Beautiful Fury

by Marc Secchia

  Prime said, We must beat them to Azhukazi, or confront them within that fortress. The so-called Jewels Azhukazi seeks are as nothing compared to the power he wields. Against such a formidable foe we will require our fullest strength, even if the Star is weakened as you have shared with us, Shadow. Summon the Drake packs! Accelerate the Egg’s travel to the North. Spare no lives! And Shadow –you will be responsible for flying us there in time. Shadow power has many uses, does it not? This you have learned from us.

  Ardan inclined his muzzle. Aye, Masters.

  But it would cost him. It would cost him dearly.

  * * * *

  “Still no sign of Aranya?” Leandrial rumbled.

  From within the curl of her amethyst paw, Ri’arion raised an eyebrow. Not sleeping. Meditating. Zuziana should have known the difference, but he did have a freaky way of sitting utterly still for hours at a time. Aside from the expressive eyebrow, the only way she could tell he was still alive was due to the slight play of the pulse in his neck. Even his diaphragm appeared to be taking a nap – ah, meditating.

  Fifteen further hours of travel. No change. No news. No actual target!

  At least she had managed to nod off a few times. Leandrial’s storytelling usually had that effect, and no amount of inhabiting another body seemed to affect her need for additional sleep these days.

  She fixed a fiery eye upon her beloved. “No. Poor Yistarill is tearing her hair out – uh, her scales off, I should say – over the possibility that a Shapeshifter’s souls can waft off on an existential holiday to climes unknown, or whatever my frustrating, magical, impossible girlfriend is up to today. I can tell you she still isn’t here. That’s all I know. And we’re still alive, which makes for reasonably good news.”

  Ri’arion caressed the knuckles of Aranya’s left paw. “Progress check?”

  Leandrial responded at once, “Yiisuriel and I have re-modulated the longwave frequencies and protocols but suspect the enemy have become aware of or are tracking this mode of communication. The disposition of the Drake packs has changed radically in the last hour. Also, you need to see this.”

  The Land Dragoness presented them a mental map of the region. To the South, the extensive Doldrums region was an unmapped blank dotted with a paltry few stylised oases believed to exist there, and backed onto a jagged mountain range beyond which, again only according to a Wyldaroon draconic legend, lay the unreachable realm from which Chaos Beasts arose. The great mountain range curved like an immense hook about the south-western fringe of the Doldrums and up toward the more inhabited parts of Wyldaroon, passing the mysterious land of the forest-dwelling Dragonkind called Asjujian Emoflits, which dwelled upon a rare rooted Island called Mount Morgu-Zayê. Their purported sphere of influence under which their dracofloral ‘root network’ grew, encircled Morgu-Zayê to a distance of one hundred leagues. No-one believed the Thoralians would dare to attack the notoriously feisty Asjujians with their devastating aroma magic. Some of their scents were said to be so powerful, they could turn a healthy Dragon into a gibbering wreck. Permanently.

  Huaricithe had recited the legend that beyond the Western Mountains lay a wasteland to which Fra’anior had banished an ally of Dramagon’s, the Ancient Dragoness Iosaxxioa – an Iolite Blue Dragon, just like Azhukazi. The coincidence of Dragon colour and type was far too obvious to ignore, even if Iosaxxioa was supposed to have perished over a thousand years before.

  The upper two thirds of Wyldaroon merged gradually into the inhabited reaches of hundreds of thousands of floating Islands arranged in Clusters according to complex migratory patterns that had to cause blinding migraines in any budding cartographer. The most-recognised regions were the Inner Kahilates, home to many small Island-nations that indulged in internecine political shenanigans – as if cultivating, betraying, destroying and reinventing alliances in the pursuit of greater glory was the pastime of choice – and above and East of these Kahilates again, the Pits of Wyldaroon and insular, aloof Yazê-a-Kûz. Their route struck toward the lawless Fringe. Bandit country, sniffed Huari. No place for decent Dragons of true fires.

  “Bah,” Zuziana sniffed right back. “I’d much rather have my friend return than listen to your bellyaching.”

  “Bah, I’d rather sit on your head.”

  “Try me,” Zip suggested.

