A Most Refined Dragon

by Paul Chernoch

  Shoroko laughed. “You – rescue me? And who will rescue you?” Like lightning he aimed his finger at her armpits and she collapsed into a fit of laughter. The lunch basket tumbled down the bank and plopped into the water.

  When the ripples cleared, Shorassa was no longer a little girl, she was a woman, lying in her sick bed.

  Cough, cough. “Shoroko, it looks like I’m not the Rainbow Bride after all.”

  He wiped her fevered brow with a damp cloth. “Neither one of us could protect the other. I’m sorry.”

  She sat up, which forced a hiss through her lips. “I saw her. I asked her to come. She’s on a journey, carried by a silver bird, off to help sick people, but when she finishes, she will come, I’m sure of it. She will be your Rainbow Bride.” Sho-sho bit her lip to fight the next wave of pain. When it receded, she fell into the sleep of exhaustion.

  Wind and speeding patches of green and brown slipped into his eyes. He tried to hold onto the illusion of standing at his sister’s side, but the force of reality carried him back. The Census Stone’s inner pull now drew creatures eastward, but the claws of the rukh were dragging him westward. Thedarra’s song replayed in his mind. He longed for something to call him, to draw him, to guide him… Each downstroke of the rukh’s wings caused its grip to tighten, and the agony to intensify.

  The memory of other claws piercing him sent his semiconscious imagination back to that cave. White Talon stood over him, breathed, and enveloped him with blue flame. More than healing, it was a caress. Blue sparks separated and pranced about the cave, alive. They stretched and flickered, dazzled and slithered, stretched and walked. Hot spirals uncoiled and straightened into azure tresses. Combustible trails gelled into arms and legs, and finally a pyrotic pirouette revealed a face. It was the face carved upon his fields. She had been seared into his flesh, and sown into his dreams. Her voice called across worlds, over plains and into his fading life.

  And yet her voice was strange. While in appearance a goddess, her words were cawing, and clucking and nasal cries loud and grating. The words were earnest and unappealing. Shoroko tried to imagine them away, but they pressed upon his brain. When they refused to be silenced, he listened. The cacophony by turns became patterns, patterns became words, and those words repeated themselves at intervals. A single message was being sent, but it made no sense.

  To be nourished by food, you must eat, and to be nourished by words, you must speak, so he repeated the words back to the speaker. The blue fire-woman frowned at his horrendous pronunciation. He cackled again and again, until he earned a smile. The smile brought two things to pass: the flame of his desire was extinguished, and the rukh squawked. After the squawk, the talons loosened, and their west by northwest course curved due west.

  Without crushing pain to revive him, his hallucinations failed. Shoroko felt like a man called. Sleep enveloped him in fluffy feathers. He wanted to run to her, and he ran. There she was. Melissa. No longer a dragon, but a woman, seated in a chair, holding a wide, thin, glass-covered box in her hand. She waved her hand in mesmerizing ways back and forth upon the table, and as she did, lines appeared on the glass. When finished, she handed it to him, and smiled. He beheld his portrait, in glowing color. She rose from her chair, put her arms around his neck and leaned in to kiss him, and then he awoke on stone. The bird was gone.

  Chapter 16: Kiboteshk

  April 9th. Seremarid Gap.

  Melissa remembered chaos following the Kashmir quake, when she served on a Red Cross team. The lissairn trotted to the edge of the cliff to take flight and make individual rescues, but that wouldn’t do. “Valiant Claws, hear me! If we are to rescue the greatest number of Hands, we must act in unison.”

  They stopped in their tracks. A White commanding Reds was unprecedented, but as hlissak, she outranked them. After the success with the tuskers, many Reds had already flown home to Blaze. Only eighteen Lissai remained, including K'Pinkelek, Soorararas and Melissa.

  “What do you command?” said the Red clutch leader.

