The Onyx Dragon

by Marc Secchia

  Pip sensed Chymasion’s power slip over to boost the embattled Emblazon for a moment. The Amber Dragon, sleek as liquid flame, tussled with five enemy Dragons in a tight melee. The instant Chymasion’s power touched him, Emblazon’s reflexive bite crushed a Night-Red’s skull, the crunch of bone sounding like a nut crushed beneath a monstrous war-hammer. He whirled. With a hooked paw, he disembowelled another in the blink of an eye, tore free of two clawing backstabbers, seized them one in each paw, and slammed the Dragons together with terrible force. They fell unconscious from the sky.

  Emblazon turned a bloody smile upon his mate. Blasting these hapless lambs from the skies with chain lightning, thou peerless Blue enchantress?

  My very first chain attack, Shimmerith said, inclining her wingtip. Thou ruthless, skull-crushing monster!

  In-battle romance? Pip grinned fiercely.

  Then, with a sky-shaking roar, the second Dragonwing of Assassins plunged into the fray.

  Even Dragon senses were no longer enough. The battle flashed by Pip in minimal fractions of seconds, half-impressions of flying claws and flaying teeth, a wound that appeared to pop open in Silver’s flank of its own accord, hot Dragon blood scalding her neck, Shimmerith and Jyoss banding together to rend a Night-Red’s wings, Reds and Greens whizzing into the fray as the Sylakian Dragon contingent made their presence felt, the constant strobe-flash of lightning and fireballs blistering her retinae as if a localised storm expended all of its energies upon itself … the battle raged on, unending. Dragons fell, it seemed, every second.

  Pain! Ah, gasping pain shooting into her from an external source! Glancing about, her gaze homed in on Emmaraz falling, helplessly entangled with an attacker, so far away …

  She screamed, Silver!

  He saw what she saw. In that second the feisty Red wrenched himself free of the Night-Red’s dying throes, but Emmaraz had taken a ghastly bite to the left shoulder. Fractured wing-bone protruded from a flesh-canyon torn through his shoulder; the surrounding muscle had been shredded. He could not fly. Maylin looked little better. She pressed down on her thigh with both hands, holding something shut. Bright crimson arterial blood ran in rivulets down her left side and leg, mingling with Emmaraz’s golden blood.

  Silver plummeted out of the fray, pumping his wings furiously. The left midsection of his wing membrane, between the first and second wing-struts, flapped freely as her Dragon accelerated hard, jamming Pip against his spine-spikes. She focussed their sight. Both knew at once that the Leeches closed in on the battle-site, still sprinting at that improbable speed, and here came Rambastion with Telisia as his Dragon Rider–Emblazon dashed out of the battle on a direct intercept course, with Chymasion shadowing his shell-father. Unholy windrocs, what was that crazy hatchling doing?

  Though he strained every fibre of his being, Silver’s descent was still too slow. Emmaraz fell ahead of them, his one good wing beating uselessly. The ground below was unforgiving rock, a barren outcropping crowning a low hill. No mercy there.

  Pip wanted to reach for them, to be with them, to catch them …

  Silver cried out in shock as the sky shifted. Emmaraz landed on Pip’s head.

  Had she been half a foot taller, Pip’s neck would have snapped like a twig. As it was, the crushing blow of the Red’s weight against Silver’s back drove the smaller Dragon into a spin. Yet both had been falling. The relative speed was close enough that Emmaraz did not impale himself on Silver’s spine-spikes, but settled upon them, his belly brushing Pip’s curls. Silver screamed at the pain in his muscles and joints as he tried to fly for both Dragons. Pip poured her strength into him instinctively; suddenly, a tumble smoothed into a rapid glide. The ground blurred upward.

  Tuck in your legs, stupid, Pip hissed.

  WHAM! The Silver Dragon crash-landed on his belly. Dragon-hide rasped over rock, kicking up sparks and dust and bits of bleached wood. Silver groaned as they juddered to a halt. Safe.

  “I’ll help you, Maylin!” Pip shouted.

  “You’ll do nothing–go fight! Get Shimmerith.” Her white-faced friend made a shooing motion with one arm. “Emmaraz. Emmaraz, my beauty. Up. Let Silver go.”

  Pip could not believe it. Tears pricked her eyes as the young Red struggled off Silver’s back. She knew that such a wound likely meant he would never fly again–not only was the primary wing-bone splintered, but the socket within the shoulder was damaged too. Maylin’s left leg had been savaged.

  “Go! Islands’ sakes, Pip, don’t worry about–oh no.”

