Dragonsoul

by Marc Secchia

  Inexperience would kill her in this environment.

  Smoothing out her descent, the twelve-foot Star Dragoness plunged out of the murky upper layer into a realm where everything was poised to kill her.

  Chapter 17: Carnivorous Intelligence

  FOLLOWING a DARK-FIRES depressing council of war with King Taisho and his ministers that evening, the Tourmaline Dragon chose to walk through the torch-lit streets of Kaolili town rather than fly the half-mile to the feeding troughs and temporary roosts set up for the Dragons in an old set of grain warehouses. The mood was sombre. Neat houses had been boarded up. Families hid in the poorer sections of town, in the catacombs and storage chambers beneath the city. Green-uniformed squads of soldiers were stationed at every intersection. Hastily-constructed stone walls blockaded roads against incursion by ground troops. Had these people seen Warlord Shinzen’s Giants in action, they would not have bothered.

  They had nowhere left to run. Responsibility for these creatures weighed on Grandion’s shoulders. In his rebellious youth, he would have decried feeling in any way answerable to Humans. Once, he had even clasped a Human child in his paw, intending to murder her to seal his loyalty to Razzior. The dread in her eyes had spoken to his third heart … and he had baulked. Regret coupled with joy as this memory faded in his mind. That day had been the germ of his transformation since; of becoming the Dragon he had always wanted to be.

  Oddly, a few people reached out toward him in passing, or made signs he understood as inviting blessing from a Dragon. To these he nodded regally, saying, ‘Strength to you.’ What else could he say? He had no magic formulae to prevent war, and the destruction to come.

  Two days. Two daybreaks, and orange wings would fire the dawn skies over Kerdani.

  He had to admit, these Humans were better organised and braver than he had expected. There were no signs of looting. The soldiers exuded an air of watchfulness, of steely purpose. There was no panic as stores were set away underground and doors barricaded.

  Danger. His battle-senses pricked up. That precise footstep behind him, repeated. The faint rustle of cloth against stone. A Human was … stalking him?

  He almost laughed aloud. Idiot! Did they know nothing of Dragons?

  More warily, he walked on, causing these tiny, dark-haired Humans to press against the buildings either side of the road to avoid being trampled underfoot–at least, that was what they must fear. Unlike the Dragonfriend, Grandion could not shrink his size to cause them less concern. He was bigger than any of their houses, hulking over the blacksmiths’ forges he passed now, thirty-one shops working overtime to produce weapons and armour for the war effort. The heat of those open, roaring forges made him pause for a moment, groaning and flexing his weary spine as he imagined bathing in a Fra’aniorian volcano. Oh, for fierce heat to caress his aching bones! Yet his pause was not without purpose. The cloth-shod feet paused too, the very absence of sound pinpointing their position amongst the local pattern his senses had identified. There. Deep shadows between two forges to his starboard flank hid a lean-to half-filled with forge materials, discarded tools by the metallic smell. Aye, he scented metals and young-boy sweat, but not fear-sweat.

  Intrigued, the Dragon paused to scratch a non-existent itch. The Jade Moon glinted between the moving cloudbanks, briefly glinting off a pair of watchful, slit eyes before they shuttered as if sensitive to the touch of that light. The boy knew magic–whether he understood his power or not.

  His paw snapped out.

  Empty air. Feet tapping a crazy getaway down that narrow alleyway.

  Not wishing to destroy any buildings, Grandion hopped over the forges, cutting off the anticipated line of retreat. The boy was sharp. He had doubled back, crawled into a narrow gutter, but the pounding of his heart gave away his position. Still no real fear. Who was this boy, who faced a hunting Dragon without fear? A fool, or a warrior born?

  The Tourmaline, however, could not reach him without tearing down a few walls. Time for a change of tack.

  “Be welcome to exit the shadows, boy.” The soft breathing hitched slightly. “I would gladly converse with thee–but now, I am hungry and weary beyond measure. I tarry this night at the old warehouses over on nineteenth street. Come ask for me, and we shall talk. The pass-phrase is, ‘No gem is Tourmaline, but living fire is he’. Understood?”

  Silence greeted this arbitrary pass-phrase. This time, Grandion let a grin touch his lips. If this boy had a quarter of the spirit he suspected in him, let him come. The Dragons set no guards, for they had no need.