  Melissa looked out over the plain. “Divide the area into a four by four grid, and each take one square. Scour your square and rescue all who are in danger.” She pointed to four safe places away from cracks, towers or crags. “Take the wounded to the location closest to your quadrant. I will visit each and heal whom I can. Soorararas, escort Jessnee so he can attend to the wounded as well. When your square’s clear, join your nearest neighbor and assist them. Soorararas, once Jessnee is safe, circle around. Your sight’s the keenest beside mine, so search for Hands hidden by dust or rubble, and point them out to the nearest Red. Red leader, when you finish your square, assume leadership of the rest of this operation. The second to become free should fly to Blaze with news, and the third deliver tidings to Four Rivers. Let’s fly.”

  Melissa dove from the cliff, glided to a dust devil and rode the vortex up until she could see everything. The largest concentration of Hands stood near a tower, so she swooped to them. A fault opened. Rock split and a geyser sprayed mist, killing visibility. The tower swayed. She landed and leaned her shoulder to prop it up while the men inside escaped. A moan from behind a boulder led her to a man with a nasty fracture. She grabbed his leg in her talons, set the bone and dowsed it with blue flame. Another with lesser injuries she scooped up and flew to the nearest refuge, where Jessnee received him.

  “Jessnee, draw up a roster so we can tell who’s missing.”

  He complied. Thanks to Melissa’s quick thinking and the Claws’ execution, after twenty minutes they’d accounted for all but two: Callyglip and Ecraveo.

  “Who saw them last?” said Melissa.

  Skandik stepped forward, looking down. “We ran and the ground just up and opened next to us. I heard a yell but didn’t see who fell in. Then that fool grabbed a rope, tied it to a fence post and jumped in. The ground closed back up. We couldn’t do nothing.”

  “Ecraveo jumped in?” said Melissa.

  “No, Callyglip,” said Skandik. “That boy’s so scared he carries a knife in case the food he’s boiling decides to bite him. What was he thinking?”

  Another Hand said, “Chasing the cooking gear, I figure. Heard the wagon clatter as it slid into the crevasse.”

  “Show me,” said Melissa.

  Skandik led the way through the tangled remnants of fencing, boulders, and mud. When they reached the spot, the crack was inches wide.

  “CALLYGLIP! ECRAVEO!” Everyone shouted at once.

  “Quiet! Listen!” said Melissa.

  The damp wind announced rain. Snapping sounds of rock on rock told them the hole was filling in and time running out. The aroma of roasting meat reminded them of an interrupted feast. After long silence, a muffled moan gave hope. Melissa grabbed a fence rail for a lever and jammed it into the crack. She leaned against it. The rail snapped; the rock didn’t budge. “Line up!”

  All the lissairn lined up on opposite sides of the crack, dug their claws in and flexed their muscles. Crack! One section of rock fractured. The hole was now big enough for a Hand to climb down. Just then, a group of Hands several hundred feet away began chanting. Melissa couldn’t understand what they said, but saw them toss roasted meat into a different crack, kneel and lie prostrate. Before she could puzzle it out, two lissairn charged the men, bellowing, blew fire and pawed the rock. The Hands fled, except Jessnee, who fell at their feet.

  “My people are fools! They’re terrified by things they don’t understand. You have the strength of stone; please be merciful.”

  The Red leader turned to Jessnee. “For such sacrilege, you have forfeited our assistance. Be thankful we spared your lives.”

  The Reds flew off, except for K'Pinkelek. Melissa drew him aside. “Explain! What offended them?”

  “Idolatry.” The contempt in his voice made it clear he remained in their company only under compulsion.

  “They offered that meat as a sacrifice? To placate what deity?” Don’t tell me this war has a religious face, too! Melissa felt her che
st muscles constrict. Her thoughts returned to the Sudan, where Christians and animists were fighting Muslims, and white Muslims were fighting black Muslims, and after millions of deaths, there was no end in sight.

  “To the hlisskans of the tuskers. First they separate the hlisskans from their herds, and involve us in that turmoil. Now, when the ground convulses, they blame it on the spirits of the hlisskans stomping the ground in anger. Hlisskans are not gods that they should be worshiped. We made the hlisskans. We are not gods and neither are the works of our hands.”

  “Who then may be worshipped?” said Melissa.

  “The one who granted us the gifts, and any he appoints as worthy,” said K'Pinkelek.