  “I’m bored and ready for a scrap with those Thoralians,” said Gang, yawning lazily. “Battle plans one more time, anyone? We start by finding this Asturbar fellow and allying ourselves with his forces, roust out this ultra-dangerous creature Aranya seems so enthused about, slap Azhukazi down, and stop the triplicate. Any questions?”

  “Skipped the part where we smack some sense back into Ardan,” said Zip. “I’m also sick and tired of borrowing someone else’s body. Could I have mine back, noble Fra’anior?” She paused as everyone glared at her. Maybe a touch too sarcastic? “Most respectfully, o mighty Onyx?”

  This time, she meant it.

  After a moment Huari rose in order to stretch her Dragoness-form restlessly. Then she stepped over, seized Zuziana’s hostess by the skull spikes, and bellowed, ARANYA! GET BACK HERE!

  To everyone’s surprise, Zip squealed, “I felt her!”

  Ri’arion cried, “She’s back?”

  The Dragoness prodded her belly as everyone looked on anxiously. Eventually, Zuziana muttered, “Erm … no. That was the babies.” A second later, she sat bolt upright and screeched, “I felt my babies! First time!”

  “The b-babies?” he spluttered. “How?”

  “Aye! I don’t know how.” Clutching her husband in her paws, Zuziana did a silly dance that ended up in her tripping over Huari’s forepaw. She collapsed in a heap, giggling, “It’s amazing. Now, if we could just invite Aranya to share our joy …”

  * * * *

  “Thus, I hoped,” Fra’anior explained, closely watching the girl seated cross-legged upon one of his seven muzzles. “I hoped against hope, as mine Pygmies used to say, even knowing it could never be mine beloved. Istariela will never be restored to mine paw – I GRIEVE!”

  Softly, Aranya said, “Let thine inmost fires not be dampened, mine great shell-sire.”

  “Why not? What reason for hope might these downcast hearts yet find – save this mite who, seated upon mine scales, regards me without awe or fear?”

  “Oh, there’s awe aplenty over here,” Aranya laughed, before gulping nervously. “But, no fear. Not any longer. I wish to express, o Fra’anior, that our hope may be rooted in this future congregation of Star Dragonesses to which you alluded. Much labour lies ahead and perhaps many years, but here, in my heart of hearts, I know. I just know she’s still alive. Lost, but alive.”

  Her hand fluttered to her throat, feeling the hot heaviness there. The grief that reflected his in some small measure. Izariela. Istariela. Both lost. Could a family of Star Dragonesses be regarded as complete without either?

  The great flaming lakes of his watching eyes whirled through many mellifluent colours in keeping with his emotions – the apricots of warm kin-regard, the greens of love-covetousness, and the darker tones of grief, to name but a few. Then, a rosy white appeared, radiant as the dawn, swirling through the other colours as he continued to regard her with such a seething enormity of love, she grew faint and overwhelmed. His paw rose to the side of his muzzle, and in a moment, she realised what he meant by the gesture. A breeze redolent of all the glorious, ever-aromatic complexities of draconic magic ruffled her long hair as she rose and walked over to the edge, to where she could reach up and touch the mighty pad of his paw that hung like a mountain over her world. A caress.

  She said, “If the strength be given me, I shall discover her fate.”

  Fra’anior replied, “I thank thee most fierily. Now, Dramagon moveth in power. Hearken to mine counsel. I may grant thee the exact location of Azhukazi, since mine shell brother hath conveyed the same to his minions, meaning to accelerate the plans he purposes through the Thoralian triplicate. Furthermore, being treac
herous to the core, Dramagon did these many aeons since conceal his minions, these dreadful Shao’lûkayn – a word in urzul which means ‘demeaners of darkness’ – right beneath mine muzzle. They do indeed possess the power to penetrate a secret I had wished to share with thee, but had not yet dared for fear that the knowledge might be stolen from thee and turned to dread purposes. Yet now, it seems the stakes are higher than ever before. Dramagon seeks to undo my signature work from within; indeed, I adjudge it more than possible should his plans proceed unopposed.”

  “I … I don’t entirely understand, o Fra’anior,” Aranya admitted.

