by Marc Secchia
“Respect? Unholy windrocs, you abandoned me to Ianthine!”
No inhuman strength, nor the fear searing her gut, could keep Hualiama from screaming right back in her mother’s face.
Azziala spat, “You will join your people, or die.”
“If you hurt Grandion–”
“Your precious lizard?” she sneered. “You’re incredible! You come riding in on the breeze, blow up five airships and destroy half of our cargo bays, and you think we’re just going to cosy up, make friends and let you go? Child, I’m not here to bargain with you. Nowhere in this Island-World can you ride a Dragon without paying the penalty, but especially not here in the Lost Islands.”
Clamping Hualiama’s cheeks with her free hand, Azziala peered into her eyes. After a moment, she shook her head. “Plain as suns-light. The child of my flesh could not be less the child of my spirit! Well, we’ll soon remedy that. You’ll learn my true power, and join us heart and soul.”
“Let my Dragon go, and I’ll–”
“No craven bargains will be tolerated here.” The dark blue eyes appeared to moisten unexpectedly, before she hurled Lia back against the bed. “Whelp of a windroc! You’ve no choice, my dear, long-lost daughter. There is no Scroll of Binding. It was stolen by the Maroon Dragoness when she stole you. Of course I bargained with that lizard. Of all of their hell-spawn, that one is the closest to understanding our ways. She gave me words; with the words, we are able to extract Dragon powers from their blood and feed ourselves. Feeding ourselves, we become strong. Becoming strong, we shall overcome!”
Dragon blood was the source of their power. It turned their skins this peculiar golden colour …
Lia shuddered in concert with her mother, who seemed gripped by some unholy ecstasy. The woman was mad–either power-mad, or simply insane. She could not make sense of the emotions sparking and raging within Azziala. What she had learned so far was too patchy to draw conclusions, or even to stitch together into a coherent picture. She had only succeeded in throwing accusations at her mother, she recognised now. She blew hot air across rock instead of mining for truths that might point a way out of this vortex of hate.
Her own emotions seemed dangerously unstable and untrustworthy. One moment she wanted to weep, the next, she wanted to pounce upon her mother with her claws bared and fangs agape … but for poor Grandion. She had to help Grandion.
Quaking, she said, “Mother, I will agree to–”
“Empress!” roared Azziala, striking Lia backhanded across the cheek in a ghastly repetition of what King Chalcion had done; only, Lia saw the blow early and chose to receive it. Physical abuse had no hold over her any longer. She was stronger than that girl, and it must have shown in the steel of her gaze as she refused to flinch, even though her cheek exploded with heat and she tasted blood in her mouth.
Perversely, Azziala seemed to approve. She said, “Until your mettle has been proved in the Reaving, I’m no mother of yours. I’ve a better idea. Would you care to see your father?”
Hualiama sat down with a bump. “He’s alive? Ra’aba’s alive?”
A hateful smile proclaimed Azziala’s pleasure at her reaction. “Aye, Ra’aba’s alive. Want to talk with him?”
Chapter 29: Abomination
FouR times a day, the Dragon Enchanters came to renew the command-hold. “Dragon, obey. You are our slave. These are your instructions.”
The Tourmaline Dragon knew only contentment. He knew to eat and grow fat on the rancid, fatty meat of a large quadruped the Islanders called orrican, shaggy beasts well suited to the blasting cold that sometimes swept through the caverns. He heard other Dragons come and go, some weakened by the process called harvesting, but he thought nothing of it. There were no questions to be asked. He had the warmth of a roost and other Dragons for companionship.
In the pre-dawn hours as the magic-induced haze over his mind weakened, the Dragon dreamed of one who spoke gently to him, a sprite with hair like fire and laughter that reminded him of tumbling through the air in joyous play. On the third day they found him perched in a cave mouth, and two Dragon Enchanters led him back to his broken pen with many unkind words and additional commands.
“He is strong, this one,” said a male voice.
“He resists our commands, Kaynzo. The Empress should harvest him, and soon, by the Tenth Protocol. What’s she waiting for?”
“Don’t question the Fire of the Dawn, Jurizzak,” cautioned Kaynzo, sanctimoniously. “She penetrates all, even the innermost thoughts of our minds. Cleansing will follow.”
“Should we add command stations for the night? We could consult the Interpretations for guidance.”
