by Marc Secchia
She said, “Siiyumiel, can you rearrange those runes in your mind, working through possible configurations that would fit them into place like a jigsaw puzzle?” He growled an interrogative. Her voice sharpened against her will. “Put that monstrous brain of yours into gear, and work out all possible layouts of those runes that could spell out a different message.”
Tiiyusiel’s eager voice intruded, Can we play, Star Dragoness?
All Dragons can play, Lia returned, smiling mentally at the young Land Dragon’s enthusiasm.
The Shell-Clan set to with a will, breaking up into family groupings as a rising chorus of chatter and even laughter–the laughter of Islands, it seemed–rose around them, conducted through Siiyumiel’s carapace to listening ears. Hualiama ran through Siiyumiel’s instructions again, and touched a paw to each of her companions, trying to minimise the impact of the ambient poisons on their bodies. She wished she knew better how to help them.
We must take you aloft soon, said Siiyumiel, echoing her suspicions. Until you learn better shielding or more powerful healing, little one, you cannot survive here in the realm of Land Dragons.
However, when four hours had passed with no further discoveries, they took their leave of the Shell-Clan and Siiyumiel swam toward the surface of the Cloudlands. En route, he told them, “We will gather the intelligence of allied Land Dragon Clans and try to formulate strategies to combat the Empress and Numistar. There is a real danger they will form an alliance, or one or both will join this Shinzen creature. Evil is abroad, my friends. When the roar of battle resounds across the deeps, will you join us?”
“You have my word,” said Lia.
And mine, Mizuki added, with a fierce growl.
Elki and Saori added their word, and that of the Dragon Riders.
“Now, you should prepare to cut into my digestive tract,” said Siiyumiel.
“Oh no,” groaned the Prince of Fra’anior.
“Oh yes,” said Lia.
“I just want to make it clear as crysglass, sister, that I did not sign up for this particular duty when I joined your crazy expedition,” Elki complained. “You’ve pulled a few madcap stunts in your time, but this takes the purple spotted rajal.”
“Oh, brother. Your attitude stinks.”
The tall Prince kicked up a cloud of soot with a moody growl. “You know, I wish you could turn into a Human right now so you can appreciate this experience properly.”
Aww, said Dragon-Lia to herself. Is my lovely Human feeling left out of this adventure? I’d gladly let you boss this part.
Ah … no thank you.
Say, ‘Hello, Island-World’. Whoops!
With a sound like tinkling bells in her ears and a distinct whiff of cinnamon-vanilla magic, Human-Lia popped into being, yelling, “You feckless, heartless, nonsensical glob of Dragon-snot!”
“Wow, it worked,” said Elki, sounding more amazed than pleased, which was the only thing that saved him a thorough pasting at that point. “What’s with the snot, sister?”
Dragons do not have snot, Dragoness-Lia pointed out, smugly. They have ear-wax and scale-mites–
Just you wait, trickster. Revenge will be sweet.
Lia began to hold out her right hand, then switched. Freaking windrocs! The right was scalded, throbbing away, and bled from a neat hole through the webbing between her forefinger and second finger. Exact replication of wounds. Final proof her forms were physically linked–should she be comforted, or concerned? A shame clothing did not survive her transformations …
Her brother unbuttoned his brown leather flying jacket, then removed his tan linen undershirt and handed it to her with an exaggerated sigh. “Nasty habit you’re developing here, sister, constantly pinching my clothing.”
“Is this an official complaint, Your Highness?”
“Easy, rajal. Let me help you,” he replied, seeing her cradling the right hand.
Saori slipped the sword-belt around Lia’s waist and settled the Nuyallith blades in their sheaths. “Next time, Elki, she can have my tunic top.” He pretended to start panting heavily, but the warrior added, “I’d wager Elki would wade knee-deep through any sewer in the Island-World for that–wouldn’t you, my brave, handsome Prince?”
Elki bowed elaborately. “I hereby dedicate the utmost reek of my odious presence to thee, and thee alone, o Saori.”
* * * *
When he was particularly annoyed, Zulior the Red famously had a penchant for spitting lava. Grandion had always wondered if his shell-uncle’s mannerism was deliberate or uncontrolled. Right now, his roar splattered the Tourmaline with a healthy slug of red-hot lava, but Grandion merely blinked away the droplets aimed at his left eye and ignored the sizzling against his scales.
