Beautiful Fury

by Marc Secchia

  With the Egg’s formidable magic, he controlled her fate.

  * * * *

  Then, the advent of another Dragoness cleaved the fire-storm apart.

  LEANDRIAL!!

  The aged Dragoness had made her leap from who knew where, and almost, she struck true. Her white eye-beam sizzled the air repeatedly between the dodging Thoralians as she fell down against the First Egg, seizing it in her forepaws with the air of a mother clutching a long-lost infant to her breast. Mine! Never again!

  Above Aranya, one member of the triplicate gestured grandly. Now, o Star Dragoness, you are mine! Yes … yes …

  The Amethyst Dragoness screeched and writhed against her black bonds, her agony and fury communicating through the oath bond to Ardan. No right-minded Dragon could bear such pain in his beloved. He flashed across the intervening space. Too slow! Too late! Augmented by the First Egg’s magic, the Marshals’ psychic attack was a trifold bludgeon of inconceivable proportions wielded against arguably the strongest defensive mind in the Island-World. Aranya endured. By what miracle, he knew not – but the Shadow Dragon knew he could never allow his Star to be tortured by them again.

  Pain indescribable. How could she yet live?

  His brain, heated and swollen with the knowledge of her helplessness, felt as if it would throb free of his skull any second. Instinct blurred into decision. Fight me! Ardan roared. At the speed of Shadow, he distorted ordinary physical laws to cross that gap and fling himself bodily between the Marshals and their intended victim. Take me instead!

  Aranya cried, Ardan, no!

  Could I have wished for better? the Thoralians murmured. The full fury of their Egg-augmented power poured into his mind, and bound it in shackles of the blackest fire. You are mine, now.

  Ardan knew only slack-jawed shock.

  * * * *

  Nothing could have prepared Aranya for the experience of severance. The oath connection with Ardan vanished behind a wall of fizzing, spitting darkness in her mind, a sensation that she had to choose to cut off within milliseconds or face irreparable psychic damage. Somehow, she realised dazedly, the Thoralians had once more exercised their parasitic trickery and stolen some knowledge of magic from the S’gulzzi Lord himself, for the smear left upon her memory she could only liken to a cousin of urzul or perhaps another debased form of Earthen Fires magic. It was untouchable. Anathema. Even the orientation of her awareness upon its presence burned like the most caustic substance beneath the suns.

  At last, she recognised the Thoralians’ subtlety. The master plan.

  Having distracted and drawn her in with layers of subterfuge, they had veered to snatch Ardan – either to use as a pawn against her, or to attempt to parasitize his Shadow powers. Thoralian could steal all of his knowledge now. An Ardan-cross-Thoralian? She feared to battle such a beast.

  The meriatite netting dragged her struggling Dragoness-form downward, helplessly, away from the spectacle of Ardan genuflecting to his new masters, and toward the unexpected boon of Leandrial’s intervention. Her enormous weight had already contrived to overpower the lifting force and slowly – too slowly – she sought to wrest the First Egg from the Thoralians’ command.

  Ri’arion, help Leandrial, Aranya called desperately. Why was she so fuzzy? So slow to react?

  She could not erase that expression of Ardan’s from her mind. Agog. Hungry to serve the Thoralians. The flicker of his Shadow power as he repeatedly shifted the quartet of Dragons out of harm’s way before the spearing attacks of Leandrial’s eye-beam could harm them. The great Dragoness stabbed the skies and the boiling clouds like a crazed assassin lashing out repeatedly with a dagger – only, her daggers were searing beams of light that crackled like lightning, urgently seeking the wily Marshal. One strike. Just one! Three times, she nicked one of the Yellow-Whites and once Ardan bellowed as he vanished in a flash and a puff of greyish smoke. She did not wish him to be injured, but he was the enemy until she could find a way past the black fires and into his mind. Melding swiftly with Leandrial, she attempted to strengthen the mighty Dragoness, but was once again rebuffed by her own incapacity. An empty vessel. A star who failed to shine.

