by Marc Secchia
Silver knew his father to be a stickler for order and strategy, but this surpassed anything he had seen so far. Forcing Shurgal’s paw was a smart move. However, the Marshal’s chuckling as he closed this statement was the chilling edge of a blade. Malice beyond reason. Lunacy in its deadliest form–cerebral and merciless. How his own viewpoint had changed in just a few short months! He grimaced at the inner tearing he felt between loyalty to his family and upbringing, and what he knew in his hearts to be white-fire truth.
The Marshal examined the creatures as if willing them to yield his greatest desire. No, he was imprinting them with Shurgal’s scent and signature. Silver observed, partly fascinated, partly repelled.
“How do we release them?” he asked his father’s rigid back.
“We flush the tank.” Re’akka activated another button. The tank began to empty with a roar; the Marshal quickly switched to the mirror on his desk and called up a Dragon’s eye beneath the Island. Silver saw several of the creatures tumbling away in their wake.
Clasping his hands behind his back, the tall, thin Marshal abruptly swung back to Silver. “Shell-son. Let us discuss the vectors of attack on the Academy. We have this Island, our Dragonwings sweeping up from the South and Rambastion and those four hundred Dragons preparing a pre-emptive strike on Sylakia as we speak. There is the complication of Shurgal. How best shall we position our pieces on the chiahiaki-board? Give me your assessment. Elucidate the capabilities of the key Dragons which oppose us.”
“Why not send the Shadow Dragon against them, noble shell-father?”
Re’akka waved a hand casually. “It seems to feed constantly, now. Besides, that vector holds no honour. No, Silver. I want a grand victory. Spin me such a tale.”
Silver drew a sharp breath. “Ay, shell-father. So I shall.”
And become a traitor thrice over? A career turncoat. Under what circumstances could such despicable crimes ever be forgiven? Oh, Pip! How he had striven to change. Yet again, his honour was dust and his future uncertain.
His only chance for redemption was to destroy his own shell-father. For that, he needed to plot a way through the mental defences of a paranoid prodigy, a father who trusted his own children so little he had constructed specific psychic defences against each and every one of them.
Silver set his teeth. He must win.
* * * *
Pip flung herself at Leandrial’s paw. I’m here!
She did not understand how one attack from Shurgal could have reduced the Dragoness to a quivering casualty. To borrow a Nak phrase, she was just so freaking enormous! Then again, having two hundred feet of flaming metallic Dragon-talon slice through one’s gullet could not be a comfortable experience. Reaching Leandrial’s massive digit, Pip grabbed on four-pawed with a mental apology for using her talons. Pinpricks, Pygmy fool! Mosquito-bites!
Shurgal’s poisonous yellow head with its blotchy black eye-patches grinned at her along Leandrial’s back. He reminded her of nothing so much as a squat, powerful salamander, adding on the spiked barbels, five parallel lines of low spine-spikes and the non-retractable talons of a Land Dragon. Unlike Leandrial, he had three eyes on his forehead, a larger white eye in the centre and one eye offset to either side, giving him a very wide field of vision. Still grinning in evident enjoyment, Shurgal twisted his talons further. This time, Pip detected his tainting power, usurping the clean Dragonsong of Leandrial’s native magic. It had disrupted or destroyed Leandrial’s ability to resist.
Help … the Land Dragoness groaned.
Pip reached out with her mind. Leandrial, open to me. Let me strengthen you.
Open? Pain beat Pip to her knees. I open myself, I trust …
Latch onto this! Reaching into that new place she had discovered, Pip summoned Fra’anior’s power, the Onyx. Strength like the shoulders of Islands. Iron purpose. Colossal, potent darkness. A searing comet of draconic transference exploded between them, an order of magnitude greater than Pip expected as it revitalised Leandrial’s flagging magic. She knew it was hasty, imperfect, founded on both of their weakness, but there appeared to be enough. With a low growl, the Land Dragoness swung backward with her right elbow, striking Shurgal in the base of his throat–a blow that would have crushed any ordinary Dragon, but not a Land Dragon. He wheezed in unhappy surprise, relinquishing his grip.
Again, Pip shouted, shooting a mental picture at Leandrial.