  “Is the Rainbow Bride or daughter of the rainbow or whomever the Lissai are waiting for worthy?” said Melissa.

  “Yes.”

  “Then there’s no need for you to stick around. I am not a goddess. I ask for no one’s adoration and won’t receive it if offered. Tell me, did you expect me to split rock by my own strength and free the Hands who are trapped?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you still here? I have the strength of one.”

  K'Pinkelek moved his head up and to the side. After Soorararas walked over, he signed in siglissik. “You are truthful and courageous, a seeker of peace. You use your power to heal, and willingly submit to the demands of justice at great personal cost. The burdens of others you accept as your own. Any creature, Hand, Claw or other, who displays such qualities is to be accorded respect.”

  Soorararas spoke next. “You have been appointed to restore White Talon’s honor. Until that is accomplished, we fly with you.”

  Another moan from the crack reminded them someone still needed rescuing. A faint hum was followed by metal scraping on rock. Melissa turned in a slow circle looking for the cause. A shiny glint four lisstai away caught her eye. By the time she got to the spot, it was gone.

  “What is it?” asked Soorararas.

  “A smooth, narrow cylinder.” Thinking of Callyglip, she recalled the rhyme he sang earlier. “What do these words mean? Raise the valleys up, break the mountains down.”

  “The preparation song,” said K'Pinkelek. “It is the favorite hymn of Blaze, because the engineering work needed to prepare for each migration falls to the Reds. Damming and diverting rivers and shoring up walls is our pride.”

  A tremor shook the ground.

  “Aftershock,” said Soorararas. “The Hands will die if we do not act.”

  Jessnee joined the other Hands to convince them to join the rescue. One by one they shook their heads and walked away, unwilling to face the anger of the three remaining Lissai.

  We need someone small enough to climb down. If only Shoroko were here. She pictured his curly black locks and cocky smile. How did the first part of that song go? Whisper of your urgent need, and they will soon comply. Whisper to whom? She remembered the voice in her head, bowed her head and whispered, “Voice without a name, send Shoroko to me. Please.” When she looked up, the two lissairn had incredibly wide eyes.

  “Repeat what you said, only louder,” said K'Pinkelek.

  She did, but it sounded funny. She cleared her throat, which sent out a puff of flame. The flame flickered and elongated, until it resembled a bird in flight.

  Soorararas extended his paw and cupped the flaming bird in it. “You spoke, but not in our tongue. Was that the language of your people?”

  “No,” said Melissa. “Too nasal, raspy and caw-cawish.”

  “It is another sign,” said K'Pinkelek. “You speak the language of animals, like the Browns. But they can only speak to animals present before them. Where is this one?” The flame winked out.

  Caw-Aaaahhh! Two specks approached from the east. Minutes later a great bird swooped down and released its payload. A man flew through the air, struck the ground and skidded to a stop against a rock. Thud. Shoroko had arrived. The rukh flew north and rejoined its mate, while Melissa doused her wounded man with blue flame.

  When Shoroko awoke, he looked up into her big dragon eyes, and beyond. Melissa tried to interpret his stare, but she knew it couldn’t be that. No, it couldn’t be that.

  * * *

  Shoroko rose, his eyes still locked on Melissa. The unkempt, white tuft still topped her head, the long teeth gleamed, and the tapping tail betrayed her anxiety. But faintly superimposed upon his vision, a blue apparition of a long-haired woman batted slanting eyes to speak of hope and resignation at once. A tremor made him stumble. “Ohhhh, frightful ride. Can’t find my balance.”

  “It is the ground, not your feet, that is unsteady,” said K'Pinkelek.

  Another moan issued from the crack in the ground.

  “Ecraveo and Callyglip are trapped,” said Melissa. “We’re too big to reach them. Are you well enough?”