  She tumbled toward Leandrial’s long, slick back, knowing that if she did not slough off this netting, all would be lost. How did Thoralian even command or shape meriatonium to his will? Was it not meant to be impossible? Hualiama would have devised a solution involving manipulating the physical environment around the metalloid material, perhaps, or even a transformation operating on the most elemental levels amongst the forces governing physical substances themselves, but Aranya had no such knowledge. Stubbornness, she possessed by the Island-weight. Yolathion had once netted her much like this, she remembered, and that day she had escaped by the simple expedient of a Shift.

  Weariness burned her being with caustic fires. Did she have the strength remaining this day?

  Here came Gangurtharr, furling his wings as he pounded into the long spine of one of the Thoralians. WHAM! Aranya felt rather than heard the impact, as a shock jolting the Marshals’ conjuration, and for a several long seconds the Egg began to slip away with Leandrial and she thought she might, dangerously, be able to tear from herself the transformative magic. That was before the Thoralians rallied, and hammered Gang and his two Riders, Huari and Ri’arion, with an immense broadside of ice boulders that, despite their shielding, knocked them spinning through the occluded skies like a leaf trapped in a gale. Aranya sensed the triplicate rallying, drawing together, and the air seemed to suck away beneath her wings. She froze. Then, the Island-World shuddered.

  Thoralian’s command to the Egg!

  The fires of all creation thundered out of the First Egg, unleashing a continuous peal of thunder that must surely rival the Great Onyx in the full panoply of his majestic wrath. The shadowy green wash of flames nonetheless snatched Leandrial up like a limp rag and flung her away, her body tucked into a foetal posture as if she had suffered a fearsome blow to her gut. Somewhere, Ri’arion cried out and Zip responded with a weak moan. Mentally, battling against the urge to simply fade as every iota of her being screamed what must be the fate of one as battered as her, what could not be denied except by some superhuman act of will, Aranya lurched for her clutch, wanting nothing more in the world to gather them to her bosom. Her brood. She could never lose them again.

  All she had left was to shelter them, and to feel the touch of Yiisuriel at the last in her mind, raging at her failure to punch through to aid the attack. Recriminations? Apparently not.

  A girl slipped between the meriatonium fibres, and thought she might fly.

  Was this not the story of her life?

  * * * *

  Ri’arion peered into her-Aranya’s eyes. “Zuziana? Aranya? Anyone awake in there?”

  “Unnh …”

  “Handshumnursh,” the Remoyan managed to slur.

  “What? What was that?” the monk inquired urgently. “Where does it hurt?”

  “Everywhere,” the Immadian put in.

  “Lessh caush you’re sho shockingly sheeeekshy,” Zip insisted. “Ish wash handshum … ah, thanks, my very best fire-petal. That’s much better.”

  Ri’arion gave her a dignified peck upon the forehead.

  For that, he earned a perfectly molten Azure Dragoness glare. “Oi. Husband. Is that all I get?”

  “Well … those are Aranya’s lips …”

  “Ha. I love your principles, but sometimes they do get in the way of some excellent fun,” averred the Remoyan. “I take it we’re alive?”

  “Awfully insightful, my love.” The monk pursed his lips, rather ruddier of cheek than a moment before. “You’re not going to like the results of our mission, however.”

  “Ugh. I can guess. We failed miserably, the Thoralians escaped with the Egg, and we are all still mired here as we can’t make headway through the debris?”

  “Aye. And, he’s sending successive waves of Drakes against us, thousands strong, to keep us busy.” He kissed her
again, charily, unable to ignore whose flesh it was that he kissed. “Aranya? Zip? Report.”

  “Here’s Aranya.”

  “Thanks, dear friend. Zip and three foetuses in good order. We’re sore and bruised, but alright – just exhausted, Ri’arion. Any idea how long it takes for magical potentials to fully recover when they’ve been abused for this length of time?”

  Weeks, little one, Yiisuriel put in succinctly.

  “What?” Aranya and Zip chorused.

  After a second, Aranya deferred graciously and Zip said, “Would you explain the lore please, noble Yiisuriel?”

  We are only just rediscovering this principle for ourselves, little one, averred the mighty Air Breather, in heavy tones. Firstly, let me reassure you that no-one is blaming you about this failed attack. That onus must lie upon me. Upon us, and our brethren.

