Song of the Storm Dragon

by Marc Secchia

  Now, he saw in the First Hand’s mind, similar caverns springing to life around the perimeter of the Lost Islands, and sensed the work ongoing to re-establish their mighty shield following the loss of the Land Dragons and injuries to many others. A total flashed before his mind: 21,219 souls lost in that single assault, broken down by species, gender and age.

  Ardan recoiled. Mercy!

  Rescue operations were still proceeding–he learned of specialist Miner-Dragons burrowing into caverns sealed against just such a catastrophe …

  Dhazziala bowed mentally. Aye, Shadow Dragon. Will you Ride with me?

  I’d be honoured, he groaned, overwhelmed by such a loss, thinking upon Naphtha Cluster’s annihilation by the Sylakian War-Hammers and their Dragons … he shook himself. Grief must ride with him as an invisible companion. Ardan said, May I see Bane and Lurax readied?

  You’d send boys into battle?

  If you will have them, they will serve with honour, Ardan replied.

  Genholme said, I will take them as bullet-loaders, if they are quick and steady of hand. You can entrust your younglings to my care, Shadow Dragon. You have seven minutes before I lift off.

  Ardan nodded, calling to Sapphire as he broke into a sprint. Then let us to war, Dragons!

  Chapter 31: Battle Joined

  DRaGons burst out of the cavern-holds of the Lost Islands in streamers of living colour, rising and joining in the brilliant, cloudless skies of late afternoon. Ardan, riding the Cobalt-Green Dragoness Dhazziala, missed his Dragon-form sorely. He tested the powerful, lacquered Dragon-bow the Armourers had pressed into his hand, fitting him for Rider armour and weapons in the space of less than a minute. Alright, their mental skills were remarkable. He’d grant that. One glance, and they had his sizing perfect. More charily, he checked the clips of three-foot arrows fastened either side of the unfamiliar, high-backed Dragon Rider saddle. Poisoned, of course. A fast-acting neurotoxin-blend was secured in small vials embedded in the barbed arrowheads. At least, pricking his finger would not kill him.

  The Metallic Fortress Dragons rose ponderously into the air, their wings buzzing so fast, they were almost invisible to the naked eye. Screens of Dragons formed around the Fortresses, tasked with providing aerial support and cover especially for the relatively undefended underparts. Ardan saw Dragonwings assembling above the Air-Breathers, twelve in all. To the West, Thoralian’s Dragonwings approached in a vast, glinting arc stretching from the Vassal States, where Yiisuriel’s Balance-sense had identified further pitched battles between the Dragon Riders of Herimor and the marauding of Land Dragons below the Cloudlands and Lesser Dragons above. All Ardan could see was dull, black mist drifting southward on the breeze.

  And he sensed Land Dragons …

  His eyes narrowed. Dhazziala, they aren’t attacking us. Not yet.

  They’re oriented on the South. Yiisuriel’s marked an attack arising from there …

  He fixed his attention in the opposite direction. What the hells are they doing? Can you reach Yiisuriel? Can she highlight the orientation of their Land Dragons beneath the Cloudlands for us?

  Why? asked Dhazziala, but pulsed the mental commands nonetheless. She will work on it. One hour and twenty minutes until the first data-analysis arrives.

  That long?

  The First Hand rallied her Dragonwings, meantime sending Ardan a schematic of pulse-communication triggered by several Air-Breathers along the full length of their Island-Cluster, the return echoes synthesized and analysed … the sheer distance and level of interference marring the collection of accurate data …

  Fine, whatever, he pushed that problem to one side.

  Dhazziala, in her Dragoness-form a sleek, beautiful beast of a minimal but dense quadruple ruff of skull-spikes that had an air of a rajal’s mane, flexed her hundred-and-twenty foot length as she assessed Ardan’s proffered analysis and concurred. Southerly quarter, she ordered. Commands fired down the chain. Cover and monitoring of the other flanks. Intelligence gathered on the impending smash between the two under-Cloudlands forces.

  To Ardan, she said, Watch for the Star Dragoness. Leandrial brings potential allies. We must time our strike to aid them.