“Bah. My nights are better occupied–”
Jurizzak snorted, “Warming the furs with golden Xerzia? Mind she doesn’t harvest your brain cells, boy. Me, I’d give my gonads for a run at that foreign girl, lizard-lover or none. Killed my brother.” In a voice grown thick and moody, he said, “When the Reaving’s done, she’ll be one of the High Ones. Best kill her before–”
“Jurizzak! Shut your fumarole!” Kaynzo gasped.
“Too Ninth Protocol for you, boy? Revenge is a sacred duty. I’ll flay that Hualiama with my own skinning knife–”
HUUUAAALLLIIIAAAMAA!
The Dragon Enchanters whirled as the Dragon bugled her name. The Dragon felt blood as warm as his satisfaction spurt over his talons. Sweet.
The one called Kaynzo babbled, “Dragon, obey! Dragon, obey!”
He obeyed the instinct to destroy those who would eliminate the beautiful laughter. Then, the Dragon returned to his pen, and let his own bloodthirsty mirth thunder out over the Dragons crammed into a cave far beneath a cold mountain. He sniffed out a haunch of meat, and ate until he was replete.
* * * *
Ra’aba. Father. Would-be throne-stealer and murderer. What did one say to such a man?
Thoughts mobbed Hualiama as though her mind were fresh kill ripe for the carrion birds. She had imagined this moment a thousand times, yet found herself unprepared. Mute. Punch-drunk, even, in the way of a former warrior-monk apprentice who had fetched one too many blows around her aching skull. Too much was happening at once. Perhaps this was Azziala’s plan, to traumatise and scar her daughter, to take away her Dragon-companion and her freedoms, to mould Hualiama into whatever this despicable mother desired her to be?
The Empress was petite, but not as petite as Lia. They stood before Ra’aba’s barred cell door, the mother’s hand on Lia’s shoulder in a familiar gesture that made her skin crawl. Within, a solid metal grating separated the chamber into two halves, one half occupied by two of the gold-skinned Enchantresses, and the other, by a shattered husk of a man.
She would not have known him, save for the distinctive scar on his left cheek. It remained unchanged.
“What does this to a man?” Lia breathed.
“Torture,” said Azziala. “It’s what I do to those who oppose my will. Go speak to your father, girl. For certain you’ll find the experience instructive.”
A soldier unlocked the door. The Empress’ hand impelled Hualiama within. She was dimly aware of Azziala moving on, her retinue of councillors accompanying her. Both men and women could be Enchanters, she had learned, but the men worked with the lower magical functions specified by the Protocols–enchanting Dragons, husbanding the crops, hunting and mining and the like. The Enchantresses were more powerful, dominating their Island society from their positions in leadership and warfare. The magic users comprised the highest class. The middle class were men and women like Yinzi, who had a craft or skill lauded by the Protocols. The lowest class were menial workers and soldiers. Where did villagers fit into this structure?
Ra’aba continued to rock back and forth in a corner where he had built himself a meagre nest of furs. His gaunt face peeked at her. The grossly distorted knuckles of his right hand hugged his knees like gnarled roots wrapped about a boulder. His whimpering rose and fell, as though he wanted to sing, but could not find w
ords to express his brokenness. Of the powerful, lithe swordsman who had fought his daughter for the Onyx Throne, no trace remained. How had he survived?
Appalled, Lia began to weep.
She hated herself for weeping over this man. Yet for all his evil, he remained her father.
Glancing up, Ra’aba cringed. “No, not thee, Enchantress,” he mumbled. “Come to torture old Ra’aba? What’s left? Not even his teeth. Crushed them with pliers, see? All these stumps in my mouth, I should be a woodsman.” Ra’aba sank what remained of his teeth into the knuckles of that ruined hand. “I won’t speak! You can’t make me! Didn’t you steal it all already? Vile Enchantress. Slug spit to your vile ruzal, I hope it eats you from the inside like cancer.” Blood trickled over his fingers. Feebly, he cried, “Get away from me! Vixen! Spawn of a goat …”
“Father, don’t,” Lia whispered.
His head cocked to one side like a fowl regarding a tasty worm. “Father? What trickery is this?”
“Father, it’s me. Hualiama.”
“Lia? Nooooo … she’s dead. Never lived. She hurt me. Then the Dragons, oh mercy, the Dragons and the burning, so much burning …”
“Father.”