I will tolerate no argument to the contrary, youngling! Am I heard?
Loud and fiery, noble shell-uncle, Grandion conceded.
Your report is both troubling and joyous, said Zulior, spreading his wing over his nephew’s shoulders in a brotherly-mentoring fashion. He had taken Grandion’s personal report separately from that delivered to the five wing-leaders of his forces. Besides, this is for me. My gifting is logistics and organisation, not thrashing other Dragons in battle–unlike you, Tourmaline. Your gifting is the flow of battle-song, the rousing of Dragon fires, the combat-vision that sees beyond the clash of fang and paw. They listen to me–but they battle-love you.
Draconic laughter gurgled over the battlements above Kerdani City’s gates. Zulior was a mountainous Red, one of the few Dragons to match Sapphurion in size and strength. Zulior stood no less than twenty-four feet tall at the shoulder, and though his hundred-and-twelve foot length was fourteen feet shy of Sapphurion’s enormity, he outweighed the Blue Elder by five tonnes, all of it muscle. Logistics? Grandion sniffed forlornly, wishing he could have the Red fly at his shoulder. His uncle had not phrased a request. He would support Grandion, offer wisdom and strategy … but he could not divide his attention between leading at the battlefront and organisation when war approached on four potential vectors–Shinzen’s forces, Azziala, Numistar, and the as-yet-unknown quantity represented by Siiyumiel and his kin. That would be, in a word, fatal.
Grandion eyeballed a troop of Kaolili citizen militia trotting purposefully out of the gate; they seemed motivated to put significant distance between themselves and the watching Dragons. He smiled toothily to ensure they moved even faster.
That said, these Humans were so organised and disciplined, it practically made the eyes water. Did none of these Easterners possess a mind of their own? For they all looked alike, behaved alike and worked alike. Out on the plains, below the low mound on which the city walls stood, a second battlement rose with impressive speed. The lines of fortifications were drawn with precision to a fraction of an inch. Even the slaves digging foundations or the labourers carrying bricks worked in exacting rhythm, singing in their musical Eastern dialect, five hundred spades hurling dirt into the air at exactly the same moment or laying bricks with exacting click-clack rhythms. Crazy. Poor creatures. To say nothing of their obsession with bathing! Their midday break consisted of half a cup of some tasteless, starchy grains and a communal bathing ritual using buckets and wooden scoops to toss water over each other.
Good workers, Grandion harrumphed, before turning to his shell-uncle. Right. We’ve a week, maximum, to slap these Dragons into Command-hold-resisting war machines. Arrange to bring me all the Blues, first.
That’s easy, said Zulior. There’s only four, including you.
The Tourmaline scratched his chin. The rest having flown with Sapphurion, rebelled at the Bell … aye. Fourteen slain. Fine. Bring me the best of the other colours–and those Dragon Riders. I will train them also.
That will be tricky, since our Dragons and theirs have had a few … disagreements.
Shinzen’s advance had been halted four hundred and eighty leagues from the Kingdom’s capital by Fra’aniorian Dragons working in cooperation with Commander Hiro and the Dragonship fleet, but the
latest intelligence revealed a significant build-up of the Warlord’s forces in that area. He was securing his supply lines and consolidating his position, which boded ill for Kaolili. An estimated eight hundred Giants were now deployed on the ground, with more arriving daily from the South as his extermination policy bore its dreadful fruit and increasing numbers of troops were released to join the battle-front.
The Tourmaline Dragon’s gaze turned to the tent-camp situated on the plains West of the city. Refugees poured in daily, bringing gruesome tales of destruction, cannibalism and woe. The Warlord’s Giants were not fussy about their diet, preferring meat which could be easily caught. His paws curled in disgust. Eat another intelligent creature? Barbaric. Prey on Human hatchlings and young? His fangs ground viciously as battle-rage sheeted over his vision, washing the white tent-city, already holding forty thousand souls, with a portentous veil of crimson. And he had squabbling Dragons and Dragon Riders to contend with?
GRRR!
Grandion curled his lip. Oh, do they? He rolled his shoulders happily and checked the sharpness of his fore-talons. Wing me to the offenders, o Zulior, and I shall instil the required discipline.
Youngsters, snorted his uncle.
Your problem is that you possess too much pomp and gravitas, Grandion needled, sounding so much like Hualiama that he almost choked on his own mirthful smoke–or was it the spirit of Flicker, that cheeky dragonet, which indwelled him now? I’m the wild shell-child, the bane of my parents’ existence, remember?