  “Better than them.” Shoroko spotted a coil of rope and tied one end to a fence post. Did I really talk to a bird? And it obeyed? He grabbed a smoldering branch, dipped a rag in the mud where a barrel of liosh had spilt, and wrapped it around the branch. Gripping the torch in his teeth, he squeezed into the crack and descended until the way enlarged. Then he rappelled down the shaft for three lisstai before reaching the bottom. Near the surface the rocks were rough but down here the tunnel was smooth. Around a corner he found Ecraveo slumped against the wall. His limbs were lacerated, and the grimace that seized his face every time he breathed testified to bruised or broken ribs. His leg had a tourniquet tied on, and beside him lay a skin of water. Good work, Callyglip.

  Shoroko knelt by his side. “Where is Cally?”

  “Looking… Wheeze… a way out.”

  “I’ll take care of you, then search for him.” Shoroko ran the rope under Ecraveo’s arms and around his waist and knotted it. “I have Ecraveo secured! Careful. He’s injured.” He waited until the man arrived safely on the surface. They tossed the rope back down and he gave it a tug. “I’m going for Callyglip now.”

  The ground convulsed. Shoroko dodged a cascade of rocks and entered the tunnel. The explosive splitting of rock was followed by pebbles, then sand, then the soft slipping of rope against the wall, then silence. The way back was closed. Shoroko grabbed the severed rope, coiled it on his shoulder, and walked on.

  The roof had split and sunk in places, but was otherwise broad and high. Inscriptions on the walls looked like Old Lissien, a script no longer understood. He’d fallen into a remnant of an ancient world.

  The tunnel descended. From holes in the ceiling water trickled onto the floor, creating a stream down the center of the tunnel. Shoroko cupped his hands under the flow and tasted it. It seemed safe, so he drank his fill. If there were no outlet, the tunnel would be flooded, so when the way branched, he followed the water. He called Callyglip’s name, but heard no reply. Why didn’t you mark your trail, Cally? At least I can see. When his torch guttered, seams of crystal along the roof glowed, conveying light from the surface into the depths. He tossed the useless stick aside.

  After half an hour, he heard faint hissing. He searched each branching passage and determined the direction it was loudest. The walls became damper and the floor contained trails of silt. This place was inundated not long ago.

  The tunnel entered a hall five lisstai wide and a hundred long. Both walls were carved with reliefs and ancient writing. The pictures showed adolescent Lissai being trained in activities from flight to mining and agriculture to architecture. Shoroko slowed his pace, wishing he could understand the sinuous script, carved by claw into stone. Tantalizing symbols jumped off the wall into his eyes, but imparted no understanding. Only the numbers had not changed in the centuries since they were carved.

  A recessed, blank panel on the wall had a horizontal rod through its center and a catch to prevent swiveling. I know what that is. He fingered the catch and rotated the panel to show the other side. Dragon scrawl made by a young student covered the reverse. White Talon brought one of these to my sister so they could plan their designs. Thick resin coated the
board. Hands use chalk, but Claws write by carving words and pictures directly onto it. To erase, they swivel it horizontal and play an even flame over it until the resin melts. When it hardens, the slate is clean, just like this city, or the fading memories of his sister he was fighting to hold onto. Though the writing was foreign, the pictures on the board were clear. The waters rose and trapped the Claws. Looking down, he spotted a finger bone in the mud. From the size and shape, it might’ve been from the hand that wrote the message. Shoroko tossed the bone and walked on.

  When he reached the far end of the hall, he saw two useful things: a map of the underground city, and in a mud pile before the map: foot prints. The boot prints were Callyglip’s, but a second set ran alongside, not as fresh, with a tail track. Large paws with claws. Almost Lissine, but bigger than a Red. Shoroko reached for his bow, but it wasn’t there. He pulled out his klafe instead.

  Where to go. The map showed many small exits to the surface, and one large one. Which first? The map showed a gate and a road leading from it. To drain this place quickly would require a large outlet. The main gate it is.

  The route took him through a winding vertical gash four lisstai across. To his right a precipice dropped beyond reach of the light. Water lapped softly against the rock. To his left, the wall was rough. Above, hundreds of silver tubes a half a lissta thick ran across the gap at different elevations. The left end of each tube had a smaller diameter which fit inside a larger cylinder on the right. Near the joint the metal was gouged. A tremor made him duck left to avoid falling into the water below.