  Aranya shifted restlessly within her. Zuziana said, No, we all tried, noble Yiisuriel. The Thoralians were too strong and too cunning – this time. Aranya concurs. The triplicate’s strength relies upon its hostile adaptability as a survival strategy.

  Just listen to her Dragoness’ word choice! A Remoyan Princess would never have spoken like that, with learned word choice and archaic nuances peppering her speech. Aranya seemed to be chuntering away to her own Dragoness in there, listening with half an ear as Yiisuriel clarified how the triplicate had moved off to the West with the Egg, as expected. Leandrial was in a grave but stable state, being cared for by her Runner-kin. Ardan had flown West with the Thoralians. Ri’arion, Huari and Gangurtharr were variously banged up but on the mend, and the Council had already been meeting for four hours to work out a way forward.

  A couple of seconds later, the Remoyan felt that unaccustomed sensation of joining into the presence of thousands of minds, and a debate summary slipped into her awareness. Aye. The crux of the problem was their inability to move these Air Breathers quickly.

  Zuziana glanced about the infirmary chamber where she found herself. Injured Dragons, a vocally unimpressed Gang having patches slapped upon his bleeding hide by an implacable Huaricithe, and the ever-intense Dhazziala speaking to Bane and Lurax – Ardan’s charges, she remembered. Bane had his arm set in a leather-bound wooden cast, and he looked paler than was healthy for a growing boy. Immediately, a part of the communal mind opened to her, showing lists of those injured by chaos within and just outside the hangers. The Egg storm had struck harder than she had imagined, but Aranya’s intervention had saved them from outright disaster.

  Bluntly put, we must now give chase, Yiisuriel added now, in scathing tones that trumpeted her frustration. Our mission is not yet complete. We have failed to protect the First Egg as the Dragonfriend charged us six hundred years ago! We failed to protect the Shadow, connubial companion and counterpart to our Star. And I will shoulder the responsibility! I am the oldest of our kind, charged with the protection of all; my paw-pods will neither rest nor will the skirts of my mountain remain unmoved whilst this blood-steeped, sacrilegious tyrant dares to flout the holy rule of Fra’anior and flits free across his skies!

  A great thunder of approbation greeted her words.

  When the mental tumult had died down, Dhazziala said quietly, But how will we dig ourselves out in time, o mighty Yiisuriel? I, for one, refuse to walk over the bones of friends and allies.

  AYE!!

  Wow. That had to be ten thousand voices at once. Now they were clamouring about the need for mobile bases from which to fight the Drakes; for the impossibility of running long supply lines into Wyldaroon and where did he intend to take the Egg, anyways?

  He wishes to travel North, Zuziana said, sharing with them the information they had deduced about the probable location of the Dragon Rider Academy. We believe that hatching the Egg to his purposes – opening an Ancient Dragon to his power of daimonization – might be his ultimate goal. To achieve that he may steal powers from Infurion in the Rift, which he has passed through before. We understand from your knowledge, Yiisuriel, that there is an ancient route through the Rift called the Path of Dark Fires, which might be the means of limited but continual commerce between our realms. It is very clear to us Northerners, by the presence of Chameleon Shapeshifters, Herimor-sourced poisons and the identity of Thoralian himself as the Emperor of Sylakia –

  The recently deposed Emperor, thanks to Aranya and my Zuziana’s revolution, Ri’arion put in, his tone of bleak satisfaction drawing favourable gurgles and growls from many of the Dragonkind.

  You played a great part too, my beloved, murmured the Azure Dragoness.

  Huaricithe noted, We have searched for this path in times past. Fables and legends place it somewhere in the trackless mountain wastelands which separate the northerly reaches of Wyldaroon from the Rift itself, unlike the main section of Herimor. That is a vast region.

  Cartographers estimate that these mountains attain a measure of 2,357 leagues width and, on average, a North-South extent of 671 leagues, another voice added, surfacing a data package to the mind.

  Noble Yistarill, approved Yiisuriel. You are knowledgeable.

  The young Dragoness genuflected psychically and murmured, I’ve a lamentable fondness for seeking out archaic information which often proves useless for all practical purposes, mighty Elder.