And how! Zulior agreed, feelingly.
The Tourmaline threw a comradely mock-punch at his shell-uncle’s ribs. Tell you what. I’ll beat the living pith out of them; you patch them up afterward. Deal?
Always told Sapphurion you were nothing but a lava-thug. I’ll wager that Star Dragoness will make a real Dragon out of you yet.
Grandion thundered, GRRROOOAARRR!!
The massive Red’s lips curled away to expose his fangs. Good, I was hoping you’d say exactly that.
* * * *
Three Humans lined up atop Siiyumiel’s open final-stage food processing region, equivalent to the Human large intestine, struggling not to gag, throw up, or faint–or all three at once. Huge muscles slowly rolled beneath their feet in peristaltic waves, passing the final by-products of the Land Dragon’s waste along for disposal. Excellent fertiliser, Siiyumiel had joked, describing how the action of Land Dragons fed, churned up and renewed the ecosystem beneath the Cloudlands.
He had failed to capture the nostril-cauterising reek of his ultra-concentrated faeces.
Clutching his chest, Elki wheezed, “Tell me again why we can’t create a shield-bubble down there?”
“Natural defences,” said Hualiama, eyeing the sludgy brown-black river her sword-cut had opened. “At least Siiyumiel’s backside-equivalent is above the toxic gas layer, he assures us.” She pictured a mallard tipping up to feed from the bottom of a pond, its rear end wriggling above the water.
“Defences? Against what?” asked the Prince.
Siiyumiel rumbled, “Imagine a Borer two hundred feet long, with mandibles and mouth-hooks thicker than your legs, forcing its way up your–”
“Stop!” yelled Elki, turning a colour that resembled a mouldy white sheet, if that were possible. Whatever was left in his stomach bolted for freedom. Dropping into the wide rent, it briefly sizzled like meat cooking over a fire, before vanishing. “Curse it … I don’t have words.” He wiped his mouth, and pleaded, “Make this quick, Siiyumiel, please. Of all the places in this Island-World I’d least like to die …”
“How hot is the liquid?” asked Saori.
“Fifty-eight degrees centigrade, the coolest I could manage,” said Siiyumiel. “Otherwise the consistency would become so thick …”
The Prince waved a hand feebly. “Mizuki. Kill me now.”
“Tempting,” she purred.
Hualiama said, “This will burn, but not too much–if we’re quick. Once we’re in, hold your breath. We’ll flow through to the terminal holding chamber in five seconds. Then, it should be approximately twelve seconds between Siiyumiel initiating the suction-ejecta pump mechanism to us being blasted out–”
“In a Human bombardment?” asked Elki.
Lia wagged a finger at him. “Try not to make wasteful jokes.”
“Just passing through,” said Elki.
“Brother, your sense of humour is completely constipated.”
He shot back, “Imagine squeezing Mizuki out? Now that’s a whopper.”
Lia laughed openly at Saori’s agonised expression. She could well imagine Eastern culture did not lend itself to gutter humour. She said, “Whatever you do, Saori, hold your nose and try not to swallow any. Mizuki?”
“Ready to fly,” she growled.
“Alright!” cried the Prince. “One Land Dragon healed. Time to flush ourselves down a living drainpipe.”
As Mizuki clasped them in her paws, Saori was grumbling, ‘Not alright. Not alright on any Island in this world.’ She had no choice in the matter. The Copper’s left forepaw squeezed her against Elki, while Human-Lia had a solo ride in her right forepaw. Mizuki lowered herself headfirst into the alimentary canal, just above a sluggish flow of foetid, slowly bubbling waste. The Land Dragon’s digestive system was efficient, but the enormous quantities of nutrients required to sustain him meant that inevitably, some portion must be unusable, and the normal bodily functioning of his organs also generated mineral deposits and by-products of magical processes. Pinching one’s nose was no help whatsoever. The stench gaily grabbed the throat with claws of fire and acid. Elki started coughing and hacking violently, but then he clasped his mouth with his left hand and nodded to the Copper Dragoness.
She leaped charily. Plop.