Ay! Her shout was a thunderclap, drowning Pip out entirely. Eat this, Shurgal!
The blow seemed slow, travelling through the viscous air so far beneath the Cloudlands, but the power it transmitted was nonetheless enormous. Leandrial’s right forepaw struck Shurgal a terrible, Onyx-powered blow on the left frontal lobe of the head, right above his eye. Pip distinctly heard the crack of bone snapping. As the fist rebounded, she saw the imprint of Leandrial’s knuckles left in his skull, so hard had she struck, she wondered if the bones had turned to powder.
Shurgal’s limbs convulsed. She thought he would go floppy, be knocked unconscious, but the Dragon shook his head dizzily. Abruptly, he turned tail and fled.
Coward! Pip howled. Why don’t you chase him, Leandrial?
I cannot. And you cannot, either. You’ve been poisoned, Pip, either by drinking his water or by this atmosphere beneath the Cloudlands.
I’m fine, she growled.
No, you are not. Even the feeble remnants of my harmonic magic attest to that. But I know where to take you.
Pip knew she had been running on adrenalin. She had not taken so much as a fraction of a second to assess her own condition. Now she recognised her weakness, the darkness slowly dimming her draconic fires, and she turned to Leandrial with many questions burning in her heart.
You will travel in my mouth, the Land Dragoness said firmly. I will take you to Meldior, the ancient Dragon roost of your people. It lies perhaps a day’s running from here. And on the way, I will teach you the proper uses of harmonic magic and Balance.
May I sleep, first?
Leandrial turned the full brunt of her glorious eye-magic upon Dragoness-Pip, kneeling there on her wide paw. Ay, sleep, little one, and I shall attempt to keep these toxins at bay.
Jeradia. We must …
Only in unburdened rest can the soul be healed, little one. Now lay the world’s needs aside and sleep. We will reach Jeradia when the Balance of the Harmonies has reached its fruition.
* * * *
Pip woke, and chuckled when she realised where she was. She had been the Marshal’s captive before sliding down Shurgal’s foul gullet. Since then, her prospects had improved to being tucked inside a Land Dragon’s cheek. Life was rainbows over Islands. That she felt desperately sick was an excellent indicator of her continued existence. Jollity reigned in her Dragon-hearts all the way to her throwing up inside Leandrial’s mouth.
“No need to apologise, little one,” said the Land Dragoness, speaking Island Standard in a previously declared effort to conserve her own magic for self-healing. “We great ones surely eat far worse down here.”
Pip just groaned.
So Leandrial taught her about harmonic magic. Pip was fascinated when she wasn’t busy throwing up so violently, a few small, involuntary fireballs emerged amidst the less savoury matter. Soon, the Land Dragoness took to demonstrating to Pip the action of her harmonic magic in her body, already working healing those huge rents in her flanks and sealing off the blood flow from her pierced third heart.
“Shurgal used the opposite of harmonic magic,” Pip realised.
“Disharmony is the simplest way of viewing that attack,” agreed the Dragoness. “Its effectiveness was rooted in the urzul you referred to. I had no idea the Theadurial were proficient in its use, and had passed the secret on to the Marshal. Feel that? The ground rises. We have reached the roots of Meldior Cluster.”
Pip wondered aloud how Leandrial knew so much about the world above the clouds, which immediately elicited a story.
She began, “Five hundred or more sun-c
ycles ago, there was a great disturbance amongst the Land Dragons triggered by the rising of Numistar.”
“The Ancient Dragoness? The White?” Pip queried.
“The White,” said Leandrial.
“But Numistar fled the Island-World with Fra’anior, maybe two thousand years ago.”
“Our legend says–”
“Look, Fra’anior himself told me. You must be wrong.”
Leandrial unleashed out a healthy-sounding roar of discontent. “It’s a story! Will you or will you not let me tell it? Before I succumb to the temptation to grind you up with my molars?”
“You’re a vegetarian,” Pip pointed out.
“I’m an intelligent creature fully capable of modifying my position on such matters,” said the Land Dragon, audibly smirking. “My smallest molars could grind twenty of you on each surface. I’ve measured.”
Pip peered toward the shadowy rear of Leandrial’s cavernous mouth. That estimate struck her as conservative. She swallowed long and hard.
