by Marc Secchia
After an inordinately long-seeming half hour, the Land Dragons broke the enemy lines.
“Too easy,” muttered Zip.
Startled out of her reverie, Aranya muttered, “That was easy?”
Dense squads of Land Dragons peeled off Leandrial’s wedge with the kind of military efficiency King Beran would have praised. They ‘cleaned up’, freeing comrades and dealing with stray enemy Land Dragons.
Aranya’s fists clenched as strange magical calls came to her cognizance–oily squeals and a chittering like busy insects on a Fra’aniorian evening, only this was no warm and peaceable sound, but an offense to the ear and a devastating assault to her magic. Dismayed, she clutched at her guttering white-fires. Mercy! What? Oh, urzul, the power by which–
–these parasites subdue and command our kith and kin, Leandrial finished her thought for her. Aye, little one.
Yet even Leandrial fell silent as Aranya clutched the frayed fabric of her magic, battering away the corrosive urzul, reforming her weave even as she tried to understand the nature, the illogic, of what she had heard. ‘Anti-Dragonsong,’ her mother had called it, and, ‘The voice of chaos.’ Izariela’s teachings had gone on to explain that the dichotomy of order and chaos was merely one lens through which to view this phenomenon, that one being’s order might represent another’s chaos, and vice versa. What was implied was neither a lack of intelligence, nor purpose, nor existence. It was, inadequate as these comparisons seemed to Aranya now, another way of being. Another manifestation of the infinite complexity and malleability of life itself. Different. Other. Like moonlight lost in abyssal darkness.
This was a magic by which the Chameleon Shapeshifters had marked her even in Immadia itself and then tracked her across the Isles, like magical hounds upon the scent. This was what the dream of Thoralian had done to Zip, but what she did not understand, was the purpose guiding that action. Why Zuziana? Why her friend, when he could more easily target Aranya herself–she, who was already a broken vessel?
As the healing communal Dragonsong of the Land Dragons rose around her, the Immadian considered her best friend. O, precious Remoy …
* * * *
The Azure Dragoness squirmed beneath the power of Aranya’s lambent amethyst gaze. Did she not realise her strength? The penetrating quality of her magic? She thought upon Thoralian’s visit, the Remoyan Princess knew. But even Aranya could not read minds–could she? Could she smell terror, even in her Human manifestation?
Poor little ones, she thought dejectedly, touching her stomach.
Her babes seemed to quiver as community-constructive-consecration Dragonsong rose around them in myriad strains, each Clan-type of Land Dragon having their individual interpretation of the core ideas. The Hammer-Runners produced a low, booming chant, the Serpent-Clan expressed themselves with sibilant, winding and intertwining melodies, while the Welkin-Runners were symphonic, like orchestras of stringed instruments and trumpets and horns. Healing. Re-Balancing before the battle to come, she thought.
Aranya smiled unexpectedly. With three little dragonets inside, Zip, you’ll soon have a decent bump to balance your meals upon. The babes are well. Do not fear.
Zip bit her lip surreptitiously. Such a fear would be far more palatable. She knew where her friend’s concern lay–squarely with others, rarely for herself alone. How had she ever mistaken the Northerner’s manner for arrogance and selfishness? Aranya was selfless and devoted to a fault, and that would be her undoing …
Immediately, shame flushed her Dragon-hearts. No!
The Dragoness rose to embrace her Human friend, sitting cross-legged upon Leandrial’s tongue. “What’s troubling you, petal?”
Aranya laughed. “Written on my forehead, is it?”
“Aye. Spit, Immadia.”
“Spit? Thou uncouth Remoyan …” Her friend laughed hollowly. “Alright. All these thoughts buzzing in my head–I’m wondering if Yolathion’s fate was merely to be a pawn. Who gave him the burden of releasing my Shapeshifter Dragoness? And I remembered a little of my mother’s teachings of Star Dragon lore from my time aloft. I need to make sense of the nature of urzul and Dragonsong and draconic fire-life and work out a way to heal all Land Dragons of the Theadurial scourge, snaffle up the First Egg in my right paw and deal permanently with Thoralian. As if that weren’t enough, I’ve learned that Star Dragons have limited power to change the Balance; just one pair of paws where ten thousand could not suffice. I fear my incapacity, ignorance and–to be frank–the Aranya that charges in, gaily singing her Dragonsong, in the hope that fate will–”
Zip cut in, “Raise you upon amethyst wings and land you upon a lecherous Dragon Rider’s doorstep, in a suitably nude state?”
