A Most Refined Dragon

by Paul Chernoch

  “What is special about today?”

  “Today marks the seventh anniversary of Silverthorn’s departure.”

  The ground sloped up. “It also marks our departure from the river. What happened to haste? Your sister’s life depends on us.”

  “If we ported our raft past the rapids, we’d face a greater challenge.”

  “More River Lords?”

  “My people. I’m convinced of your sincerity and innocence. When we face them, I can’t predict the outcome. You need to become a more convincing dragon.” He looked up at the sky at the faint crescent and sighed. “Brother Moon, always alone.”

  “The way you said that, is that what your name means?” said Melissa.

  “Yes,” said Shoroko. “I’m Brother Moon, and Shorassa is Sister Moon, except she was always in my business, not like the real Sister Moon.”

  “In White Talon’s observatory I saw a celestial map with two moons carved on the wall, yet I only see one in the sky. Why?”

  “It was sent away.”

  “Sent away? How do you send a moon away?” She imagined tremors, crazy tides, climate disruption. Who would be crazy enough to send a moon away?

  “Ask your fellow Claws. They tell the best tales.”

  They reached the crest of the hill. Before them lay stone walls, irrigation ditches, and well-tilled fields spreading north and east on both sides of the river, clear to the horizon.

  “Time for practice.” Shoroko dismounted. “If you are going to do anything for this world, you need to fly.”

  “Without liosh…”

  “… it will take longer. We’ll start with gliding.”

  He had one syllable right. Melissa started with colliding. For the first collision, she pitched from snout to belly. For the second, she pitched belly to snout. The third involved a half roll. At least she had decent yaw control. Each spill required another trek up the hill.

  “If we move on I could fall once per hill. At least that way we’d make progress.”

  The wind picked up. “As a boy, I flew a kite better than you can glide.” Shoroko looked at Fear, then at Melissa. He removed a coil of rope from his pack.

  She backed away. “You will keep your rope off me and I will keep my teeth off you.”

  “Good, you’ll need them. I’m not going to slip this over your neck, or you’d break Fear’s back when you fall. Hold the rope in your teeth and we will multiply your thrust. When you are aloft, open your mouth and glide.”

  She relented. How’s a pony going to get me airborne?

  The answer was motivation. Any fool who puts a quagga in front of a Lissai stampeding down a hill and known to trip and squash things to oblivion will generate prodigious thrust. Melissa ran, jumped, and flailed her wings to keep even. Fear dragged her hard against the wind, her lift exceeded the weight of all the fish she’d eaten, and she edged higher. Soon her speed surpassed the quagga's. When she was directly over Fear, Melissa opened her mouth to release the rope. Her mouth stayed open in awe. She was gliding! Her muscles tensed and relaxed involuntarily. The wind caught her up and she soared. Then it was green and brown fields and lines of grey rock and blue ponds and smoke from a cottage – and joy.

  Shoroko whistled and his quagga wheeled about. Minutes later he was packed and galloping along. He set their course and Melissa followed.

  She had two thoughts: “I hate walking” and “Flying is better than fish.”

  * * *

  Melissa got thirsty and landed. Footage from the glory days of the Apollo Space program motivated her technique. Unfortunately, Shoroko had never seen a TV, much less a lunar lander splashdown, and soon was drenched in water, algae and…

  “Fish!” The big muddy monster sucked up gallons of water and galumphed out of the mud, spooking Fear and toppling Shoroko. The orange color and legs should’ve tipped her off, but it was the taste of the salamander-like creature that made the case. “Yeccchh. What was that?”

  “Gold skanak. Good thing you didn’t down a green one. More poisonous than your breath.”

  Melissa downed another gallon of muddy water to kill the taste, then related her aerial observations. “I saw a farmer driving a plough team. Strangest creatures. What were they?”

  “Fan-fans, although Jessnee calls them dryzerdops.”

  “Triceratops?”

  “Yes. Funny a Claw has better pronunciation than a Hand. Do you remember seeing them?”

  “No. I saw a picture of one. Where I come from, the last one died long ago.”

