Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons)

by Secchia, Marc

  Suddenly, she saw rock out of the corner of her eye. Aranya flapped frantically, taking the sting off a glancing blow against the cliff-side. Idiot. Just when her attention wandered, she had allowed the breeze to push her against the cliff. She recovered with a few angry flaps of her wings. It was growing more blustery. She sank lower and gave the cliffs a greater berth. Oh, look, there were mountain goats down there. Her stomach rumbled appreciatively.

  No time to hunt, she told her Dragon brain.

  Her eyes narrowed, focussing with the incredible binocular power of Dragon vision. There, perhaps a league ahead, was a jutting rock she recognised. She saw torchlight upon its tip. The low, squat form of the painfully misnamed Tower of Sylakia became clear against the background of stars. Her hearts thumped painfully, all three at once.

  But Aranya did not turn aside for one wing beat. She eased into a long glide, preparatory for timing the vertical climb that must take her fast, over the edge and into a place where she could Shapeshift into Human form. She was ready.

  Now!

  She flapped powerfully, extending her wings for maximum acceleration, pushing so hard that she felt blood drain toward her tail under the gravitational forces. Aranya shot upward, wholly concentrating on the target. She came in close to the rock face, flying in a perfect vertical, before she furled her wings suddenly to slow down. A lash of her tail and a small wing-adjustment flipped her over the edge and rapidly down the other side. Aranya landed perfectly.

  Right in the rajal pit.

  Her Human brain squeaked in terror, but thankfully, her Dragon form had mastery and so she made no sound. A shadow stalking toward her with leonine menace was met with an equally menacing show of her fangs. Aranya flared her wings. The rajal pulled up short.

  Aranya listened carefully. Boots, retreating. A guard on patrol, she assumed. There would be a man on the door nearby the Last Walk. Yes, she heard his breathing.

  She leaped out of the rajal pit and into the shadows behind a large ornamental tree, and transformed. Snatching up the cloak, she covered herself and crouched, listening intently. Darn, now she could not hear the guards any more. Nak had not mentioned that. Could she listen with her Dragon brain through Human ears? Well, it gave her a headache, but it seemed to work to a degree. The night’s sounds suddenly became sharper and more distinct. Aranya picked up two stones.

  Moving forward stealthily, she found an angle where she could remain hidden but see the doorway into the Tower. There was a guard there, she knew. Her Human eyes could not see him.

  Overarm, she pinged the place she thought he was standing with the pebble.

  Clink.

  “Ouch! Eh, what’s the matter with you lot?”

  The guard rushed out of the doorway. Aranya tossed another pebble down the walkway to her right. The man instantly oriented on the sound.

  “Guys? Who’s the joker? Show yourself.”

  He trotted away from her, loosening his war hammer just in case.

  Aranya darted into the doorway. Unlocked. Good. Left open a crack, even better. She eased the door open and sneaked inside.

  After listening for a moment, Aranya slipped down the corridor toward the secondary staircase, which was sometimes left unguarded. The Princess’ room was up one level. She could not wait to surprise Zuziana. This was going to be great.

  She had no idea how she was going to explain about being a Dragon.

  Danger! She shrank into a shadow as a pair of guards rounded a corner and marched toward her. Once they had passed by she scuttled up the stairs, trying very hard to listen with her Dragon senses. Nothing. Good–which probably meant Nelthion had stationed men at other points on the residential floor. Pulling her dark cloak about her, she tiptoed past two branching corridors, pausing each time to peek around the corners in either direction, before braving the open ground. Here, a right turn should take her to Zip’s apartments.

  She sidled soft-footed toward the corner. Oh–flying sheep dung. Nelthion had stationed a man right outside Zuziana’s door!

  Well, that meant switching to her backup plan. Holding her head high, Aranya marched around the corner and made directly for the Princess’ door.

  The guard startled. “Who goes there?”

  “Princess Ramalya of Renidia,” she said, softly. “What’s your name, handsome?”

  “Princess who?”

  She smiled at him and laid a coy hand on his arm. “Renidia. I’m new, but you won’t hold it against me, will you? I like men in uniform. They make me … purr.”

