by Marc Secchia
Riika sashayed in with the first course, clad only in a loincloth and an artfully draped panther-skin; barefoot, wearing jungle flowers in her hair. “A starter of ring-sliced Crescent Isles flame-fruit accompanied by a trio of wild water-cow cheeses and spicy mohili crackers,” she announced.
Kal clicked his fingers in the Fra’aniorian fashion. “You continue to astonish, o jungle maiden.”
“I’m taking classes,” she smiled.
There followed a five-course meal full of non-stop hilarity and tasty dishes as the threesome dissected Kal’s newly-formulated plan to penetrate Endurion’s citadel and steal the all-important Scroll of Many Hands, as the scholars had now accurately identified it. The lore within remained a mystery, however. All they knew was that to wait for Talon to master his power would be suicidal at best.
“Aranya’s intelligence missed the fact that parts of the citadel are built to deny Dragons entry,” Kal revealed. “The shield is the first layer of protection, clearly triggered by Dragon magic. Then there’s a layer of traps surrounding the inner fortress, but beyond that, an area tunnelled into a type of living rock, the legend says, which cannot be penetrated even by Brown Dragon powers. The tunnels are too small for Dragons. That, my friends, is where Talon will be hiding his treasures. He stations a Dragon at every entrance and has a hundred troops guarding his inner sanctum, day and night. Within, all is unknown. We will need to tread delicately. As delicately as the Queenly Shapeshifter skulking outside our roost.”
Tazi and Riika startled.
Setting down his fluted crystal goblet, Kal rose and called clearly, “Queen Aranya. Do join us, if you would.” Very softly, he added, “Aranya’s not the only one who can lay a trap.”
Riika giggled. Tazithiel looked as though she had swallowed a wasp.
Stepping through the doorway, the Immadian Queen greeted them regally. “I’m sorry to disturb, but I believe you’ll need my help with your plan.”
Tazi snapped, “Because we’re incapable of thinking for ourselves? Or do you want to take over?”
“Neither, shell-daughter. I want to be of help.”
“Oh, I’ll believe that when–what’s that?”
Riika held out a prekki fruit. “Pray stuff this fruit in your gob, noble Dragoness.”
“I … you … what?” spluttered Tazi.
The half-Pygmy scowled impishly. “I’ve heard and seen quite enough. You two ought to be ashamed of yourselves. And I refuse to be the grounds for your constant quarrelling.”
“Who told you that nonsense?” cried Tazi.
Riika’s smile was a brittle lament. “I’m no fool, Indigo-eyes. Don’t treat me so. Nor you, Aranya. I won’t be here forever to compete over, and when I’m gone, you two need to be mother and daughter.”
Silence. Kal wiped his eyes. Mother and daughter hung their heads identically.
The girl said, “I’ve been reading the lore about my people compiled by Balthion of Sylakia and Pip, the Pygmy Dragon. Among Pygmies, when relationships break down, they have a special ceremony they use to foster reconciliation. Please indulge me. Because this hurts. Love can hurt, and I’ve precious little time to do what I can–aye, I’m laying the guilt on thick. Forgive me.”
The two tall Immadians bent over Riika, and held her close. Muffled voices promised, “We will.” “We’ll do better.”
Removing her loincloth, Riika said, “Sorry I hadn’t thought to arrange a better symbol. This is a … cord of binding. The translation suffers, I’m afraid. Hear me now. Pygmy lore teaches that the heart is a treacherous beast. By binding wrist to wrist, and pulse to pulse, we bind life together as it ought to be bound.”
So saying, she tied Aranya’s left wrist to Tazithiel’s right.
“The heart is fey and prone to relapse. So we bind two hearts together for a period of time, to allow the connection time to develop. A week is usually the minimum.”
“A week?” the Queen gasped.
Tazithiel sniffled and accepted a cloth napkin from Kal to wipe her nose. “You can’t even manage a week with me, shell-mother?”
Sternly, Riika said, “This symbol is not to be removed save perhaps for dressing. Not for the toilet, not for sleeping, and definitely not for eating. In fact, for this week neither of you is allowed to feed or drink by yourself. You must each serve the other.”
The Shapeshifter Dragonesses eyed each other uncertainly.