Lia counted in her mind, One … two …
At first it seemed she had only stepped into scalding mud, for Mizuki tried to keep her Human cargo above the surface for as long as possible. The flow pulled them along relentlessly. Then the muscles kicked in. Squeezing like a monstrous Dragon’s paw … three … four … a wave of burning sludge buried Hualiama momentarily. They rushed through a tunnel barely wide enough for Mizuki, splashing, slopping … five … as she gasped a final breath, something rancid burning her tongue. Lia’s surprised cough bubbled through the slop in front of her face. Clamp the jaw shut! Gripping the dragonet’s egg inside Elki’s shirt as best she could, Lia felt the mixture churn beneath Mizuki’s abdomen. GLU-GLU-GLUUU … under they went! Sucked away like leaves bobbing helplessly in a Cloudlands-bound torrent, the foursome disappeared in a whirlpool of broiling, loose faeces.
Siiyumiel had liquefied the mixture as best he could to aid the cooling process. Nevertheless, pain washed over Lia’s body; the heat, more scalding than the hottest bath she had ever taken. Like a feral Dragon’s fire, she thought, recalling the time Grandion had burned her. Her eyes felt as if they were melting in their sockets. Every inch of skin screamed and her lungs were afire, but Lia knew she must hang on.
… ten, eleven … the pressure ratcheted up to unbearable levels. She became aware of a low rumbling and shaking, as if they approached a waterfall. All she knew was the clasp of Mizuki’s paw and the mental roaring of the Copper Dragoness as she fought to keep her precious cargo safe.
Thirteen. She had to breathe! Breathe! The darkness lurked behind her eyes, sucking away her consciousness …
… fifteen, sixteen … the great muscles clenched. Rippled. Bore down like a woman’s womb in the final throes of labour.
Hualiama braced herself.
PSSSSSHH-BOOOMM!!
Mizuki and her three Humans blasted out of the Dragon’s downward-pointing defecator tube in a spray of sludge so fine and dark, it appeared to be raining droplets of night. The Copper Dragoness shook herself with the enthusiasm of a wet dog, rattling Lia’s teeth and wrenching her neck, but the worst of the sticky slush sloughed off her scales and wings. Suddenly there was a gust of fresh air in her nostrils and Lia instinctive
ly tried to breathe, only to inhale a less-than-savoury load of Siiyumiel’s waste.
She coughed helplessly, along with Saori and Elki. Even Mizuki flew poorly from beneath Siiyumiel’s sky-occluding backside, convulsing as she fought to clear her nose and lungs. Eventually, a fireball smashed simultaneously out of her nostrils and mouth, burning out the muck. Lia only wished.
The Copper soared upward upon outspread wings, breaking free of the searing rain.
Thank you, Siiyumiel! Mizuki bugled.
Aye, thank you! Hualiama called. Let us know when you find the key to that message.
I WILL ARISE! Siiyumiel thundered. Let me touch you before you depart, little ones. It is the least gift I can give my surgically precise saviours. Neither of the twin suns has ever beheld such a mighty deed!
“No, because we were stuck up–” Elki chuckled as Saori slapped a grimy hand over his mouth. He managed to wriggle free briefly to deadpan “–where the suns never dared–”
She caught him again. This time, there was no escape.
* * * *
Facing the Dragons of Gi’ishior and the Eastern Dragon Riders of Naoko’s tribe, Grandion sneered, Any more complainers? Come on, you sons of worms, I’ll take you on five at a time! Seven! Ten–no takers?
A chorus of pitiful groans rose around the parade ground the Tourmaline Dragon now owned. Bar two, he also owned every Dragon within it, including several Dragons artfully draped over a few nearby buildings. Oops, slip of the old paw there, as Hualiama would have said.
Strutting over to a pile of four mostly comatose Reds, he thundered, What say you, Dragonkind?
We submit, came another weak groan.
Grandion’s gaze flicked hummingbird-quick to his shell-uncle, standing six hundred feet away across the parade ground. Zulior’s expression was perfectly stern, but a tightly-controlled hoot of laughter came to his nephew’s awareness. Twenty-eight? That’s a record for you, isn’t it?
Indeed. Job done, I’d say.
Turning in the opposite direction, Grandion inclined his wingtips with the utmost respect to Yukari. Beside the gigantic Aquamarine Dragoness, Akemi surveyed the scene with a characteristic scowl and arms folded across her chest. Twelve of her new Dragon force and sixteen stalwarts of Gi’ishior had just been thrashed at Dragon fisticuffs by a single beast.