“I thought so,” the Land Dragon bugled cheerfully. “You’re more trouble than a whole hatchery-full of overexcited younglings.”
Why did everyone conclude she was a troublemaker? Pip rolled her fire-eyes extravagantly.
Numistar rose at around the same time as Hualiama Dragonfriend, Leandrial related. The Ancient Dragon fomented war between the remnants of the Land Dragon tribes North of the Rift. As the conflict developed, it came to the fires of the Land Dragons’ understanding that the true root of the trouble related to the discovery of a First Egg in Herimor. Numistar had sought to raise an army to capture the Egg. In those days it was common practice for Land Dragons to cross the Rift, for the Rift-fires and storms were neither as large nor as dangerous. There were several well-established trails across the Rift; those Land Dragons who survived the conflict migrated south, citing reasons of Balance.
“Didn’t that migration create Imbalance?” Pip asked.
She had the impression it was Leandrial’s turn to churn up the fires of her single eye. “Ay, little chigger,” she said. “It was so.”
“Chigger?”
“A worm-like parasite that enters through a Land Dragon’s wounded paw and lays its eggs within the wound-site. Three weeks later, the maggots hatch and eat their way out. Maggots about the size of this little Dragon I know.”
Pip snorted, “Leandrial, you have the most charming way with words.”
Oh, great leaping Islands! Did Leandrial long for a hatchling of her own? Something about the tenor of her fires suggested it …
The Pygmy Dragon asked, “So, what happened to Numistar? Did Hualiama cross the Rift? And why are the Rift-fires more powerful now?”
“Flurries of questions!” Leandrial chuckled massively. “There were two major Land Dragon wars, first at the time of Fra’anior’s departure, the second in the era of Hualiama. In the first, the Egg was purportedly stolen by one of the Land Dragon tribes and taken from Fra’anior Cluster to Herimor, where it vanished into myth and legend. Back to Numistar and the second, later war. Some tales say Numistar recovered the Egg, but Fra’anior tricked her into using its power to steal her away to another dimension. Other tales say Hualiama, a Star Dragoness, used her Star power to defeat the Ancient Dragon–with or without Fra’anior’s help, for on this point the tales disagree. Yet other legends relate that it was Hualiama who first identified the Theadurial infestation of Land Dragons. The Theadurial being the servants of the evil S’gulzzi, the deepest-dwelling Dragons of all–Dragons which are said to inhabit the core fires of our Island-World. The S’gulzzi had possession of the Egg.”
“I’m confused,” said Pip.
“Hold onto your wings, little wing-sister. The tale is almost complete. Roll forward to twenty years ago. Shurgal, a mighty Land Dragon warrior, set out to recover the First Egg from the S’gulzzi. Unfortunately, Shurgal struck a bargain with the Theadurial for the power he required to complete his quest.”
The Pygmy Dragoness cried, “Wait, let me guess!”
“If you must.”
“The Theadurial wished to rise against their masters, those guzzling things you mentioned. So they gave Shurgal knowledge of urzul in exchange for the First Egg. Right?”
“Very astute, Pip. The word is ‘S’gulzzi’. We are now passing up through your clouds. This air grows thin and cold. Shurgal recovered the Egg, the tribes fought as Dragons naturally do, and at the height of our conflict, Marshal Re’akka swooped in and filched the Egg for himself. With it he raised his Island, and flew over the Rift. The rest, you know.”
“I think I have it straight in my head now.”
“About time,” Leandrial teased. “If you thought more with your brain and less with your mouth–”
“Shall I take your tongue hostage with my Onyx power?” Pip suggested sweetly. “So, let me summarize. Re’akka is a thief and Shurgal is a traitor armed with urzul. Re’akka and Shurgal hate each other. The Theadurial parasitize the Land Dragons with the intent of gaining the Egg’s power, that they might escape from their masters, the S’gulzzi. You want the First Egg back to restore the Balance and I want to defeat the Marshal and the Shadow. Does that make us allies, Leandrial?”
“Not friends, little one? Has this rescue reduced my status?”
“Ay, lackey. Take me aloft without delay.”