“I suggest we deny them daggers, or this might not end well,” Kal suggested, torn between laughter and horror. Did Riika know what manner of fuse she had just lit?
Standing between the two women, each a head and a half taller than her, the Pygmy laid her hands upon their bowed wrists, dipping her own head until her dark curls cascaded over their arms. She murmured in Ancient Southern, the language of Pygmies. Seven times, as she spoke, she plucked the binding cloth. Kal watched Tazithiel and Aranya, neither of whom seemed to know where to look. At length, Riika kissed the cloth with great tenderness. “There. It is done.”
“What was the last part, Riika?” asked Tazi.
Aranya said, “It was a blessing, but the forms were so ancient I didn’t understand most of it.”
“It’s based on the blessing Pygmy mothers speak over the umbilical cord,” said Riika. “Because life flows from mother to child via the umbilical cord, my people treat it as sacred. Often, they will preserve the placenta and cord and carry them together with the baby for the first month of life. The cord is only severed after that month, when the attachment is accomplished. The binding ceremony symbolises the original connection between mother and child, teaching us how life flows through relationship. Should that cord be severed, we believe it must be restored by returning to the original font, the life-giving connection within the womb.”
Suddenly, she seemed to morph from ancient Pygmy wise-woman into an awkward teenager. “That is … uh, at least … what the scrolls say.”
Tazithiel and Aranya stared at their linked wrists as though Riika had confined them in a prison of terrifying, Island-shivering consequence. Kal had imagined Dragons could never be enchained. Now he conceded his error. Past grief could enslave a soul as surely as the measures Riika had taken in the hope of winning their freedom. A phrase from the Pygmy Dragon scroll played through his mind, ‘The courage of the smallest.’ Aye. In the greatest adversity, Riika’s courage shone brightest, almost too dazzling to bear.
He clapped her on the shoulder. “I can completely believe you have Dragon in your ancestry, Razorblades. Look, you made the two most powerful Dragonesses in the Island-World weep.”
“I feel ridiculous. Don’t know where that came from.”
Kal folded his girl into his arms. “A straight arrow shot from the heart.”
* * * *
“Look, I don’t understand what the blindfold is for,” Kal griped, for the two thousandth time. “Aye, today’s the day your umbilical torture is due to be removed, I know that.”
“Patience, o wise mentor,” Riika intoned. “Today is all about surprises.”
“And how’s Tazithiel supposed to be training for our difficult and dangerous mission when her Dragoness hasn’t flown for a week?”
“Tazithiel is fine.”
Someone blew on his neck. Kal yelped.
Sneaking, floaty, Kinetic-powered prankster. Tazi was borrowing far too much from his scrolleaves for Kal’s comfort. The fact that he had accomplished all of his audacious thieving triumphs with his two feet placed firmly on the ground obviously placed him in a class of his own. Old-Kal would have gnawed off a limb for the chance to possess Tazi’s levitation or shielding capabilities. His own magic was perfectly modest in comparison.
“Can I look yet?”
“Wait.” The Shapeshifter’s voice drew away. “Right, Riika. Now.”
“I can’t reach.” The girl could make a sentence sulk so powerfully the words dragged their lips on the ground.
Kal wrenched off the blindfold. Speech deserted him. Reason fle
d the Island. Lust–that stayed for the party. Amazement, disbelief and a great deal of heat churned about in his head, making his expression their personal playground.
Tazithiel twirled shyly in the suns-beam she had chosen to best highlight her outfit. “Well?”
Aye, and this woman had vowed she would rather gnaw off her own tail than wear exactly what she wore now? Kal was certain they were meant to be armoured trousers, but the impression of black paint kept muddling his mind. Great Islands, the material fit like her Dragoness’ own hide! His gaze rose to her bare, muscled stomach above the weapons-belt. Kal sternly forbade himself from expiring in ecstasy over the perfection of her belly-button in that trim waistline, even if a fading scar intersected it, a visible reminder of Endurion’s abhorrence.
Furthermore, Tazithiel wore midriff-baring Western Isles body armour, which served the dual function of protecting her torso and enhancing her physique into an ode to the most volcanic feminine curves he had ever beheld in his misspent lifetime, which had included a great deal of beholding and associated misspending. The hilt of a three-foot kuhiko sword protruded above her right shoulder. Her hair flowed as a night-blue river down her back, tied back with blue razor ribbons which matched her eyes. She had even enhanced her eyes with indigo war-paint.