“She isn’t here. No. Can’t be–run away!” His abrupt, spittle-flecked shriek made her jump. “Flee while you can. Too late, oh, too late. Pity you. Despair, despair, despair, little one.”
“Father, it’s me. Lia, not Azziala. Focus on my voice.”
“Lia? Little Lia?” Standing, he began to shuffle toward her, hunched over like a wounded windroc. He sobbed, “Forgive me … no!” The voice changed again, his mood shifting like clouds racing over the suns. “You’re lying. I see you there, with your Enchantress’ eyes.”
“Father, I need to know what happened back at Gi’ishior.”
“They questioned me, those Dragons. So many Dragons. Always the burning. Burned my thoughts right out of me, don’t you see?” He squinted up at her, the left eye focussed, the right rolling wildly in its socket, repeating ‘don’t you see’ numerous times. Spittle dangled from the corner of his lower lip.
“Father, about my birth–”
“Lia? Little Lia? A prophecy, aye–I must kill you!”
Suddenly, he charged at the bars. A paralysis birthed in horror kept her immobile for a second too long; too late, she realised Ra’aba had been stalking her with the cunning of a wounded rajal. The grotesque hands clamped about her neck with a measure of the inhuman strength Ra’aba had enjoyed before. Lia chopped down with the tough edges of her hands, but his madness multiplied that grip. She could not break it. He shook her, bruised her lips against the cold metal.
The two Enchantresses spoke in concert, “Back!”
Ra’aba reeled as though struck, but did not release his chokehold.
“Back!”
A sliver of tooth popped out of his mouth, followed by a gobbet of blood. Freed, Hualiama stumbled backward, holding her throat.
Her father began to cackle, “Afraid of old Ra’aba, are we? I’ve the strength of a Dragon!” And his cackles continued, eerie gasps of mirth that made the Princess of Fra’anior imagine maniacs dancing across her grave, such was the soul-lost chill it evoked in her spirit. Evidently she was not the only one, for one of the Enchantresses cursed and lashed out with her magic, only to be stilled by the other. Panting, they faced Ra’aba. Magic stung Lia’s senses. The laughter choked. He turned purple as they cut off his air supply.
“Enough,” Lia rasped. The women glared at him, identical stares from identical golden faces. “He’s suffered enough.”
One said, “No Cloudlands ocean of suffering is enough for one of his ilk.”
She only calmed Ra’aba after a considerable effort. He kept pawing at his throat and cursing the Enchantresses and the Lost Islands and Azziala in particular with curses so vile and sordid, Hualiama could barely bring herself to listen–but listen she did, in the hope of learning something new.
At length, when she judged the man somewhat returned to reason, she said, “Ianthine insisted that you were my father, Ra’aba. Is that true?”
Ra’aba hunched in his corner, and groaned, “Child of the Dragon. Child of the–”
“I have to be the child of a Human man and woman,” said Lia, trying to force the deep distress out of her voice. “Human seed and Dragon soul-fire cannot mingle. Thousands of years and Dramagon’s foulest abominations attest to that truth. Yet both you and Azziala claim I am your child, or that I may be, or am not. Why deny it? What’s the truth, Ra’aba? I’ve a right to know.”
“Rights?” The maniacal laughter belled out again. “You don’t want to know. You can’t handle the truth, little Lia.”
His use of her hated nickname sealed the matter. Anger fizzed in her veins. Between clenched teeth, she hissed, “I have to know, Ra’aba. If it’s the only good thing you do in this life, do good now. Speak the truth.”
“Confusion, conundrum, mystery so humdrum,” he cackled.
“The truth!”
“Little Lia doesn’t like puzzles?”
Before she knew it, ruzal slithered out from beneath the barricades she had built with such care and patience. Speak! she commanded.
The two watching Dragon-Haters exchanged glances. Lia groaned. Oh for Grandion to sit on her chest for that mistake! Now, Azziala would hear of her abilities, of that she had no doubt. Ra’aba began to slam his head against the bars, over and over, each blow like a sickening strike of a gong. The Human Princess looked to the Enchantresses, stricken, but the identical gestures of their left hands informed her that this was normal behaviour. Slowly, his guttural moans resolved into intelligible speech.