Of course, the pale Immadian blushed rosily. “Indeed. Dear Nak thought the twin suns had just alighted in his backyard. Well, crash-landed. But that’s between us friends.”
“Oh, Immadia, those aren’t suns,” Zip deadpanned, pretending to leer at her friend’s chest. “Much more pleasing than the suns, declareth the Nak!”
Aranya’s hands flew up instinctively, even though she was fully clothed. “Zuziana of Remoy!”
“Never were suns so curvaceous, nor so pleasing …”
“Stop!” Aranya punched her friend half-heartedly, knowing her fist could never stagger even a fledgling Azure. She fanned her face vigorously.
“I’ll wager Ardan waxed poetic upon the subject?” said Zip, cracking open a grin full of daggers.
“Go ram your blue snout into a handy thorn-bush.”
“His poor face when he met my family–who were being a tad more Remoyan than even I expected!” she chortled. “Do you feel him now, petal?”
“Do I–oh,” Aranya spluttered, before gamely catching up with another of Zip’s ever-agile conversational switches. “I do, I think. He’s very faint, as if there’s some interference between us. You know, like fate, interrupted destiny, Fra’anior’s paw–something inconsequential. Or, something’s happened to him. I’ve been trying to trace the oath-magic with this technique my mother was teaching me, but not very successfully, I’m afraid.”
Zip prodded Aranya with her sheathed fore-talon. “You weren’t just taking a few weeks’ snooze up there?”
“No.” Aranya prodded the Azure right back. “You know, when you aren’t being crude, you’re actually a rather sweet Princess-lizard.”
With enormous dignity, Zip upended her friend and sat on her.
When she had finished turning purple and complaining, Aranya described her sojourn with Izariela learning Star Dragon lore. Mystical and practical by turns, her account fascinated the Remoyan, particularly Aranya’s Wisp-assisted landing and her time in the Gladiator Pits. For her part, Zuziana teased the Immadian about matchmaking with Gang and Huaricithe, before relating her adventures as she tried to track down her friends. Then, with Leandrial’s assistance, she recounted in detail Marshal Tari and Leandrial’s revelations about Thoralian’s possible daimonic nature being the reason for his designs upon the First Egg.
Aranya became very pale, and very grim indeed, after that.
Chapter 30: To War, Dragons!
DHazziala wasted no single minute. Even during his briefing of the Council, Healer-Dragons and Enchanters surrounded Ardan to check him over and attend to his and the boys’ various bruises, strains, sprains and flesh-wounds. After Imagitharr’s crash-landing, his skin more than ever resembled a map of Naphtha Cluster after the Sylakian genocide–though he flinched inwardly at this thought. May he never understate the downfall of his people!
He had to stop the Dragons from trying to treat his tribal scarification marks, however. The Healers shook their muzzles reproachfully as he explained their origin, but waxed palpably hotter in the belly-fires when he described a few of his other scars, gained in battle against Sylakia.
Interrupting Ardan’s narrative briefly, Dhazziala said, “The oath-magic now indicates a point one hundred and thirty leagues closer to our Islands. Are we in accord,
Shadow Dragon?”
“An alliance? I’m agreeable, but I have questions,” he said.
Perhaps a hundred minds–those he could detect, anyhow, linked in with the First Hand’s mind–examined every nuance of his response via more vectors than he could ever hope to understand. The Council chorused, “We concur!”
At least they weren’t spitting, this time. Ardan folded his arms, unreasonably annoyed at suddenly feeling so hale, his feet itched to dance a Remoyan jig. “So, I heard you drink Dragon blood to gain magical power?” he said conversationally.
“No more! We spit upon that memory!” roared the Council, and all the Dragons, with one voice.
Ardan rubbed his ears. “Alright. No need to shout. And how is it that the legendary Dragon-Haters are now firm friends with the Dragonkind?”
“We spit–”
SILENCE! said Dhazziala. Turning the blue pools of her gaze upon Ardan, she said evenly, “You are the first visitors to grace these Islands in six hundred years. For your dragonet’s sake alone, we made this concession.”