Kal gestured and said, “Hooooo …”
He coughed; tried again. “Faaaa-warble …”
“I fear we may have succeeded in turning him into a gibbering idiot,” Riika said drily.
“But … the animal hide and tail-chewing bit …”
If Tazithiel kept smiling at him like that, he was definitely never going to string together an intelligent sentence again. He could not peel his eyes off her thighs.
The half-Pygmy said, “It’s silk, not leather. The Dragon scientists here have perfected a sevenfold silk mesh-material reinforced with metal strands which is lightweight and pliable, as you see, yet as effective as light armour. The production process involves a great deal of magical trickery.”
“Magical.” Kal was still trying to work out how it was physically possible for any woman to have legs as long and alluring as Tazithiel’s.
“Riika helped them perfect the production process this week,” Tazi explained. “It’s … mmm!”
Kal kissed her zestfully, while thoroughly checking the fit of her trousers with his hands.
“Kal, stop it.”
He kissed and explored a little more. Great leaping Islands! This was sin incarnate.
“Kal, your daughter’s present–Kallion! Control yourself.”
“Quite impossible.”
“Kal–Kal! Hands off before I surgically remove them.”
“Mmm, I like ultra-sexy Tazithiel,” he growled. “What need hast thou of sword and spear, o dancing fire of the dawn?”
“Honestly, Sticky-Fingers, you’re just embarrassing,” Riika huffed, appearing even more steamed than the Indigo Shapeshifter. “Now, Tazi can change into this outfit inside seven seconds. She showed me.”
Kal fixed his most wicked Cloudlands-pirate grin upon them. “Can I see?”
“No, but you can get dressed,” said the Shapeshifter, whose face seemed to be exploring the colours between rosy and crimson. “We’re going tonight. Briefing five minutes ago.”
“Tonight? But my plan was–”
Riika rapped, “It’s still your plan, ego-man. But the spies spotted movement down past Mejia. We go tonight, and we go in fast and hard. Aranya’s already briefing the Dragons and Riders. Tazzer?”
“Turn around, Razorblades.”
Kal had an inkling of what was coming, but it appeared that the saucy sorceress had fine-tuned the art of magical dressing, for his clothing practically exploded off his body. In a wink, his appreciation of her outfit jutted in the breeze.
“Ooh,” said Tazi, with a growl of her own. She tugged him close with a wicked whip-curl of magic. “A shame we’re off to war, Kal, or I’d–”
“Putrid windroc droppings! Slug vomit! Rajal poo!” yelled Riika, storming out of the roost with her hands firmly clapped over her ears.
“A hip kiss for you,” she smiled. “Closely related to the art of the air kiss I once demonstrated. Do you remember?” She twitched her hips suggestively. “How’s this?”
“You’re a profoundly immoral princess,” he spluttered.
“I am? Watch this. Time to get dressed, Kal.”
She conjured up an outfit so fast Kal collected friction burns under his arms. Grumbling about unrelieved urges, he retrieved his essential weaponry and toolkits, which he had checked and rechecked five times in three days. Then, Tazithiel whisked him down the mountain with a touch of levitation and a cheeky upending of the Pygmy girl on the way, which Riika protested vociferously.
The Shapeshifter levitated them all the way to the base of the roost mountain, and inside a series of vaulting caverns Kal had noticed before. In short order, he heard the hubbub of many Dragons and Riders.
Over fifty Dragons and thirty Dragon Riders crammed into what was usually a huge cavern, but Aranya alone made the space feel cramped, for the Amethyst Dragoness was a mountain in her own right. She sat squarely in a large lava pool beneath the tallest part of the cavern roof, Kal noticed, every inch the Queen Dragoness holding court before a Dragonwing of fledglings–only, these were fully-grown Dragons. She made them look like dragonets.
Flanked by two exotic beauties, Kal decided he made an impression worthy of the King of Thieves on arrival. Jalfyrion, to his right, let out an involuntary burp of fire as Tazithiel sashayed past him. Jisellia chuckled and flipped Kal a mock-salute. Oh, she knew about this and he did not?