“Get him out, out, out,” he snuffled. “Don’t hurt me again, Dragon. Don’t make me do it. I’m a sick man, so sick, I can’t get him out of my head … make it stop, please, someone help me.”
This speech descended into meaningless babble, before being repeated with a greater level of distress than before. After the fourth time, unable to bear his misery any longer, Lia burst out, “Who? Who’s making you do it, father?”
“Him. The Dragon. Him. The–”
“Razzior?”
Ra’aba nodded, the words seemingly obstructed in his throat.
As she had guessed! Dragons could dominate and possess Human minds and bodies–nobody could know that better than her. Razzior had done the same to Ra’aba, not a simple projection as Grandion could do, but the whole Island. Body and soul. She could only imagine the opportunities for a Dragon of Razzior’s skill in the art of ruzal. Had the Orange Dragon secretly controlled his fellows, through the vessel of Ra’aba? Mercy.
Aaaaa-ooooo-aaah! Ra’aba keened, taking up his rocking again.
After some minutes of this, he looked up between his fingers, childlike yet guileful. “He made me do it.” His manner changed again, becoming furtive. “He made me. Twisted me like a hawser, see?” Licking his lips, Ra’aba said, “He made me do it to them.”
“Them?” she echoed dully.
“Forty-seven of them,” said Ra’aba, eyeballing her with the lustful glee of one who revelled in knowing exactly how much damage his words would wreak. “Forty-seven women. Azziala was one of many. So strong. So … worthwhile.”
“Monster!” shouted the Enchantress who had lost control before.
Ra’aba only laughed. “Some, I kept captive for years. Shall I tell you how it felt, little Lia? Razzior made me. I had no choice. He lived through me.”
Hualiama found herself shaking the bars, shouting incoherently, but Ra’aba simply kept laughing at her with that sickening, draconic smile lingering on his lips. “Oh, how the truth sears, sears her soul, the conundrum always grows, and here it comes–she cannot be Ra’aba’s child. Devastated, little Lia? Traumatised? Better I stuck that Immadian forked dagger in your gut than hear this, eh?”
The old double puncture marks on her abdomen and the huge crescent scar on her back throbbed as though freshly opened. Ra’aba had been ri
ght. She had opened the cesspit and jumped right in, with her obstinate desire to understand her heritage. But she could not believe him. Lia shook her head repeatedly.
She insisted, “It had to be you, Ra’aba. There was no one else.”
“Forty-seven, not counting the willing ones,” he chuckled. “I kept track, see? Ra’aba never sired another child, not by any woman. Azziala’s a liar. It must’ve been someone else.”
“You’re infertile? But there’s still a chance, surely …”
“There’s a much better chance, which would make the Maroon Dragoness right, at least by Dragonish logic,” he said, waiting until with a gasp of horror, she made the fateful connection. He seemed quite sane, now. Lia wondered if his entire performance had been a sham. “A shame this isn’t the beautiful, prophetic truth you so desired, is it, little Lia? Child of the Dragon. Ruzal-spawn abomination!”
His lunatic laughter chased her out of the room.
* * * *
Stripped to her underwear, Hualiama shivered uncontrollably in the biting wind as Azziala took the report. Grandion had killed two Dragon Enchanters that morning. Hysterical laughter burbled in the back of her throat. Not so easy to chain a Tourmaline Dragon, was it?
“Fools! You waited until evening to make this report?” demanded the Empress.
“Highness! We had to check the Protocols … four times did not suffice to bind the lizard.” The man’s voice rose to a raw squeal in the face of her wrath. “We think they mentioned her name, this lizard-lover’s name, great–”
“FOOL!” Azziala’s sceptre crashed into his elbow. The man turned grey with pain. “Go cast yourself into the Dragon’s Pipe. I am surrounded by incompetents. Go!”
“Mercy,” whispered from Hualiama’s pinched lips. On the mountaintop, a flat area atop the tall volcanic cone she had first seen upon approaching the Lost Islands, the cold was a bitter beast borne on the wings of the ever-moaning wind, which rushed over the peak and down into twin holes which looked suspiciously like a Dragon’s nostrils set side-by-side in the rock. Each hole was thirty feet wide and rimed by ice. From this place, Azziala had told her during their march up the mountain, the frost emanated which gave the western, Human-inhabited Lost Islands a climate like the deadly cold of the Islands north of Immadia.