  “I, um, I, what?” spluttered the guard.

  “I’m just visiting my friend. Girl talk, you know.”

  Aranya rapped on the door. Please let Zip be sleeping lightly. She always said she did.

  After a second knock, she heard a sleepy stirring within. “Who is it?” Zip’s soft footsteps approached the door.

  “Your friend,” called Aranya.

  The female voice did the trick. A bolt squeaked; the door drew open. Waving at the guard, Aranya slipped within.

  “Who is it?” Zip repeated, holding up a lantern.

  “Please don’t scream, alright?” Aranya pushed back her hood.

  Zuziana gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth, muffling a shriek. “Aran–no, it can’t be. How? How did you … are you real?”

  “Pinch me and see.”

  “I think I need to sit down.” Zip retreated to the bed, watching Aranya all the while with huge eyes. She put her hand to her heart. Poor Zip was panting; wide-eyed, as pale as the sheet she sat on. “This isn’t some cruel–no. No, you died.”

  Aranya smiled at her friend. “Zip, it’s me. Truly. You aren’t dreaming. It’s Princess Aranya of Immadia. The one with the crazy hair, the fire–I healed you, Zip. I can tell you that you have a birthmark right there, just below your left collarbone. I can recite the names of your eight brothers.”

  Zuziana said dully, “But I saw you fall. I cried for days, I cried … Beri’s gone home, gone to Immadia. Nelthion said she should go. But it’s your hair–I know that hair, and it’s Aranya’s voice …”

  “We don’t have much time,” Aranya replied. “I’ve come to take you away from the Tower, Zip. I can’t explain everything right now. But I will. If you pack some things, light things, and maybe a cloak and your sword …”

  “Are you a ghost from the Cloudlands?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you get here?”

  “I … flew. Zip, I know it’s hard to believe. Please. Pack what you need. Come with me. You don’t need to live here anymore.”

  Shaking her head, Zuziana pushed herself to her feet. “You’re crazy. I’m crazy to be listening to my dead friend who turns up at my door in the dead of night. I’ve got your forked daggers.” She rooted around for clothes. “Travelling things, right? I’ve got a pack, somewhere.”

  She kept stealing glances at Aranya as if to assure herself she would not vanish in a puff of smoke.

  The diminutive Princess changed quickly into a split long skirt, blouse and cloak. She belted her sword at her waist. She pinned her hairnet and headscarf in place.

  “This is insane, Aranya. Nobody escapes from the Tower.”

  “I know. Come, to the roof.”

  She had forgotten the guard. He took one look at their cloaks and shouted the alarm. Reversing one of her daggers, Aranya smashed him over the head with the handle.

  “Run, Zip!”

  They sprinted down the corridor. Boots thudded and yells sounded nearby. They might as well have awakened an army. Aranya, with Zip in tow, took the stairway up to the roof three steps at a time. They tripped a guard on his way down, sending him tumbling down the flight of steps to land in a heap at the bottom.

  The great warning gong crashed as they broke out onto the roof.

  Zip looked around wildly. “Where’s your Dragonship? Tell me you have a Dragonship.”

  “This way!” Aranya nearly pulled her friend off her feet.

  “Th
ere they are,” someone shouted.

  “The ship,” cried Zuziana. “Where?”

  The girls sprinted across the open, flat roof area to the raised battlements of the Tower of Sylakia. Aranya saw the nearest war crossbow being levered taut. Soldiers ran along the wall to intercept them, hammers held at the ready.

  “No time to explain,” Aranya cried, and transformed. The world jumped and settled; her eyes were suddenly four feet higher and her body felt disconcertingly huge. “Zip, it’s me!”

  Zip shrieked at the top of her lungs. Soldiers bellowed warnings. Officers rapped out contrary orders. Dragon-Aranya heard the crossbow platforms squealing as the soldiers brought the great bows to bear. They had no time.

  She grabbed for Zip. The Princess dodged her first swipe.

  “Zip, I swear …”

  “Leave me alone! Monster!”