  “Maybe they wandered from here over to your land.”

  “Maybe.” Melissa’s wings billowed. “Storm’s coming.”

  Shoroko stared into the darkening, noon sky and recited:

  “April drought,

  Joyful shout;

  April shower,

  Fear and cower.”

  “Cower?” Melissa spun her head about. “Are we at risk of a flood? These plains seem safe.”

  “A flood? Yes – of monsters. Rain during migration month means water and fresh grass for the herds from the west. It’s still early. If this is the only downpour, we’ll be safe.”

  A few clouds blew in from the west, but the largest sprouted into thunderheads out of nothing. “I’d feel safer elsewhere. From the air I saw a plateau with a line of cliffs to the northwest.”

  Shoroko patted her on the side. “I knew your wings would come in handy. The Maricova Gash sits at the border between the Clawtill Plains and Marbush. We can be there in an hour if you haven’t forgotten how to take off.”

  “Wrong. You’ll be there in an hour – drenched. I’ll be there in half that time.” She stamped a dozen six-inch deep footprints into the soil, flexed her wings and hurled herself into the sky.

  Shoroko saddled up, and Fear showed that it’d derived its own benefit from its twilight time with the unicorn. At the end of the next field they bounded onto a dirt road that ran straight for the gash before curving northward.

  From above, Melissa spied more than tilled earth. Sturdy wooden fences ran in concentric arcs, and four-man teams were out in force felling trees and sawing them into fence rails in preparation for the imminent onslaught. She flew along the road for fifteen miles (which she learned equaled three thousand lisstai). When her mane stood on end, she answered the irresistible urge to fly higher. As Fear’s dust cloud dwindled to a speck, instinct took over. Khhhhhhh! She banked in a tight spiral and spat black flame in every direction, until it enveloped her. I didn’t know I could make flame black.

  Crack!

  Lightning blinded her, so she flew by feel. When the white blur passed, her apparently protective black cloud was gone. Sparks danced along her scales. That tickles. Too close. That bolt nearly hit me.

  Melissa heard a shout – inside her head. You cannot succeed. Let me return!

  The forceful thought wasn’t Melissa’s. Who are you?

  I who speak am White Talon. We must exchange again.

  Rain pelted her, making flying while conversing with her inner dragon a feat of concentration. How?

  Let go and the storm will carry your spirit through the window.

  Did you open this window?

  No, the irrigator did. This opportunity is rare. Quickly!

  Melissa relaxed her muscles. Not so difficult after all. I can go… Wait! Where is my body, White Talon?

  Instead of words, she received a picture. Melissa’s human body lay on a cot in a tent with the nurses, bandaged, but recovering. I should have died. Thank you.

  The inner voice calmed down. As should I. Now quickly – fasten your heart to your original form.

  Melissa concentrated, until the sound of hooves below reminded her of her desperate desire. Leave Shoroko? No!

  You love the one who nearly killed me – us?

  I promised I’d heal his sister.

  Impossible!

  I healed Shoroko with a blue flame. This you cannot do. Melissa looked again at the tent. The silhouette of a rifle-totin
g guard posted outside made her curious. Is the guard’s purpose to protect me? Or imprison me?

  White Talon became silent, as wind and rain intensified.

  White Talon, you have the spiritual strength of a dragon, the wisdom of an ancient, experience in battle and the aura of authority. You can rescue me and my friends. I would fail. And I fear the trouble I face in Kibota is more than you can resolve, but I will succeed. I must succeed. Only then will I switch back.

  The mental screech that followed needed no translation. I am powerless to force you. Prove your integrity. Swear you will not act contrary to the interests of my kind.

  Melissa considered what that pledge might cost her. One decision favoring the Lissai would set the Hands against her, even Shoroko. She didn’t even know what the interests of the Claws were. Yes, but I need guidance.

  In a rush, White Talon impressed upon her mind the names and images of many Claws and Hands she could trust, those she could not, and some whose loyalties were unclear. Chief among her foes was Anspark, Hlissak of Blaze. From the Hands you will hear mistrust of our stories of the ancient days of our glory. Do not entertain such doubts or you will never succeed.