  The Tourmaline extended a talon and pointed it directly at the boy’s hiding-place. “Come, or I swear I shall hunt thee through this city myself.”

  Then, he blinked. The boy was gone.

  * * * *

  Hualiama’s wings strained to slice through the thick, viscous atmosphere above what struck her as a gloomy crysglass terrarium populated by monsters, not one of which was less than a hundred times her size. The mutilated, screaming Land Dragon tumbled away into their midst. Below, the abyssal demesne seemed endless, fading into the distance far more quickly than in the clear air above–but that near horizon was more than enough for her to see dozens of Shell-Clan approaching at speeds she could scarcely credit, their limbs tucked up beneath the vast oval carapaces, their heads barely peeking out of their slit foreparts. Trios of forward-facing white eyes blazed like lamps in the void.

  Nearer her were the Runners, the individuals varying between a quarter-mile to half a mile in length, she estimated. They evidently struggled in the upper altitudes where she flew; most swam about lower down, as best she could see in the murk, or clung to the Air-Breathers with their four paws in squat stances that reminded her of nothing more than black-banded geckoes, which grew up to ten inches long, waltzing up the walls of the Fra’aniorian Palace. And occasionally, she remembered with a smile, they might by ‘accident’ land on her sister Fyria’s bed. Fun! Swirling quickly in the treacly air, she saw that the Lost Islands were tall, pyramid-shaped creatures, so enormous that their underparts vanished into the gloom more than a league below. Hundreds of tentacles and mandibles depended from multiple mouths which started approximately a mile lower down their bodies; otherwise, they possessed no form of physical defence apart from their gigantic size. Hundreds of Welkin-Runners swarmed around the bases of the nearest Air-Breathers, apparently chopping or cutting at something.

  Inconceivably, Siiyumiel had revealed that the Air-Breathers floated. Lia refused to accept that as fact. Yet if the Welkin-Runners caused enough damage, what would happen to the Lost Islands’ peoples and Dragons in the world above?

  Hualiama! Siiyumiel’s bugle resounded in her ear-canals, angry and distressed.

  That scale-mite is the Blue-star?

  Lia whirled. Nearby, dangling from Yiisuriel by their talon-tips, several chunky Welkin-Runners had turned avaricious, green-streaked eye-fires upon her. One sneered, Flaytox-ap-Urax I am, little one. Welcome to the realm where big Dragons play.

  His ‘welcome’ came coloured with fatality-markers. Without further warning, powerful beams of light-magic pummelled her. Lia was saved only by the fact that three Runners attacked simultaneously, their beams causing unintentional amplitude interference. Nevertheless, she felt as if she had stepped beneath a roaring and frothing waterfall of pastel radiance. The Dragoness lurched away, frantically trying to concoct a reflective layer to add to her shielding.

  Wham! The Harmonic-light assault redoubled. How could light have weight, how could it batter and confuse and hurt like this? She was a mosquito in a storm.

  Other Welkin-Runners approached, she judged by their hunting calls. All wanted the glory of bringing home the prize–her. Why? The Dragoness hunkered down, working with scattershot haste to modify the essential shield-properties Siiyumiel and Grandion had painstakingly taught her. A Runner sprang for her with a swipe of his huge forepaws, but the one called Flaytox reached out, sank his talons into his fellow-Dragon’s hips and yanked
him backward. Using Yiisuriel’s flank to brace his forequarters, Flaytox proceeded to back-kick the surprised beast so hard with the heel of his left hind foot, that the wash of that monstrous impact rattled Lia’s fangs even thousands of feet away. Golden blood spurted; the flaccid Welkin-Runner fell away into the void, unconscious.

  Would he bounce? Or would the increasingly dense air eventually slow his fall enough to save him? Yet already, she saw shoals of smaller piscine predators closing in, descending from the ceiling of opaque clouds above her head. Most visitors to this realm must be eaten before they ever struck the clear blue middle layers, which Siiyumiel had called the ‘air-ocean’, a strangely evocative, ancient word.

  Further beams speared past her from the incoming Shell-Clan, cuffing Flaytox about the jowls as brutally as he had just defeated his foe.