  “You idiot.” The Dragon pounced on her friend. With her forepaws she grabbed Zuziana of Remoy around her arms and waist, squeezing her painfully. She leaped over the battlement.

  Aranya tumbled through the air. The war crossbows twanged. Six-foot quarrels hissed through the space above her head. She twisted frantically and kicked off the side of the Tower. Too fast. Aranya tried to pull up, but immediately slammed onto her belly on the Last Walk. With the momentum of her Dragon weight, she skidded off the end almost in the same way as she had departed the Tower of Sylakia the first time, curling her paws around Zuziana in an attempt to protect her from harm. A sharp pain pierced her left wing.

  Flapping and driving her body forward with frantic haste, Dragon-Aranya shot across the space between the Tower and the mainland. She saw red; the hurt, anger and adrenalin filled her in an unstoppable tide. She flew at a breakneck pace, aching with every wing beat.

  The pain! For the first time in a hundred summers, a Dragon thundered her fury across the rooftops of Sylakia Town. Every animal froze in primal fear.

  * * * *

  Soon, Aranya found the presence of mind to hide below the level of the cliffs. She winged southward as quickly as she was able, looking askance at her left wing every few minutes. Drops of golden Dragon blood fell like glittering jewels into the Cloudlands below. Nak had said a wound should stop bleeding of its own accord. But this rent in her wing membrane did not. One of the tertiary arteries had been torn, she realised. She dared not attempt her healing power. If it took too much out of her, she might simply drop from the sky.

  Zuziana appeared to have fainted. Her body hung limply in the cradle of Aranya’s paws. Her Dragon hearing noted Zip’s heartbeat, loud and clear. She had done it. Aranya released a long sigh of relief. She had rescued Zip from the Tower of Sylakia.

  Yes!

  “Forgive me, my friend,” she whispered.

  Gingerly, she winged her way back. She had to. Nak would know what to do.

  The hours rolled by. The night wind strengthened, making her work harder and harder to make headway. Aranya remembered Nak’s warnings. She must not land or transform. But she was weakening. She had no idea how much blood a Dragon could lose, but she felt her strength fading by the moment.

  How could a small wound create such a problem? The quarrel had passed cleanly through the membrane. The trickle had slowed. Maybe that was only because there was little blood left to lose.

  Aranya beat her way onward. Each breath rasped painfully in her lungs.

  One beat. Two. Keep the wings moving.

  Dawn’s first orange blush glowed in the eastern sky as she spotted the now-familiar V of the dell where the streamlet poured over the side of Sylakia’s Island, wetting a long, trailing streamer of thick vegetation that tumbled, layer upon layer and ledge upon ledge, and evaporated long before it reached the Cloudlands below.

  Wheezing like a blacksmith’s bellows, Dragon-Aranya crested the cliff top. She barely hung on with her claws. Weakly, she dragged herself forward, claw after claw, gouging out footholds as she needed, up onto solid ground.

  Nak came almost running down from the prekki-fruit tree, tottering dangerously on his canes as he hollered, “Don’t transform! Don’t transform!”

  Aranya laid her head in the stream and let cool water flow down her throat, too tired even to swallow. “Nak …”

  “You fool girl,” he groaned. “Fool Dragon. Hold still.” Nak tore off his own shirt and pressed it against her wound. He was crying, she thought; crying over her wing, weeping over her pain. “Use the magic, Shimmerith, my beautiful. Use the magic, whatever you’ve got. You’re safe now, darling girl.”

  He had called her Shimmerith, his old Dragon’s name.

  She released her magic, and knew no more.

  * * * *

  Aranya awoke to Nak smacking her across the nose repeatedly with his canes. “Dragonships,” he cried. “Get into the forest. Go!”

  She looked dully about her. Where was Zuziana? Where was she?

  “Quickly. They’re looking for you.”

  Oyda was sweeping away tracks and turning sods of grass back over where Aranya had gouged them up with her claws. Weakly, she pulled herself up and flap-staggered her way up beneath the sheltering boughs of the forest. A Dragonship came humming steadily overhead on a southerly bearing, packed with Sylakian Hammers all searching the ground with keen eyes.