  Four grey creatures loped onto the open expanse of rock. As one, they oriented on the stricken Dragon–or on Pip, she could not tell which. More Leeches approached. Eight. Ten. They slowed, clearly relishing the prospect of attacking a downed Dragon. Pip read that expression clearly in each inhuman face.

  Maylin drew her sword. “Take this. I’ve … got a …” She slumped sideways, unconscious.

  Despite Silver’s anguished cry, Pip sprang out of her Dragon Rider seat. The ferocity within her chest was a cold, hard nugget of pain. Nobody did this to her friends. Not while she had breath left to fight. Snatching up the sword, Pip took her stance upon Emmaraz’s back.

  She said, “Come on, Razzer. Where are those fires?”

  Emmaraz answered with a low, throbbing growl. Despite his wounds, his three Dragon hearts still beat bravely. She dashed away tears that threatened to blur her vision.

  Dragon fire roared over the Herimor creatures, but to the Dragons’ shock, they just blasted right through, sheeting flame from their bodies as they surrounded Silver, Emmaraz and Pip. One held out a net, presumably meant for her, because no sane person would dream of stuffing a Dragon into rope netting. Nor would a Pygmy girl suffer to be captured again, she reminded herself, holding the sword in a ready position.

  Pause. Breathe. Move!

  Dragon sight and senses merged with Pygmy strength and warrior skills. Never had Pip moved as rapidly as now. Arching her back to dodge a crossbow bolt, a vertical block with the sword shattered her first opponent’s weapon. She drove the sword into its body and ripped upward, heaving the surprisingly slight creature off its feet with the force of that cleaving blow. Hurling the corpse to her left, Pip whispered to her right, disembowelling one Leech but feeling a blade bite into her left arm as its partner’s weapon struck true. Silver’s lightning crackled repeatedly. Never mind Dragon fire. He had a hotter fire, a cross between a Dragon’s standard fireball attack and lightning, only Silver’s efforts tracked their targets before detonating on impact.

  Pip howled as the net slapped her face. Suddenly entangled, she slipped off Emmaraz’s back, bounced off Silver’s tail, and landed awkwardly on her right hipbone. Three Leeches pounced on her. “Get it. Tie it,” hissed one. With her free arm, Pip punched the creature’s sharp little teeth through the back of his throat. Great Islands! Every time she jarred that right wrist–evidently it wasn’t broken, but the repeated punishment was no help–the pain almost made her black out. A Leech slammed her head against the ground. Again. Pain darkened her vision. It lifted her one more time … and shot off her body with a whoosh of surprise, impaled by a ten-foot spear of ice.

  Pip blinked. Silver?

  Ice way to die, laughed Shimmerith, pounding the area around Pip and Emmaraz with flurries of ice shards. As fast as the Leeches were, there was no place to run. Slice, slice, slice!

  Nasty jokes. Green blood splattered the clumps of ice clustered upon her foes’ remains.

  Silver roared, leaping over Emmaraz to clear his back of a Leech about to slit Maylin’s throat. One creature had hacked a fresh hole in the Red’s throat; Pip ambushed him from behind with a decapitating stroke. The Dragons swivelled, seeking additional foes–there were none.

  Pip stared at her friends, stunned. Their wounds! The sight of bone in Emmaraz’s wrecked shoulder …

  Oh, Emmaraz, Maylin, how thou art fallen, Shimmerith bugled sorrowfully. I’ll care for these younglings. Silver, Pip, check for more Leeches. Help E
mblazon.

  She did not even glance at the sky. Pip fled, unable to face more horror. Running up Silver’s wrist, she accepted a flick up onto his shoulder, skidded across his hide on the balls of her feet and used a spine-spike to help her swing into Dragon Rider position.

  She whispered, Silver, we’ve heavens to burn …

  Even a whisper seemed too loud in the face of what Maylin and Emmaraz had suffered.

  Chapter 11: Dragonwing

  SiLVER AND HIs Rider ascended into the morning suns-shine, which filtered beneath ranks of heavy cloudbanks marching in lockstep over Sylakia Island. Sulphurous smoke drifted on an easterly breeze. Repeatedly, the crash of Dragon battle-challenges and fireballs blasting against flanks and muzzles made the air vibrate to the peculiar, concussive drumbeat of draconic conflict.

  They scanned the ground, but found no more sign of shuzzalich.