  Swim! Dodge! Hualiama stretched her wings to try to reach Siiyumiel and his kin, but a corralling swipe of Flaytox’s paws headed her off. Besides, there had to be a thousand of the fish-like predators out there now, perhaps attracted by the scent of blood.

  Suddenly, an indescribably chill presence blazed from between the Air-Breathers. Ah, Hualiama. She could not see the creature, but Numistar’s complex form of communication instantly distinguished her even from the Land Dragons. An unexpected boon. Come, little one. Bring me your gifts.

  Mercy–no …

  Hualiama fought back, but an unknowable compulsion had seized her body. Worse, she could not even twitch her wings–a frigid air-current played over the sensitive membranes, wafting her forth with ghastly, terrifying ease. In moments, she drifted out of Flaytox’s glowering ambit, pulled along in a north-easterly curve around the equivalent of Yiisuriel’s rump.

  As scornful and chilling as the wintry blast of her name, Numistar added, Ruzal and star-fire shall win me access to the ultimate prize–the First Egg you graciously exposed to my knowledge, and the unimaginable, uncontainable powers of the star-travelling Dragon Spirits shall reside in my paw! Mine alone!

  Why had she never considered the power contained in those First Eggs, which must have sustained draconic fire-life across the leagues between the stars, cocooning and nurturing and perhaps even shielding those proto-spirits from the depredations of time itself? What could Numistar do with such a font of magic? She shuddered to imagine. Resist! Whatever Numistar wanted of her, Hualiama would resist to her very last breath, and beyond.

  Come, whelp of Fra’anior. The Ancient Dragoness twisted the words like wind-blasted ice shards. Why you? Merely, that your powers hold the key to the treasury of my future.

  N-No, Lia stammered. Never!

  You will serve me hearts, soul and wings. The voice became dulcet, utterly beguiling. All I need is the glamour of my irresistible presence. Once you gaze into my eyes, I will possess your soul forever.

  As Numistar Winterborn ground home her hegemony over the helpless Star Dragoness, the scene beyond Yiisuriel, between the migrating Air-Breathers, slowly unfolded before Hualiama’s gaze. Entrapped or not, her jaw dropped. She screamed a long, thin wail of horror.

  Noooooo!

  * * * *

  Sated by a meal of very fine royal bark-deer, Grandion settled back into his nook and eyed the cavern, chock-full of sleeping Dragons. Ha. By his wings, if that boy could sneak in here, he deserved more than to live, he deserved one of–what were those ridiculous toys Humans handed out–aye, a medal. Most probably, he was a thief and that was the last Grandion would ever see of him.

  He sealed the matter with a derisive puff of smoke.

  Now for his favourite recreation, stalking the Star Dragoness from afar. Humans thought males hunting females was–well, risqué at best, from what he understood, and abhorrent at worst. Peculiar creatures, Humans. They did the opposite of what they preached. Just consider how Saori had hunted and captured the Dragonfriend’s brother! It just went to prove that Humans could, on occasion, behave in civilised and positively draconic ways. Even a proud Tourmaline might not have balked at a little hunting, a clash or two of the fangs, with an eager Star Dragoness, rather than having to suffer this infernal, coy hiding game! Of course, what Dragoness would refuse to flip a provocative wingtip in front of a gleaming-of scale, handsome male’s muzzle?

  Especially a rare Tourmaline!

  Grandion heaved a ninety-foot sigh, settling his muzzle upon a bed of fragrant straw the Humans had provided, clearly thinking of Dragons as some kind of pack-animal that needed a soft bed. Stone was fine. Gold and gems, better. He had quashed the vocal protests of some of his troops. Accept the gift for what it was. Try not to think of how the dust would aggravate the scale-mites.

  By the First Egg, when it mattered, Hualiama had come to him and saved his hide. That sealed the matter. Games? This Dragon would not give up. Flirtation? Aye, he would give more! Suppressing her feelings? He would surface them like a hot oil treatment brought out the underlying beauty of a Dragon’s scales! He was a proud Dragon, the shell-son of a legendary warrior and leader, whose paws … trod amongst the eternal fires.

  Oh, father! How the mighty had been slain by that Dragon-Hater filth!