  May thine inarguably un-lamentable fires burn ever brighter! boomed the Dragon Elder, in tones of scorching praise-command. Excellent. Form a synthesis group to examine these records-traces, Yistarill. Now – aye, Kantuka of Ergani? You say your Dragon Riders and Dragons possess helpful lore? Please submit your memories for examination.

  And, we will fly with you, the giant Dragon Rider added. Our people are pledged to this cause.

  Aye! A smaller chorus, but no less resolute.

  Yiisuriel said, Now, noble Star Dragoness, what thoughts preoccupy and drawn your attention away from this important Council – care to share with us all?

  She spoke her censure without severe rancour, but Zuziana understood the flash of humiliation that made her reserved friend wince inwardly. Aranya had kept the detail of her cogitations private, but not the flash of excitement that accompanied whatever she had concluded. Now, she was exposed before all; treated as a child, moreover, which they all were in comparison to a creature of Yiisuriel’s age, but still …

  Strength to thy paw, the Azure Dragoness said formally as she, in turn, conceded.

  * * * *

  The woman who appeared in the mental network was young, not yet twenty summers, but behind her amethyst eyes blazed the fires of a Shapeshifter Dragoness, her mettle refined by many testing battles and her dignity the product of suffering for their cause. Aranya knew her grief was marked even just around her eyes for all to see. How could she bear to lose Ardan a second time? A molten heaviness lay upon her soul.

  Her appearance thus was calculated to convey an unspoken rebuke to the Dragons who had unsubtly agreed with Yiisuriel’s overbearing put-down of one they had recently acknowledged was the potentate of Herimor, the worshipful Star Dragoness. Typically convoluted draconic reasoning, she supposed – or, a natural chafing at authority, especially given her youth. That was no help in an age-dominance hierarchy.

  The mental network subsided.

  Holding her poise, Aranya said mildly, “I was meditating upon a plan. I propose to fly the Air Breathers out.”

  Nobody started laughing or shouting at her. Disappointing. She had rather hoped to provoke a reaction. Glancing within, she chuckled at Dragoness Aranya’s narked huffiness, but very soon an Immadian wink disabused her of the notion that her Human didn’t see the funny side of the situation. With exaggerated Sylakian-style gruffness, her Dragoness said, Go on, girly. Show ’em what we’re made of.

  The Princess continued, “So, in outline, the plan is to float our Air Breather brethren like dirigible balloons, using sky-hooks at the top and legion helpers at various levels below to push them along. My proposed strategy avoids trampling on the bones of our kindred and starts the chase six days earlier
than any of your previous projections. Any questions so far?”

  Stunned quiet.

  “Just one,” First Hand Dhazziala managed to blurt out. “Is this a flash of Star Dragoness inspiration, or have you gone five-Moons mad?”

  Chapter 6: Bobbling Mountains

  FITTING THAT HE should spy upon the Amethyst Dragoness’ doings. Not so fitting that he could make neither head nor tail of what she was doing, nor could the Masters.

  Report.

  Every half-hour, night and day, the triplicate pulsed its demand. Being inferior to these mighty Shapeshifters, Ardan was always the fourth and final participant. In strict sequence, the Thoralian designated as Prime ruled for a twenty-seven hour period, thereafter Secondary became Prime, and finally Tertiary took his turn at the helm. Ardan understood that this arrangement was due to the heritage replication requirements of the triplicate – essentially, for each Prime day, the dominant Thoralian hosted and updated the essential data upon which their survival depended, right down to the memory and cellular level. In this way, even if two were lost the third member could always replicate himself, and the most current data was at most a mere two days old. The practise had begun at the time one of the triplicate had rebelled and fled to the North – the ‘replicand ancestor’ of the Shapeshifter who had come to rule the Sylakian Empire, and decades later and an unknown number of reincarnations later in defeat, had determined to rejoin his long-lost shell brothers in Herimor carrying the vital information of First Egg’s location.

  With the arrival of a fourth replicand, as they called themselves, the Thoralians had communed, determined the weakest member of the quartet, and executed him without hesitation. Only the strongest must rule.

  Always stronger. Always change, adapt and layer power upon power – this was the mantra.

  Prime summarised: I travel with the Egg. We are passing through the Straits into Wyldaroon as planned. Everything is proceeding according to schedule.