  Thunder pounded those two words in: never succeed. Melissa replied. I will listen critically, but fairly.

  White Talon projected incredulity. Why am I agreeing to this? In the faces I revealed, did you count the number who oppose you? The rising anger and thirst for vengeance that corrupts our councils? What undergirds your hope? Is it the proud fantasies that dazzle me when I sleep in your body? Flying metallic birds and towers tall as mountains and carriages that outrun the swiftest lissair in flight? For small creatures, your dreams reach to the stars, but they will not rescue you. Let me return!

  A vortex tore at Melissa’s wings, drawing her into the clouds. She clawed free of its embrace and dodged another bolt. The things you describe are real, my people built them, and though we have not reached the stars, we have walked on our moon.

  And is your world at peace?

  It was Melissa’s turn to be silent. Evil men make war, and good ones make peace. I am a doctor, a healer. I already healed Shoroko, and earned a measure of his trust. When I heal his sister…

  White Talon projected an image of an African boy lying on a cot, with flies buzzing around. If you heal her.

  Melissa growled. I’m not counting on one act of kindness to repair the whole world. From my investigation, I already conclude that tainted liosh produces madness, a bloodlust in lissairn. I will demonstrate this to the Hands, investigate the source of the pathogen and pursue a remedy.

  You learned all this in a few days? How did you persuade the White council to pursue this course?

  I acted alone. I formed a new council and abdicated so I might pursue this delicate mission with secrecy. Melissa tensed and nearly went into a tailspin. Revealing this detail was imprudent.

  Are you awash in this poisoned liosh? Who rules Rampart in my stead?

  With an effort most strenuous, Melissa thought Mistfire with no hesitation, no pleading, no did-I-make-a-huge-mistake mea culpa.

  White Talon responded unexpectedly: she laughed. My kingdom is in good hands, but you made your own task immeasurably more difficult. I yield. Fly true. While you wage peace, I will fight a war to win freedom for you and your friends. Your lack of preparation in undertaking your mission in this country makes it clear your skill at healing is not matched with skill in command and battle. Here are things you must know… After a lesson in military ranks, Claw-Hand joint command protocol, and an overview of how to manage a migration campaign, the connection ended.

  After the last fence, the terrain changed from field to brush to forest. Melissa dove until she skimmed the treetops. Where is Shoroko? She began where she’d last seen him and searched. Wind and thunder rendered her ears useless, while driving rain blurred her vision. Sniff, sniff. Ozone. A long stripe of flattened timber cut through the wood and blocked the road. Melissa swooped down and landed.

  Neigh! Fear scrambled to his feet. Beside him Shoroko lay under a tree trunk, moaning.

  Melissa galloped over, lifted the tree off him, and inspected his wounds.

  “Ow! Hey! Stop!”

  “Broken rib and arm, and a gash in your leg,” said Melissa. She inhaled and prepared to breathe healing flame, but her stomach was on empty. Instead, she set his bones, made a splint and secured it with rope from their pack. After lifting him onto Fear, she led the way. “Ten minutes till we reach shelter.”

  At the cliffs, she found an overhang to keep them dry. After gathering leaves and moss for bedding, she stretched Shoroko out. Then she kindled a fire and prepared tea from healing herbs Shoroko had shown her.

  “What kept you?” said Shoroko.

  “I argued with White Talon.”

  “You spoke? How?” Shoroko grabbed his ribs with his good arm and his eyes teared.

  “I don’t know. Another window opened between our worlds.”

  “Who… won?” After every breath he clutched his side like he’d received a fresh blow.

  “She doesn’t like her cage, but I’m still here.” Over the shrieking wind rose the sound of another trunk snapping. “I’m new to this world, but this storm strikes me as unnatural.”

  “Unnatural? Every day… cough, cough… you sound more like a Lissai. Any time it rains in April they blame it on some deity they call the Irrigator.”

  “Deity? Or machine?”