He dreamed up a punishment involving forced nude dancing atop a table decorated with Immadian forked daggers.
“So, that’s all settled,” said Aranya. “Two groups, one to scour Jeradia for threats to the Academy and one to strike south. By dawn, I intend to be in Mejia.” That distance overnight was impossible–wasn’t it? Kal firmed his lips. “At Mejia, the group will split. One Dragonwing will run decoy against Endurion’s forces while the second, a select group of Tazithiel, Riika and Kal, will penetrate the magical shield, secure the Scroll and rejoin the Dragonwing. Any questions?”
“Aye,” rumbled a rugged young Blue, Cyanorion. “How do we trust the author of this plan? You issued a death warrant against him just weeks ago, o Queen.”
“Kal.” Aranya crooked a claw.
“Aye, o Queen?”
“I once challenged this man to burgle our Academy,” said Aranya, watching as Kal approached charily. “Despite the highest alertness of our patrolling Dragonwings, he danced beneath our noses, penetrating even my own bedchamber, whereupon he spared my life. He is also the only Human ever to successfully penetrate the Halls of the Dragons at Gi’ishior. Kal saved my shell-daughter’s life when Endurion attacked her, and took the Dragon Rider oath.”
Kal glanced uncertainly back at Tazithiel. How wise was it to reveal this to all these Dragons?
“Kallion, would you demonstrate your Shadow power to these Dragons?”
Whispers of Dragonish surrounded him. Amazed. Perplexed. How could this be? No Shadow power had stalked the Islands since the days of the Shadow Dragon. Kal was a Human.
“Ah …”
Tazithiel’s voice entered his mind. Please, Kal. Trust me, even if you trust no other. Aranya has a surprise for you.
Bah. Like the size of the claw that would pierce his chest, or the temperature of that lava once the Dragons forced him to take swimming lessons? Sweat beaded his brow. Nevertheless, he focussed using the techniques Aranya had been teaching him. Shadow, his cloak. Shadow-friend. The veil of his reality.
Dragon-thunder! Dragon curses and exclamations of disbelief!
SILENCE! Aranya’s roar engulfed them all. Kal blinked back from his world of Shadow. “Aye, my Dragon-kin, you see rightly. Kal displays the power of my own Ardan. According to the secret records Dragons keep of Ha’athior, which is Kal’s home Island, thi
s man is Kallion, son of Ga’achion, son of Taynurion, son of Immudior, shell-son of Zenziel the Grey Dragoness and Ardan, the Shadow Dragon. He’s a direct descendant of the Shadow Dragon–as proven.”
Kal opened and closed his mouth. Tazi stood beside him, her firm grip preventing him from stumbling away from the drumbeat of the Amethyst Dragoness’ declaration. Ardan? Who had cheated on the Empress of Dragons? And a man called Kallion was descended from the legendary Shadow Dragon … great freaky, flipped upside-down, flying Islands!
Ardan and Zenziel cohabited as feral Dragons after the battle of Archion Island, Tazi said briefly, using the private Dragonish Yozora the Blue had taught them in the infirmary. In the feral state, what Dragons do is forgiven. It is one of the few sins a Dragon will readily forgive.
I … unholy sulphurous fumaroles, woman, how long have you known?
Since this morning. Tazi squeezed his arm. You always claimed you were legendary–o great-great-grandson of the Shadow Dragon.
Kal brightened. Was it not fated in the stars? Aye. I shall call myself the King of Shadows, and–yie!
He yelped as Aranya trapped him in her mammoth paw. A Dragon-swift rearrangement of his situation later, Kal found himself helplessly bent over the second knuckle of her paw, pinned in place by her first talon behind his neck and her third behind his knees. A man might thus snap a twig.
“My Dragon-kin,” Aranya intoned, raising him a good forty feet into the air so that every Dragon and Rider could appreciate his ignominious position, “even a Star Dragoness must keep her word, and aye, a Queen of Immadia too. I vowed that if this man burgled our Academy, that would be the day I kissed his filthy, thieving backside.”
The thief uttered a crass rejoinder which was amply drowned out by the fire-spitting disbelief of the Dragonkind present.