  Her Dragonwings formed up behind the dome-shield, which had been reformed by the outer layer of Air-Breathers. Unfortunately, it was nowhere near the full strength which previously had been developed and solidified over hundreds of years. It was vulnerable, Yiisuriel had warned them, and added that they were about to come under attack from both inside and out. The Egg was rising more rapidly than ever, concealed within a shield of meriatonium. As yet, they had no idea what lay beneath.

  Ahead, Thoralian’s Lesser Dragons waited in serried ranks, thousands strong–and more shielded by glamour, he realised, snooping on Dhazziala’s constantly-evolving briefings. Right at the top of the pile, the Yellow-White himself hovered, imperiously overseeing his forces. Number one, Ardan counted quietly. One to the North. Where was the third? Lurking somewhere like a slug beneath a boulder …

  Dhazziala laughed brightly at his mental picture. Oh, Shadow Dragon, you’ve the rights of that.

  Ari come, said Sapphire, right in his ear.

  Ardan startled so hard, he dropped the bow. A touch of Dhazziala’s mind returned it to his hand. Thanks. He threw her a picture of a sheep. Sorry–Sapphire, how the–I thought I said–

  The mite agreed, You did. Sapphire no listen. Ari need me. Want Ari …

  Waves of misery, impatience and longing washed against his mind. Ardan scratched the dragonet beneath the chin. You’re growing strong, little one. Alright. We’ll find Aranya.

  And then, the Star Dragoness and I will come to an agreement regarding you, Ardan, said the Cobalt-Green, with an avaricious mental caress.

  Ardan exclaimed crossly as the oath-magic jangled his nerves.

  With that, the Cloudlands spat Dragons. Three or four thousand strong, they rose from puffy white clouds, orienting on Thoralian’s Dragonwings far above. For a breath or two, the moment seemed frozen. Thoralian watched. The Dragonwing rose. Then, the newcomers broke for the Lost Islands, and the hovering Marshal gestured imperiously. Eight thousand Lesser Dragons responded, taking on a battle-orientation as they plummeted from their superior position to engage the enemy. The shield before him vibrated as Ardan realised that in the under-Cloudlands realm, battle had already been joined.

  The chase stretched. Thoralian’s group swooped. The Lesser Dragons winged at top speed, extending them, forcing the chasing Dragonwing to level out in pursuit.

  Then, the skin prickled on the back of his neck.

  Magic!

  A dozen squads of Runner-Dragons burst from the Cloudlands, blasting in unison with their eye-cannons. Leandrial’s force! He exulted. So many! The timing of the ambush was perfection, scorching the underbelly of Thoralian’s Dragonwing with appalling force. Harmonic vocalisations screamed at frequencies exceeding the upper limit even of Dragon hearing. Light-beams flared, blasting the pursuing Dragonwing, tearing holes in their formation as if invisible Dragons wielded their talons with devastating effect.

  The response was swift and brutal. Tens of thousands of drakes shed their glamour to appear from thin air, mobbing the Land Dragons, striking for the eyes and attacking the ear-canals–both vulnerable, he realised, for how could a Land Dragon respond to a parasite-sized enemy in its ear? Furthermore, he sensed a Rift-like disruption of urzul emanating from somewhere beneath the Cloudlands, breaking down shields to allow the drakes unfettered access. At once, a second wave of Runners breached the Cloudlands, striking again with their harmonic cannons. Ardan was almost certain he recognised Leandrial among them. Lesser Dragons whirled amidst the fray, flying in close, clearly a pre-planned support of their larger brethren.

  The battleground of boiling Cloudlands and synchronised ranks of leaping Land Dragons spread steadily toward the Lost Islands. But where was Aranya? Where was the Amethyst?

  Dhazziala checked the readiness of her forces. Ope
n shields on my mark … by my ancestors!

  Darkness rocketed out of the Cloudlands, as if the head of the Ancient Onyx himself breached that toxic demesne. Ardan did not know how she had kept her Storm hidden beneath the Cloudlands, but the white point of light leading that upward charge was unmistakably Aranya. She was on the warpath. She, and thousands of Lesser Dragons, rode the wings of a tightly-focussed, boiling column of stormy thunderheads aimed directly at the waiting Marshal. The disturbance was colossal. Mustered by an unheard magical imperative, clouds materialised all along the Mesas, sweeping in behind Thoralian as if intent upon throttling him with bands of inky blackness, and pelting his head with a barrage of ice. Fey winds plucked at Dhazziala’s wings.