  “Precious one, the fires of our draconic life are attractive to other powers in this Universe – especially fires such as thine, the ingenuous brilliance of pure starlight. Creatures such as the Nurguz, whom the Pygmy Dragoness battled, number amongst these. That very creature, but one in number, did ravage the Island-World North of the Rift of its Dragonkind, consuming them with a bestial, otherworldly hunger. Such powers, unfortunately, abound in the greater Universe – thus I fear, without solid proof but mine own understanding of what unknowable destiny might have driven our First Eggs hence, that we Dragonkind are beleaguered and beset by mighty enemies.”

  “I therefore devised a shield to hide all draconic life from their rapacious gazes until such a time as our parents – mine shell-ancestors – should seek us out and offer aid, yet in all the aeons of mine life, having searched far and wide and deep, no such help have I found. Perhaps they wiped out our ancestors. It seems perverse, even traitorous, to many Dragonkind that we must perforce hunker down upon our planet within the protective walls of the Rim-Wall Mountains, and hide like base worms from that which we fear. Our only survival strategy entails unbearable dishonour. Indeed, it is this very strategy that those of Dramagon’s ilk do from its inception despise. I have sympathy for their views. Even I baulked as I shut our brightness away from the predator, from the cold maw that ravens the night.”

  “Yet you acted when others did not.”

  “Aye, and was therefore hated by some, and triggered off the first war between the Ancient Dragons that resulted in great anguish and too many deaths. Now it seems that in isolating myself and my surviving brethren from mine world, I must leave the doing to those smaller but no less capable than I. Thou, Aranya.”

  She bowed her head, shivering.

  “Unbelief shadows thine heart’s pure fires, but I believe in thee. I believe!”

  “Oh …”

  “I understand how hard it must seem,” he said, breathing over her again with several of his other muzzles, causing her multi-coloured locks to twine about her body. She shivered despite the warmth. “Taste of mine fires and summon thy courage, o Aranya of Immadia, daughter of starlight – for she shall rise again!”

  The portents rife in his declaration struck her speechless once more. She wanted to cry, ‘But who? Who shall rise again – me, my mother, the Pygmy Dragoness, or Istariela?’ Yet she realised he meant it metaphorically.

  Suddenly, it seemed a paw shook her heart, and a faraway wind whispered, Aranya. Get back here. Huaricithe?

  She said, “I must depart.”

  “Anon,” said he. “Listen for the fires of mine deep Onyx hearts pulsating within thee. Memorise these coordinates, little one. Then I shall send thee back. It seems mine shields are easily passable by creatures of quintessential starlight.”

  “Grandfather?” she said impulsively, using the Human term.

  “Aye?”

  “Do you know this language?” Deep, unending breath. /Stardrop./

  He stared at her. “No. The utterance is unmistakably draconic in its component linguistic structures, but – I sense by the translucence of your fires, you did not make it up? What does the word mean?”

  “Literally it means ‘star drop,’ but I can’t for a moment begin to decode all the nuance indicators,” she replied. “I speak it – sing it – crudely indeed. I don’t even know if I imagined or heard this utterance, but just as Dramagon called me a droplet, so the other night, I thought I heard that word come from afar. Perhaps … perhaps from the stars above. What do you think?”

  Never had his fires seemed more inscrutable. Aranya searched his eyes, having to twist her neck in imitation of an owl to measure their breadth, and then glanced at several of his other heads nearer and farther from her position, without discovering the tenor of his thoughts. Then, Fra’anior said, “Istariela made up a poem which I thought you’d enjoy.”

  He spoke this offering as though it were a great secret. Aranya nodded in acceptance.

  The Onyx whispered:

  What is a droplet of starlight?

  Fire unfathomable,

  Liquescent esotericism of life.

  As Zip would have put it, that was an epic jaw-dangler. All Aranya could do was gasp her thankfulness, and memorise Istariela’s words as one of the inexplicably magical treasures of her life. Did the Ancient Dragon see what turmoil and wonder he had just sparked in her breast; the unslakeable yearning to understand the maternal side of her heritage?

  Fra’anior said, “By which, I seek to communicate that this utterance is unquestionably worth pursuing. Agreed?”

  Hope. Was that a guarded note of hope in his voice?