This time, Leandrial’s laugher knocked Pip right over.
Pip said, “Let me tell you what I learned from the Marshal, Leandrial. Did you know that it was Shurgal who summoned the Nurguz to destroy all Dragons above the Cloudlands?”
A great bellow shook the cavern even as Pip felt fresh, clean air flood in. The great Dragoness roared, “Does his evil know no bounds?”
As Leandrial ran up the side of an Island into the realm of light, Pip quietly related what she suspected about the Master’s and the Nurguz’s ambitions.
“I wonder if the Shadow is somehow parasitizing him?” Leandrial wondered afterward.
“The Marshal?”
“Ay. Forcing him to expend more and more power to maintain the control he believes he has over the creature.” But she clucked her tongue with a booming sound. “Now, Pip, you must hunt and purge yourself of all the toxins you’ve ingested, and I must meditate and heal. We will rest here at Meldior. Shall I come for you when the sky-fires travel to their rest in the West?”
“Will you take me to Jeradia, Leandrial? Please?”
Obliquely, the great Dragoness said, “When they fled across the Rift, my people took much lore about the high-dwellers with them, which is why I know a few details about your ways. I love all kinds of lore and would have you teach me what you know. Gladly shall I run across the Middle Sea for you, little one; it is a mere trifle. After all, I’ve never had a Lesser Dragon for a friend.”
Or many friends at all, Pip’s heart-fires interpreted. If that was a gift great enough for a Land Dragon, it was one she would readily grant.
* * * *
Meldior was technically a cluster of volcanic Islands numbering some sixty-five larger, inhabited landmasses and several hundred ancillary Islets and volcanoes, lying in the southwest-central region of the Middle Sea. They jutted out of the Cloudlands like a discarded jawbone full of cracked black fangs, wreathed with mists and smoke, all uncompromising, sheer cliffs and rocky battlements upon which unique plant and animal species waged ceaseless war against the powerful storms that swept this region. The local Humans and Dragons were famously iconoclastic and clannish. Pip had debated warning them, but when she saw the volumes of smoke rising from many non-volcanic Islands, she realised that the Marshal’s Dragonwings had already paid a visit. Lay low? She hated the idea. Old-Pip would have charged in to help, this Pip was painfully aware of her importance to the cause. How best to balance both needs?
In the end, she sulked around one of the smaller Islets and pounded a hapless rock-deer with her fist rather than killing it cleanly with one blow. Pip growled at herself and finished the animal properly.
Don’t even start flying to that Island, Pygmy Dragon!
Then, she found a handy lava lake. Dragons were always waxing lyrical about lava baths, and this one had the double benefit of enjoying an overhanging rock ledge which shielded two-thirds of the lake from casual observation. Real Dragons would have expired in a fit of helpless fiery hiccoughs of laughter at the sight of an Onyx Dragoness warily dipping her toes into bubbling, molten rock. But once she was immersed, it was beautiful. First, the heat sought out every place that ached, which was most of her body. Pip groaned like Emblazon stretching first thing on a cool morning. Then, that warmth began to knead out the knotted muscles with the enthusiasm of Leandrial’s paw rolling her out for flatbread.
She emerged an hour later feeling so loose and supple, she could barely walk. Pip found a cosy corner, curled up, and promptly fell fast asleep. The last sensation she remembered was mild surprise. Did Dragons really fall asleep at the drop of a rajal’s paw?
She dreamed in rushing fragments, chaotic imagery swirling through her subconscious like the ebbing and flowing susurrus of a Dragon’s belly-fires. But later, that settled into a sweet reprise of the laughing star’s advent upon the stage of her life, there upon the jungle vine above the void she had now plumbed, in some small sense. Then a draconic premonition woke her.
A young rajal stalked her, bellying along behind a row of pumice boulders. She covertly watched the cat, appreciating the rippling flow of muscle beneath its glossy black coat, the lithe feline grace, the tawny eyes narrowed in concentration. The Academy had its fair share of rajals living on the volcanic slopes, drawn by the scent of food. They grew as tall as a man, and considerably more massive. Few were man-eaters but they were known to react aggressively if approached or provoked. A Pygmy warrior would have shown a rajal a dint of healthy respect.