  What Dragon could behold such a sight, and not shake in their paws?

  Ardan laughed. I’m not sure Aranya’s entirely in the mood for negotiation, First Hand.

  With a menacing growl, Dhazziala turned to her Dragonwing, Armies of the Lost Islands, unite! Today, a legend flies against evil–let’s follow the Star Dragoness! GLORY AND HONOUR!

  HONOUR AND GLORY!!

  * * * *

  The Amethyst Dragoness led her strike-force against the loathsome Thoralian, wary of any sign of ambush or trickery. Aboard Zip, Ri’arion scanned for signs of glamour-concealment, but thus far he could not detect any near this Thoralian. The second followed them from the Straits of Hordazar, while the third was yet undetected. Below, Leandrial’s force had come under tremendous pressure from Thoralian’s Theadurial-infected hordes, but they were making steady headway, and in a surprise boon, had stumbled upon a group of thirty-seven friendly Shell-Clan who added their inimitable eye-cannons to the fray. Had they been protecting the Air-Breathers?

  Aranya had tried to withhold or conceal her Storm until the last instant, but her power took unkindly to repression. The instant another jolt arrived from Ardan, her Storm discharged, catapulting her and several thousand of Marshal Tixi’s allied forces out of the Cloudlands toward her archenemy. Storm appeared as if by magic–she grew tired of the phrase–all around the horizon. How did it form? What magic did it feed upon, this consuming, uncontrollable weather-phenomenon? It was somehow linked to her, but not to the ordinary storehouses of a Star Dragon’s magic, for the only strain she felt was related to her attempt to control and funnel the powerful winds and frenzied clouds so that they would not destroy her allies.

  Somewhere, Fra’anior was probably chortling at her feeble flailing. Daughter of Storm? Pfff … she hissed out a breath. More like pawn of the Storm.

  Yet she had a massive, long-bodied Yellow-White Dragon in her sights. Number one.

  King Beran had always counselled her to be flexible in battle and to take a turn of fortune for what it was. So as she rode a roaring tornado miles into the air, Aranya silently thanked her father.

  A strange song rose upon the air, fragmenting and divisive, whining and cajoling. Ri’arion’s shouting drew the Dragons back into order, but not before ten separate snarls had suddenly developed as Dragon turned against Dragon. Thoralian gestured more broadly. The urzul-infused sound swelled, stripping away her Storm, piercing holes in her clouds, and beguiling many Dragons or driving their minds into gnashing insanity. Sallow eyes watched her intently. The Amethyst Dragoness spread herself thin, trying to protect the force with starlight power.

  Ah, it is she, said Thoralian.

  At once, she knew this was not the creature she remembered from the North. This voice was different, the accent harsher, the mind behind the words, slipperier and more fluid to apprehend, as though Thoralian concealed his thoughts behind ever-shifting barriers of ice.

  He said, Ah, she works against the urzul, but mine is the power that hides, embezzles and slinks in the dark …

  Thoralian flipped his wings, conjuring intently with his paws. Many Dragons around Aranya groaned, but amidst this, the Immadian realised that he was not stealing power from them as she had expected. He was robbing strength from his own forces, from the minds and bodies of those turned to urzul. A black cloud began to boil in the air around Thoralian, powdery and dark, like a swarm of insects. She narrowed her focus. The air shimmered as glamour vanished. Dragons! Legion Dragonkind surrounded the old Marshal; at once, battle-challenges resounded across the half-mile separating both sides, but her attention was drawn to that dark cloud. What …

  It drifted downward like a fine rain. Like a swarm of flies. Thoralian’s force hovered, waiting–Up shields! Aranya bellowed.

  The black specks sifted ever so softly over the incoming Dragons. Marshal Huaricithe, slightly in the lead with Gang and Tari shadowing her wingtips, was the first to scream. Her body convulsed, wings folding, snarling, mouth agape. Then a filament of pure agony passed through Aranya’s body. She felt as if a white-hot needle had been threaded through her flesh. The black dust speared through her … like anti-starlight, the antithesis of draconic white-fires … and she and every other Dragon afflicted arched and howled and stalled, overwhelmed by pain … nothing else existed …

  Thoralian’s laughter boomed across the void, Ah. Sweet vengeance. Kill them all!

