted cave, decorated in blocky blue and white patterns crazy enough to
trigger his gag reflex. A perfectly circular metal door looked bolted and shut against Dragons. There were no windows. Only him, the two boys and Sapphire–thank the heavens–resting on heaps of moon-shaped blue cushions.

  He must be having a peculiar turn.

  “Marshal?” he croaked.

  Lurax blenched. Bane’s voice cracked as he said, “Thoralian ate her … hearts.”

  He stared blankly at them. “I …”

  He remembered only fragments after that Island-smashing impact–talons snatching Bane and Lurax out of harm’s way as Islands collided and ground together in a five-way smash … Imagatharr’s fatal crash-landing, and most clearly, the Yellow-White despot, barely a quarter of a mile distant, spearing his remarkably elongated talons into the Red Shapeshifter’s chest and wrenching forth the still-living, beating heart … champing down …

  He gagged and heaved, but managed to withhold.

  Bane mopped his forehead with a cool cloth. “Easy, warrior. We are safe, if captive, to these Inscrutable people. They wanted you.”

  “Me–what? Why?”

  The boys, and Sapphire, shook their heads. The dragonet touched her paw to his forehead. At once, the pain seemed to abate.

  He said, Sapphire?

  Copy clever Ari, said the dragonet.

  Why, you little blue scallywag! Ardan said feelingly. Of course, you’re a Blue. You clever, wonderful … friend! You can just copy Aranya like that?

  I tell big-mind Dragon save my Ardan, the dragonet added proudly, sending him a mental image.

  At the sight of that metal-armoured behemoth sporting fortified emplacements upon his back and shoulders manned by up to ten men apiece, and furnished with what appeared to be the muzzles of further Dragons peeking out of slits and portholes built for the purpose, Ardan could only gasp, That’s a Dragon?