  Searching for a Dragon.

  She collapsed, panting. By the mountains of Immadia, she could eat a sheep right now. Aranya peered through the trees. So, they knew about her. She remembered roaring above the town, and wanted to kick herself–or claw herself, or whatever a Dragon did when they had been so stupid.

  Later, Nak appeared with a large haunch of raw meat in tow. He chopped it up with his dagger and fed her chunk by hand-sized chunk. Soon after, Aranya began to feel better. Nak talked about her wound, trying to describe how she should encourage the membrane to regrow and the artery to heal itself. She told him how she had carried out her raid on the Tower of Sylakia.

  “You should stay in Dragon form for a few days,” he advised. “Stay hidden, here in the forest, in case the Dragonships come back. But don’t wander far, for I wouldst pine and die for want of a sight of thy splendour, my jewel.”

  His silly poetic turn of phrase made her smile. “How’s Zuziana, Nak?”

  “Ah,” he sighed. “What a dainty piece of fluff you brought home, my beauty, what a sweet toy to grace my bedroom.”

  Aranya fought off an urge to nip him in annoyance. “You mean, she’s fine?”

  “She kissed my cheek,” Nak declared. “Aye, a pocket rajal, she is. Shocked, you have to understand. Oyda’s working her magic as we speak. Don’t you just want to nibble her up? A nibble for breakfast, a nibble for–”

  “I’ll nibble your head off your shoulders, old man. Now, will you please explain why I cannot transform?”

  “Aye, I liked you better clothed in Human skin,” said Nak. “Volume, Aranya. Relative to your Human form, the much larger Dragon form holds much more flesh and blood, so in the case of this wound–traumatic blood loss–transforming might kill you right away. In general your Dragon form can take much greater punishment than your Human form. I believe it is the Dragon form in which your healing magic will work best.”

  That same evening, as the suns dipped beneath the cliff-edge of the dell, three further Dragonships puttered by overhead. They did not stop.

  Shortly thereafter, Aranya’s sharp Dragon ears detected an unfamiliar footfall leaving the hut and walking uphill toward her. Zuziana. Her hearts turned over. How would Zip take this strangeness? Would she accept, or … Aranya could not even consider the alternative. She trembled. She resisted an urge to hide or flee.

  The Princess of Remoy stopped a few feet short of her. After a long while, Aranya dared to open her eyes and regard her friend. “Zip?”

  “A-Aranya?” she stammered. “I-It’s really you?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Aranya’s mouth watered at sight of the leg of sheep Zip had dragged up with her. “Surprise. I’m sorry I made such a mess of
not telling you–”

  “I wouldn’t have believed you.”

  “Well, I apologise anyway. Um–could I eat a bit of that meat? Starving.”

  Aranya’s heart fell as Zuziana dropped the meat and retreated several steps. She ate mournfully. But then her friend plucked up her courage and approached her again. Aranya could only imagine what courage it took to walk right up to a forty-foot Dragon for a friendly chat. That was one quality she loved about Zip. She had more pluck than ten ordinary Princesses.

  “Aranya,” she gulped audibly, “I think your eyes are the same colour as your old ones–but bigger and more brilliant–but you’re still stuck on the colour purple. It is you. I can see that now. You’re just so … Dragon.”

  “Yes, and I can tell the difference between you and this sheep.”

  Zip chuckled, but sounded overawed. “What a comfort. My best friend is the fiercest and most magnificent creature I’ve ever seen, and here’s the little sparrow talking to her.”

  “You’re no sparrow. I was stupid to ever say that.”

  “Oh, Aranya–you’re alive!” Zuziana hugged her muzzle, awkwardly. “Oh, I just hugged your mouth. Oyda’s been trying to explain, but it’s a crazy lot all at once and just a little freaky, alright? Forgive me. I’m sorry I fainted and didn’t help you return and I could have patched your wing or something–how is your wing?”

  “All’s forgiven,” Aranya smiled at her friend’s babbling. Zip jumped backward. “Sorry. This is a smile. With fangs–er, the wing’s improving, Zip. Nak says I can transform tomorrow.”