“Would you deny a Star Dragoness?” he challenged.
No nuance for this one, said a new voice, vast and weighty with age. I am Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron. Incline your fires to mine, o voice-like-a-talon.
Ardan almost smiled as the vast draconic presence couched his manner as a dry joke, but he did not wish to appear disrespectful. He said, formally, The most sulphurous greetings of the Mighty Onyx be upon thee and thy noble kin, Yiisuriel. Let thy wisdom brighten our fires.
He surprised himself at this reference from the Ballad of Saggaz Thunderdoom, an ancient addition to the formal greeting. Yiisuriel responded with a mental bugle of delight, like a whole orchestra of instruments sounding at once. Briefly there was glory, and Dragonsong, and white-fires, and then the sound ceased.
Yiisuriel said, Words flow fluently from your tongue, little one. It is well your heart shines true. Hearing reproof, Ardan bowed mentally. Much may be spoken of the ancient histories of those once called Dramagon’s Elect, but wartime affords us little leisure. Dhazziala is indeed the seventh-generation descendant of Azziala, the last Empress of the Lost Isles. Azziala was also the last of the Haters.
When he mentally deferred to Dhazziala, she added, To answer your misgivings, Shadow Dragon, we reformed our ways. Having lurked many a decade in Dramagon the Red’s shadow, how fortunate we were to behold the Dragonfriend’s light, and in that light, did we see behold the enormity of our transgression and the dark-fires paths of minds meant for nobility, but cast down in shame. Noble Affurion it was who led us hence, may his fires burn eternal!
“May he burn!” roared the Councillors. Ardan had the impression that their numbers were swelling by the moment, although most remained unseen or undetected.
Yiisuriel’s ponderous tones took up the story. I knew the Dragonfriend.
The Council parroted, “She knew the Dragonfriend!”
Twice born was she!
“The power of Humansoul and Dragonsoul enfleshed, of one egg, of one womb, was she.”
One soul was she!
“She gave of her soul-fires for our ennobling!”
All hail the Dragonfriend!
“All hail the mother of our fires!”
Well, Ardan did not know if Aranya’s Aunt would have appreciated outright veneration, but he did not have time to grasp all the nuances of their creed. For now, Dhazziala pointed dramatically at Sapphire and shouted:
“Aye, the dragonet thinks truth-fires! Dramagon the Red it was who fathered ruzal and urzul, and … an Ancient Dragon gave you a message? For us?”
For the first time, Ardan saw First Hand Dhazziala lose her composure. Her voice cracked as she gaped at Sapphire, who preened happily at the attention and piped, Ardan forget tell story? Sapphire clever.
“Freaking–so I did,” Ardan cursed colourfully. “It’s all so interlinked …”
But Sapphire gushed, Sapphire give message to In-screwys! She wrinkled her muzzle in consternation, clearly aware of a mistake. In-scruties. In … billies?
The dragonet’s laughter trilled merrily inside the chamber, drawing the first smiles Ardan had seen from these sombre people.
Inscrutables, said Ardan, translating simultaneously for Bane and Lurax.
Sapphire held up two talons. Furious Dragon say, two messages.
“Infurion,” Ardan interpreted, suddenly becoming aware of minds, thousands strong, gathering around him until he stood in a vast mental amphitheatre. They were linked in a network intricate beyond his comprehension. “As in Infurion, the Ancient Dragon. We bumped into him in the Rift-Storm.” Smiling at Sapphire’s impatient growl, he added with a bow, “Speak, o noblest of dragonets.”
Sapphire preened, then stated clearly, Furious say, ‘Earthen-fires are bodied.’
Dhazziala’s golden skin stretched into a rictus of pain as a collective gasp echoed around the chamber, within and without. Even Yiisuriel’s anguished bellow could distinctly be heard rising from below, the physical sound arriving with a noticeable delay compared to the roaring of her mind. Several Councillors slumped on their benches, apparently struck insensate; Lurax shyly asked the man nearest him what danger this portended.