  She began to bow to Fra’anior, but found herself receding at the speed of thought. Soon, she was just a bright mote flashing through the aether.

  * * * *

  Aranya rattled back into her own body with a sensation as though she had bounced rapidly off a dozen surfaces, framing a homely space, and expanded her soul to fill it. She had barely begun to heave a sigh of relief and check everything was in order, when a Zuziana-shaped thunderbolt socked her in the midriff and she fell backward onto her rump – painlessly.

  Oh. Was she in her soul space?

  A moment later, however, she heard Ri’arion say brusquely, “Alright, Gang, give her some air. She’s bound to be a little woozy after journeying to wherever she’s been.”

  “Woozy Zuzi? Great nickname,” purred Gang, setting Aranya upon her feet. Having expected four paws, she promptly fell over again. Huari butted paws and heads with Gang as they both tried to rescue her blushes simultaneously. “Ouch!”

  Gnarr! Huari responded, clacking her fangs against his knee.

  Definitely sounded like home.

  Aranya grabbed Gang’s lower lip with her left hand and Huari’s nose with her right, and held them. The Dragons huffed and snorted comically. Aranya purred, “Are the little fledglings done playing?” Before they could do more than contemplate howling or bellowing at her impertinence, she added, “I’ve been speaking with Fra’anior – and Dramagon, for that matter. Listen. I have coordinates for the Mistral Fires, and the pure whisper on the Thoralians’ plan.”

  “Pure whisper?” Ri’arion clarified. “As in, the details?”

  “It must be an Immadian saying,” said Aranya, and proceeded to relate her experience, leaving out the more personal details of what she and Fra’anior had shared.

  Sobering. Understanding the broad sweep of Dramagon’s designs for her Island-World had done little to allay Aranya’s concerns; despite being far removed from the situation, the Ancient Dragon’s malevolence appeared to be functioning all too well. As was Fra’anior’s side of the equation, she supposed. Both played out their ages-old conflict through agents, following rules no-one fully understood. Were they no better than pawns of the Ancient Dragons? Were her choices even a product of freewill, or had much been foreordained by her birth into a heritage so mysterious even the Great Onyx had not plumbed its secrets?

  She might have chosen not to rescue Zip, or avoided a conflict with Garthion. She could have drawn a line beneath their efforts North of the Rift, and chosen to consolidate together with King Beran rather than choosing the immense risk of pursuing the one Thoralian she had known then. Instead, she realised with mild astonishment, she had always tried to choose the better, nobler path – just as she had promised her father
upon Izariela’s Tower the day before the Sylakians had invaded and taken her away into exile. Then, they had joked about crisping a few Sylakian beards. How poignant that jest seemed now!

  Packing away the introspective Aranya, she turned her thoughts to the upcoming conflict. How might they switch paws on the Thoralians this time? At length, she turned to Leandrial with a proposal she had been considering for a few days.

  Noble Leandrial, I’ve a few ideas. Will you help me field-test them?

  Always, little one, the Land Dragoness said brightly. After all, I am sailing down this air current on Star Dragoness power. What more could I ask for?

  Deliberately, she said, The chance to crisp Thoralian’s bones?

  Might fate thus be tempted?

  Leandrial’s bellowing laughter shook the air about them for many a mile.

  * * * *

  Skirting an almighty Impossible Deep which separated the Doldrums from Wyldaroon proper, Leandrial charged and coasted, ran and wrangled, floated and flew some four hundred and ninety leagues over the course of the next thirty hours. Her grey-tone vision showed Zuziana and her companions blasted plant layers and debris-choked canyons leading down into the impenetrable darkness of that Impossible Deep, which she estimated must measure over seven leagues in depth.

  After running smoothly over a patch of basalt columns which were so regular that they looked to have been built by Human hands, the great Dragoness eventually found her way out onto a relatively flat, rocky plain, and here the current petered out almost to nothingness.

  I shall tarry a moment here, little ones, she panted. I’ll bring our second wave in behind you just as soon as I can. They are currently four hours adrift our pace. Quick wings, now, as you high-dwellers are wont to say. Did I not demonstrate the truth of running – that for us deep-dwellers, it is more like your flying?