  “Canals, pipes, and hoses I understand. The cycle of water from sea to sky to land to river and back to sea has been explained to me. But this Irrigator of the Lissai is fantastic; it pours rain from nowhere! Which is stranger, their belief in a magic rain machine, or that their ancestors built it!”

  Melissa recalled White Talon’s warning. “Humor me. Do the Lissai say why they built it?”

  “Their reason’s as insane as their boast. Say they built the Irrigator to provide water for migrating animals crossing the desert. To assist our farmers, I could understand, but why encourage the migration? Today they fight it as hard as we do, and so it’s been as long as Hands can remember. If they built it, why can’t they stop it?”

  She tossed another log on the fire. “Have they tried?”

  “That was part of Silverthorn’s mission.”

  Of course – the hole! “Tell me, did Silverthorn depart during a storm like this?”

  “Don’t know. There were no witnesses. Why?”

  “If their stories are true, there’s another place – you called it Nehenoth – where they constructed machines like the Irrigator. A catastrophe caused access to that place to be lost. However, every seven years the rain maker still tries to open a window to this world to carry out its task. Sometimes it succeeds and sometimes fails, as it slowly wears out. When it succeeds, travel through Nehenoth is permitted. That let me speak with White Talon, it may be how Silverthorn and his klatch exited Kibota, and how I can go home when my quest is accomplished.” Melissa saw Shoroko start to shake. “You’ve got a fever. I need to tend to you.”

  “So… weak…”

  “Just rest.”

  “No… If Lissai were so… cough… strong, smart… how’d they get so… weak?”

  Melissa’s answer was to seek a better way to bandage Shoroko’s wounds. One look at her claws convinced her suturing would make a bloody mess of her man. The wind gusted and snapped a tree in two. Sniff, sniff. Instinct and buried memories belonging to White Talon took over and she walked into the storm. After retrieving the trunk of the downed tree, she held the green wood over the fire with one claw and with a broad leaf caught the sap as it ran out. Then she applied the sticky leaf to Shoroko’s flesh.

  “Aaaaah! That burns!”

  When the resin cooled, it sealed the wound like liquid skin. “That should keep out infection until I find more liosh.” Melissa spun in a circle, found a comfy spot and sat.

  Sputtering made her look up. It sounded quagga-like, but Fear was munching on grass. Creak
ing and clattering followed, until a covered wagon pulled by two quaggas rolled to a stop thirty yards away.

  Chapter 8: Crisis at Maricova Gash

  Afternoon, April 4th, Maricova Gash.

  The driver stayed on the wagon while his seatmate stepped down. A woman in a rough skirt with a red scarf tied through her black hair hopped out the back and stepped forward, while five soggy men walking behind caught up. They milled about the carriage, whispering, until the woman pushed a man forward.

  Wide in shoulder and large in sideburns, the man affected a lumberjack’s swagger until he stood twenty feet from Melissa. Shoroko lay on the other side of the lounging olissair, with the fire between them. The man spread his arms straight to either side, made a low bow and took a step back. “Your servant, Skandik, comes with provisions in advance of the migration. It grieves me to disturb your rest, Lady White, on this day of Lord Silver’s departure.”

  Melissa uncoiled and rose. Every throat tightened. “Those who honor his memory bring comfort, not grief, to White Talon. Come, warm yourselves. Foul weather is no time for long speeches.”

  The driver parked the wagon at the other end of the shelter and the men shuffled forward, but the woman wasted no time and marched straight to the fire.

  She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Shoroko! It’s Shoroko!” She ran to his side and knelt. “He’s hurt.”

  “Ooooh,” moaned Shoroko. “Thedarra. So loud.”

  A straggling youth riding a quagga trotted up the road. On hearing the name Shoroko, he wheeled about and galloped away.

  “What did you fight? A glip? A tagger?” She felt his forehead. “No fever. Good.”

  “A tree jumped me. Mel… uh, White Talon freed me and bandaged my wounds.”

  “We can bear you home in our wagon, after we unload. Nearly our last stop. All the other outposts in our district are stocked with food, medicine, and arrows.”