  Above, the Dragon Assassins fought in a tightly bunched formation, a dark shoal encircled by the hunting pack of Greens and Reds, and the distinctive flashes of the Academy Dragon colours. Silver powered upward to gain a strategic height advantage; Pip sensed his mental reach toward Tazzaral’s position, distracting an opponent just in time for the Copper to inflict a fatal neck-bite. He bolstered Jyoss’ shield, preventing a huge Night-Red from rending her port flank with his talons. The Red’s screech of fury cut across the battle; Jyoss and Durithion drove a shattered Dragon lance deep into his belly and left the weapon dangling there.

  Chymasion flew tiredly, his cut-and-thrust movements against Rambastion growing visibly weaker, while Master Balthion’s pretty daughters exchanged sociable crossbow quarrels across the divide. Emblazon loomed above, protecting his shell-son but not preventing him from fighting Rambastion. Even the Amber Dragon was streaked and bloodied, his massive musculature torn in a dozen places. Golden blood speckled his neck and shoulders. Atop her stolid Dragon, Oyda fought as cleanly as ever, like a slim dagger choosing its moment to slip in unnoticed to deliver a deadly strike. As they neared the battle, Pip saw Oyda’s arrow feather perfectly in a Night-Red’s right eye. Dragon-enhanced accuracy? Mercy.

  Abruptly, Silver pulled a ninety-degree swerve and shot off after a retreating Night-Red, snarling, Come decorate my talons with your blood, coward.

  The Dragoness convulsed as Silver attacked her with a series of telepathic blasts. Blinding. Shattering. Overpowering. Suddenly, Pip remembered what she had done before.

  Silver, Dragons can be turned. Their minds succumbed to the Marshal’s tyranny, see?

  You had your Word. But he seized the idea with the air of a Dragon sinking its talons into living flesh. Silver hammered the Dragoness, expending a dangerous amount of magic. Yield!

  Suddenly she sagged in the air, utterly transformed in demeanour. The Dragoness shook herself like a wet hound. Where am I?

  Silver sagged with relief. Pip knew relief, too. They could not give out much longer without rest. While Silver explained in terse, staccato sentences, she followed the battle up into the clouds. Was Rambastion fleeing? Yes! Pursued by over a dozen Sylakian Dragons, the remnant of the Marshal’s Dragonwing fled into the clouds. Emblazon bellowed furiously as two Sylakian Greens cut off his pursuit, but perhaps there was a touch of relief in his voice too–the Sylakian Dragons’ pride required them to deal with their own problems. Assistance was only acceptable to a point.

  Emblazon gathered Jyoss, Chymasion and Tazzaral to him and closed the gap with Silver, stiffening visibly as his battle-bright gaze lingered upon the Night-Red Dragoness circling nearby. She dipped her muzzle and spread her forepaws, talons sheathed–a draconic submission.

  The two Green Dragons escorted them to a landing near Emmaraz; the Dragons arranged themselves uneasily in a semicircle around the stricken pair. Chymasion hurried to his shell-mother’s side, supplying the remnants of his magic to bolster her healing work.

  Without preamble, one of the Greens said, We know your mighty reputations, noble Emblazon and noble Shimmerith. While we are grateful, you must depart Sylakia’s shores at once.

  Emblazon’s reply was a charged growl, deep in his throat. At four feet taller in the shoulder than the two Greens, there was a clear reluctance on their part to slight the larger, more powerful Dragon. Eye-fires blazed for several lengthy breaths, almost setting the air afire. But the Greens broke eye-contact first. Pip knew that was a signal of hierarchy-acknowledgement–not quite an admission of defeat, but an acceptable alternative.

  Dragons. All fire and smoke, weren’t they? Pip did not giggle. That would have been deeply offensive.

  The first Green added, Lest you invite the Shadow to our shores.

  The Amber Dragon inclined his muzzle regally. We accede to your request. What of our wounded, noble Eryfalgor?

  Eryfalgor turned respectfully to Shimmerith, so much sleeker than the spiky Greens, who responded, If I may request several hours grace to stabilise them and treat our wounds, I believe this Dragon and Rider could be flown by Dragonship back to the Academy.

  Again, a message of body-language or eye-fire-intent passed between the Dragons. Pip gritted her teeth. If only she understood!

  The Green responded, Ay. May I offer four of our Blues to aid you with healing tasks, and a Dragonwing to escort your wounded to Jeradia? Shimmerith and Emblazon purred agreement. Settled. Will you take the traitor with you?

  It was not a request.

  On a hillside half a mile away, Pip spied two Sylakian Reds moving amongst the fallen Dragons, finishing several Dragon Assassins who must still have been alive. She felt rather than heard Emblazon confer briefly with Nak and Silver, before he said, Upon her oath.

  Nothing more was spoken. Eryfalgor and his companion winged off with a pompous air.