  After a very long time, Grandion deliberately shuttered his eyes. Let his hearts find the right winds; noble winds, that might honour the heritage of his shell-father and all his draconic ancestors. Let him fly to Hualiama. To the stars.

  * * * *

  The girl sang:

  Softly gild the night with stars,

  Gently burning swells the dawn,

  In twin-suns splendour shimmer the skies …

  Hualiama’s eyes lit upon her Dragon-form approaching, upon the blue-haired girl padding as always from an invisible portal into this shared soul-realm, to the open, colonnaded bedchamber. Her voice cracked slightly in surprise.

  The Dragoness responded with an improvised echo:

  Day and night, white and black,

  Are both not lit by stars?

  Duality, dichotomy, two who are one,

  Inseparable …

  When her twin’s song faded amongst the colonnades, Human-Lia reached out and took her hand. “Come. Sit with me a while. Be welcome. Let us talk of duality and dichotomy.”

  “The bastion-ward?” smiled the other girl.

  “Sit!”

  Blue-hair considered this command, head askance. “I can see why Fra’anior had so much trouble with Humans. Demanding creatures, aren’t they?” Nevertheless, she perched on the white linens beside her Humansoul, and her deep blue eyes crinkled. “Been engineering a little magic? We saved our Grandion’s life, although he was suitably surprised at the womanly touch we gifted him.”

  “Smoking macho lizard!” Lia said feelingly.

  “Mmm, and how!” agreed Dragonsoul, with a rather different emphasis. “Sorry. Feels peculiar, doesn’t it? Don’t go all coy on us; we know how we feel about him, don’t we?” She coaxed, “Don’t we?”

  “That’s your Island.”

  “Our Island. Nice blush, by my wings.”

  “Oh, you’re incorrigible.” Human-Lia looked away to the brilliant, ever-night tapestry of stars. “Look. Azziala uses magic which is cousin to the Word of Command. It makes no sense. That first time after the battle at the Dragon’s Bell, she vanquished us–utterly. We were gone, unconscious for two weeks. Yet during that time and afterward, we were able to resist our Human-mother. Even better, Siiyumiel comes up with a clever phrase, this psychic bastion-ward fiddle-faddle mystical malarkey.”

  Those distinctly blue eyebrows quirked upward in concert with her twin-smile. “Say that again?”

  “Where was that ward when Grandion … dominated us? When Azziala–what? You brought the dragonet? How’s that even poss–oh! Soul-connection, oath-magic, something? Right?”

  “Admirable scientific precision there,” teased her twin, chuckling as the dragonet poked his muzzle out of her lacy, trailing sleeve. A tiny tongue tasted the air, before his fire-eyes lit upon Lia.

  Eep! He shot over to her, but almost as
quickly stalled mid-air as he did a double-take. Eep-oh-what?

  You’re starting to talk, little F–uh, little one? Blonde-Lia chuckled as the white mite made a sober examination of her tumbling locks. To her twin, she said, “Is it my imagination, or has our hair grown a few inches every time we meet here?”

  “I hadn’t noticed. The so-called ‘hair thing’ is … novel, for a Dragoness.”

  “Now who’s being imprecise? Stand up, Dragonsoul. Turn around.”

  Ignoring the dragonet, who was still fixated by her tresses, Human-Lia ran her fingers through the wealth of deep blue possessed by her twin. “Below our backside, now. Have you seen? Do you think Grandion fancies these … uh, haunches?”

  “Mine, aye,” said the Dragoness, archly. “Yours, less so–I hope. I mean … unholy windrocs! That came out badly.”

  “I understand.”

  Awkward. The blue-haired twin stepped away, clearly fighting shame. Hualiama stroked the dragonet’s teensy, perfect spine-spikes. Great leaping Islands, how beautiful was he? Alright, Lia. Admit it. Part of her was jealous of Dragonsoul. She could have the Tourmaline. A Human could never dream … but there were many types of love, Amaryllion Fireborn had taught her. None were profane, he claimed. The truth was, some forms which were not pure-fires-love were indeed profane, but equally there were many Islands a soul could find in love. It did not need to be … mated-love. Her mind supplied the Dragonish where she recoiled from the Human idea.

  She would excise the profane; find an honourable path. Nothing less would be true to her nature and principles.

  You really are obsessed with my hair, aren’t you? she said to the dragonet.