  All she understood was the word ‘kill’.

  Starlight was her shield. Shining as Izariela had shone for her daughter, the Amethyst Dragoness felt the starlight reduce those killing black specks to just … specks. How could anything in the Island-World pierce Dragon hide and bone with such ease? She did not understand, but she knew what she must do. Reaching for those intimate, precious memories of Izariela, the Star Dragoness mustered her light and began to shine it through the fire-spirits nearest her. Zip. Tari. Gang, Huari … so many. Tinting white-fires with starlight that bubbled and sang like a child’s laughter. Giving to each a touch of her gift.

  Suddenly, she knew Infurion had been mistaken. There were more types of fire than just Earthen-fires and Sky-fires present in her world. There was Star-fire.

  The pain cleared from her vision.

  Hundreds of allied Dragonkind fell already, dead or mortally wounded, peeling away from her Storm-powered advance like petals curling away from a dying flower. Through the impending collision of mighty Dragonwings, she momentarily caught sight of Thoralian, his expression darkening.

  Pitiful, he said, and vanished.

  KAAABOOM!!

  Dragon smashed into Dragon. All became reactions and fire and battling. The Azure barrel-rolled beside her, spitting lightning like a miniature tornado. She and Ri’arion were locked deep in their mind-meld, clearing Aranya’s path as the Star Dragoness’ power lapped outward, whispering over the last few Dragons in their battle group. Humansoul’s horrified voice told her that fully a third of Tari’s command had perished in a breath of Thoralian’s magic.

  Focus the rage. Narrow down. Concentrate. Pfft! Pfft! She cleaned Gang’s back of a champing Lesser Dragon.

  Storm, be mine!

  Lightning sparked over to her from Zuziana. Her fire-eyes swivelled to follow the light. Suddenly they were one, the Amethyst Dragoness snaffled up in the fringes of her friends’ beautiful linkage, and she saw how Lightning played in her friend’s body, how the Azure was so flawlessly fitted to sculpt and control the electrical potentials seething along her electro-conductive pathways to their endpoints in her throat and talons and spine-spikes. Aranya tossed Zip’s Lightning back.

  Come on, Azure. Let’s crackle and burn!

  Linking their right forepaws instinctively, the Dragonesses swung about each other upon a single axis. Swirling. Dancing. Tossing lightning bolts from their spinning wingtips and paws and tails. The massive charges lurking in their chests joined in the air, sparking in crazy chains-linked lightning amongst the swarming enemy Dragons. Aranya danced with her best friend, supping on the Storm’s power and sharing it with Zuziana. She saw the darkness of hearts that followed Thoralian’s way. They pirouetted through the awful press. Dragons died.

  Suddenly, new sounds permeated the battle. Tak-tak-tak! Tak-a-tak! Tak!

  A mighty surge of
Dragons charged into the fray, bellowing in deeper and greater voices than she had ever heard before. Aranya saw Dragon-mountains occluding the sky, their hides spitting projectiles from other-mouths, and still she danced, living the Storm, being the Storm, overcome by the tingling of power and the multifarious colours that spelled draconic death, fire-souls winking out all around her, tugging her soul toward grief-fires …

  Nearby, Ri’arion called a wild, glad greeting and there in the crimson heat filling her mind was a new, chirruping voice, calling, Ari? Find Ari!

  Sapphire? You came, oh! She clutched the frantic dragonet to her bosom. Where’s Ardan?

  Mid-spin, her astonishing Dragon-sight conveyed a crystal-clear image of Ardan–him–riding a great Dragoness of Cobalt-Green hues, her scales wrought invidious perfection, and she beheld the soul-shaking bent of the Dragoness’ desire toward him who sat strapped in her saddle, bending a mighty bow to its utmost reach, the muscles of his forearms and shoulders standing out like sculpted stanchions, and he was the unquenchable beast who stalked her dreams and her nightmares, evermore unattainable, and from bloodless Dragon-lips she whispered, Fra’anior, I choose, I choose …