His answer echoed into an unexpected silence. “Lad, it means the S’gulzzi have learned how to embody themselves. They are vile, rapacious spirits born of the Island-World’s deepest fires. Yet they could never threaten our realms before–they could not survive above a depth of eight leagues, nor outside of their native Earthen-fires. But embodied …”
Dhazziala immediately ordered, Activate Emergency Protocol One. Additionally, split off ten dedicated research groups. To Lurax, she said, “You ask wisely. Long have the S’gulzzi sought greater influence and power, but were constrained by their lack of command of the physical realm. In their element, they are deadly. Out of it, they have historically relied on allies such as the Theadurial to influence the doings of those who dwell higher than they. Yet now Thoralian turns the Theadurial to himself; he foments their rebellion against their old masters. We must conclude that the S’gulzzi have harnessed the First Egg’s uncontainable power, which in turn places all Dragon, Shapeshifter and Human civilisations in deadly peril. What say you, Lurax?”
He half-hid himself behind Ardan, nevertheless, the boy spoke bravely, in piping tones. “Lady, not all is doom. I think we must see Fra’anior’s paw in this. The Egg’s rising may work in Thoralian’s favour, or better, in ours, if we can work out how to wrest it from the S’gulzzi.”
Cries of ‘Aye!’ and, ‘Well spoken!’ filled the chamber.
The blushing youngster gained himself a singular smile from Dhazziala. Despite the peculiarities of her appearance, she possessed an aura of uncanny beauty, Ardan observed. She said, “I see now why the Shadow Dragon chose these two young men for his apprentices. Now, Sapphire. What is your second message?”
Sapphire drew herself up, clearly well pleased by her reception and perhaps hopeful that her second message might prove as momentous as the first.
She squeaked, Furious say, ‘It is time of opening!’
Pandemonium! Ardan’s eyes jumped about like a Naphtha Cluster giant grasshopper as the staid Councillors leaped out of their seats, breaking into spontaneous dance and rhythmic clapping, while Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron’s bellowing shook the entire Island. Of course, she was the Island, Ardan reminded himself. At least, that was his conclusion. Lesser bellows echoed from nearer and further away as the other Air-Breathers reacted.
Suddenly, Dhazziala grasped his fingers and whirled him into an impromptu dance. She cried, “Oh, Ardan, what a day your arrival has ushered in! Our six hundred years of penance are ended. Freedom! Freedom has dawned at last!”
Stretching up onto her tiptoes, she kissed him on the cheek.
Ardan felt a wild perturbation undulate through his oath-magic. His eyes flew wide. Mercy!
* * * *
Mid-conversation with Zuziana and Ri’arion, the raging power of
Fra’anior snatched Aranya into the Storm. She tumbled through the sevenfold blast of his wrath, a hapless minnow spinning from one thundering maw to the next. Rage pummelled her from every conceivable angle.
Be affrighted, little fledgling! roared one mouth.
What of the oath-magic? boomed the next, flinging the Amethyst Dragoness three miles to the next head. Denier! Betrayer!
You are the daughter of my storm! MINE!
Rebellious chit!
Swatted back and forth between his seven heads like a hapless fly trapped in a hurricane, Aranya tucked in her wings and endured, yet there was a kernel of anger lodged in her throat. Was it ever to be thus with the Black Dragon? Storms, fury and thunderous bullying? Lyriela had told her she must stand up to Fra’anior; was she frightened now?
Aye.
Yet amidst the writhing storm-clouds and suns-bright lightning-strikes playing between Fra’anior’s massively armoured, onyx necks, she recognised a new truth. This was her soul-space. Hers! How dare Fra’anior intrude? Her focus narrowed in on Humansoul, watching from the edge of her impossible peak. She saw in her amethyst eyes a spark of what she sought, and accepted the gift.
Dragoness-Aranya drew breath.
I am Aranya, daughter of Storm! Her challenge was lost amidst the cacophony, but her defiant, vulnerable stance was not. Her wings steadied. Aranya gathered her Storm and flung her rage and hurt back into her grandsire’s teeth. Why do you keep hurting me?
The Onyx stilled.
For an interminable time, all between them was the crackling of Storm powers and the low growling of nearby thunder. Aranya refused to lower her muzzle, although defiance demanded every scrap of her courage. Her gaze burned into his ancient, knowing eyes, so much tinier but no less diamond-forged of will. She should genuflect, but she denied him that privilege. She was Fra’anior’s shell-granddaughter, birthed of the same fires; worthy of better than this. The burning-grief tenor of her fires demanded his respect, and at length, one of the great heads bobbed, if only marginally.