  Emblazon raised his forepaw. A command. He did not so much as glance in her direction, but the captured Night-Red sank at once to her belly and slithered toward him, rolling onto her flank to expose her lower neck to his paw. The Amber Dragon lowered his limb, talons outstretched, and gripped that exposed section of Dragon hide rather less gently than Pip would have expected. As he pressed in, golden Dragon blood trailed from beneath two of his talons.

  She said, I am the Dragoness Cint’ixt’ix, called Cinti, once of Harashoon Island in Herimor, and I am a Dragon without honour. Accept my unconditional service or end my worthless life, o mighty Amber.

  In the stillness, Pip heard and saw her pulse throbbing fitfully in her throat, as though the Dragoness’ blood had grown too thick for her arteries. Interesting how her name included the strong, sharp ‘T’ sound, very similar to the range of Pygmy ejectives. Did that mean there were linguistic similarities between Ancient Southern and whatever language they spoke in Herimor? Of course. She understood Silver, didn’t she? Barbaric accent and all. He probably thought the same of her.

  No, your accent is like Dragonsong. Silver’s telepathy tickled the inside of her mind.

  To her chagrin, a blush warmed her cheeks.

  Emblazon said, Cinti of Harashoon, I accept your oath. May honour attend your service. For the benefit of the Riders, he repeated his words in Island Standard, then continued, “Friends, this is Cinti. What colour were you, Dragoness? Can you help with healing?”

  “Colour?” The Dragoness looked puzzled. “All common Dragons of Herimor are one colour, unless you come from a noble lineage, like the Marshal’s shell-son, over there.”

  She pointed delicately at Silver.

  Pandemonium!

  Pip charged into the thick of flashing fangs and flying scales, shouting, Stop! STOP! Tazz had seated himself on Silver’s chest. Jyoss had Silver’s tail clamped between her fangs, while Emblazon stood on his neck. Tonnes of Dragons piled atop each other, panting and leaking fire from the jowls and nostrils, all peering at the not quite four-foot Pygmy girl in evident shock. Perhaps they wondered what manner of ralti-stupid, parakeet brained person would dare to interrupt four Dragons in the midst of a nice all-claws-out brawl. Pip thought the same.

 
; Had she spoken a Word of Command? No. The Amber Dragon turned a smoking cavern full of fangs upon her, growling in palpable amazement, “Why, do you wish to kill him yourself?”

  She folded her arms. Tapped her foot dangerously. Eyed the fifty-foot mound of tangled Dragonflesh with no small measure of exasperation.

  To her surprise, it was Duri who came to stand alongside her. He said, “Alright, Dragons. Just keep sitting on Silver whilst we fire the questions. Pip, didn’t you know your boyfriend was the Marshal’s shell-son?”

  “No. He suspected he was. The Marshal had many eggs in many nurseries. When he emerged victorious, it was made clear he was no special shell-son, just the sole survivor of an unwanted nest of hatchlings. Perhaps now we’ve heard the truth.”

  “Truth?” Nak spat. “Now we’re all best friends with the Marshal’s shell-son? Count me out.”

  Silver wheezed, “The Marshal has many other shell-sons and daughters. None were silver. My egg came from afar. I’m just a fatherless foundling, no shell-son of his.”

  “You hail from Harashoon,” said the Dragoness.

  Pip whirled, eyes popping.

  She and Silver shared the same intuition. The pace and rasp of his breathing communicated as much; Pip approached the Night-Red Dragoness, gazing deep into her eyes. Ay, there it was. Balance.

  Pip said, Will you share your thought-echoes with me, noble Cint’ixt’ix?

  The Dragoness said, I thought you but a Rider. You’re the Pygmy Dragon? So small?

  Dangerously compact, Pip retorted, closing her eyes as she touched the Night-Red’s knee. Now, open your memories, Dragoness, that we may know all.

  Images cascaded through her mind.

  After a moment, she opened her eyes again. Raising her voice, Pip said, “To summarise, one hundred and fifty-nine years ago, a young sub-Marshal called Re’akka visited the Isle of Harashoon, which floats windward with the tertiary sub-cyclical Island-system of northern Herimor, passing close to Eridoon once per decade. He and Cinti met and fell in love. In the course of time, Cinti produced just a single egg, an unusual egg. Though she brooded upon it for many moons, the egg never hatched. Cinti longed for Re’akka to return, but he never did, nor did she hear a word from him. War swept across the Islands. When Harashoon returned upon its cyclical path, she received a message from Re’akka’s shell-father saying that they could never espouse, for she was infertile and therefore unworthy of the Marshal’s son. Cinti was heartbroken.”