Beautiful Fury

by Marc Secchia

  Entry was meant to be possible, not easy.

  “Watch for holes in the debris,” Ri’arion said. “They’ll be primed as targets for –”

  “Stop!” roared a military voice, the type that could make a recruit’s eyes water across a training ground. “There’s a dozen crossbow bolts trained on your sorry hides, Shapeshifters! Declare your names and – stop! Halt right there or we’ll shoot!”

  His accent was so unfamiliar as to be almost unintelligible through the constant clamour of battle, but the threatening tone was unmistakable.

  “Asturbar! Where’s Marshal Asturbar?” Huari called.

  Ri’arion whispered, “They can’t hit us until we reach that gap. Gang! Quietly, man.”

  “Halt, Dragons!”

  “We need Asturbar!” Huari, a Marshal herself, was used to having her demands met. Impatience lent her tone ragged edges. “Show us to your Marshal, and be quick about it, man. The Thoralians are coming.”

  “You – will – halt! Suffering murgalizards, who put out the lights?”

  Ri’arion produced a surprisingly unadorned bow, for a Fra’aniorian. “Step lively, my friends, as they stare at the darkness of their own eyelids.”

  Zip blew ethereal kisses at her man.

  The distracted warrior hurriedly deflected two speculative crossbow bolt shots with blurred movements of his forearms as they ran past the bemused squads of soldiers and catapult engineers who attempted to block the long entry tunnel – of course, Gangurtharr stumbled over someone’s boot and had to resort to fisticuffs to knock his way free. He howled as a six-foot bolt creased the skin of his left thigh, skittering away off the stone tunnel ahead, and roared, “Don’t you fire bolts at my behind, boy. I’ll make you eat them!”

  Now there came a great kafuffle in the well-lit hall ahead of them, which the entryway tunnel opened upon, and Huari cautioned them to expect a warm welcome.

  A man shouted, “Hold! Hold fire!”

  “Sah, do you mean that?” The complainant sounded most aggrieved.

  “I said, hold fire!”

  Huari showed an impressive turn of speed as they outdistanced the pursuit of what Aranya belatedly realised had been several ranks of heavily armoured infantry soldiers, whom Ri’arion had just bamboozled into a state of intense annoyance. In a moment they burst out into a cavernous entry space and almost into the collective arms and paws of a welcoming committee – half a dozen belligerent Dragons and a coterie of angry, heavily armoured soldiers surrounded the incredible slab of a man she had seen in her vision.

  “Marshal Huaricithe!” spluttered the giant.

  “Commander Asturbar,” purred the Shapeshifter Dragoness, apparently not put out in the slightest to appear like a small child in the lee of this giant’s immensity. He stood an inch or two shorter than Aranya herself, but with shoulders at least three times wider and endowed with all-round bulk to match that mighty skeletal structure, his was truly a physique built on a Dragonesque scale. Huari said, “At last, a sensible head in these parts. With respect.”

  Nudity? No issue for her relative. She just glared at everyone as though the first glance that crept below her collarbones would trigger instant evisceration.

  It was effective.

  There was one of those moments when everyone gazed at everyone else with more than a hint of mistrust. The Marshal’s piercing grey eyes measured Aranya from top to toe in a way that made her feel ashamed and angry, and she tore her eyes off him – the shaven-headed soldier appeared pasty of complexion, as though he were ill – to glance over his escort. Half a dozen powerful Lesser Dragons, an older Brown, and … her. A younger Dragoness of remarkable colouration with scales imbued with a sheen of silvery mauve iridescence, neat of skull ruff and compact of build. She was a fledgling too, just a few feet longer than Aranya’s Amethyst manifestation. The other Dragoness inclined her muzzle to return her regard with shy curiosity. So impeccable did she appear, standing resplendent in her unearthly draconic beauty, that a blindness of helpless rage pierced the Immadian through and through. Never had she imagined she might loathe someone at first sight. Immaculate proportions. Perfect hide. No scarring. Had she ever so much as smelled a battle?

  Undeniably, without need for a single syllable to be spoken, Aranya knew that she was the one they had sought through storm and calm, across the better part of two and a half thousand leagues.

  Dragoness resplendent!

  Dizzied at the emotions storming the portals of mind and heart, the Immadian had to lock her knees to arrest their trembling. Why did she feel this Dragoness was special? Significant, in some indefinable way? What was this visceral yearning that warred with caution; was it the unearthly powers implied by her ultra-rare colouration, or the fearfully alien cast of her mind? Could her chaotic, unruly magic influence a Star Dragoness in undesirable ways? All she knew was a seething morass of animus …

  Aranya, Zip warned privately.

  I’m so wretched. Sorry, but I can’t even look at her – she’s flawless! And I’m so unworthy; she’s done nothing to deserve this. I’m a pitiful, benighted, wreck of a Dragoness –

  As friend to friend, petal, and with all respect – shut your fangs. Right now!

  Aranya jerked inwardly, seething. Stupid straight-talking Remoyan! Didn’t she know when sympathy was needed? Her version of speaking the truth was like dropping an Island casually upon her friend’s head. Aranya knew she was right, but it still stung. Badly. Roaring rajals!

  How desperately she hoped no-one else had detected her reaction, most of all this Dragoness, the object of their long search.

  Meantime, Gang strode forward, growling, “Asturbar, eh? Huh! They make man-Dragons in my size now, I see! I’m Gangurtharr! Shapeshifter!”

  The men clasped forearms and, like male Dragons posturing, took each other’s measure with uncompromising mien, immovable grips and a slight sliding of the eyes to check each other’s dimensions. With a pang of amusement, she judged that Gang felt slighted by the heroic breadth of the Marshal’s shoulders, while Asturbar manfully tried to disguise whatever was ailing him and appear as strong as any Dragon.

  Asturbar growled, “Gangurtharr of the Pits, eh? You’ve quite the reputation, noble Dragon.”

  “Well-earned, too!” boomed Gangurtharr, stretching with the unmistakable and very draconic intent of impressing every female in the hall with his spectacular proportions. Apparently Asturbar took a certain exception to this tactic – perhaps because the fires of both Shapeshifter Dragonesses behind him had just quickened?

  “He’s such a show-off. Learned that in the Pits too,” Huaricithe snapped, rapping Gang in the ribs with an elbow that expressed considerable displeasure courtesy of its very sharp point. She added crisply, “Marshal, the Thoralians are on our collective tails. Very quickly, may I introduce –”

  “The Star Dragoness?” he returned. “Yes, we know. She tried to kill my Iridiana.”

  Gasps!

  Iridiana? Delightful name …

  Oddly, the blunt accusation calmed the Immadian Princess. She knew diplomacy. Touching both Ri’arion and Gang to restrain any overheated responses, she replied, “We are allies even if you don’t realise it yet, Asturbar.”

  “Marshal Asturbar, and we are no allies until you apol –”

  To her further shock, it was the normally unflappable Ri’arion who erupted, shouting, “How dare you? Look upon this woman, and see what she has given for our Island-World, you craven cur! What have you dared? What have you done?”

  Aranya feared the Azingloriax warrior was about to attack the monk. Suddenly, danger seemed imminent and they had barely begun to speak. The young Dragoness Iridiana exclaimed that it was she who had dreamed of the Star Dragoness, and invited her to visit. Even her accent was the definition of mellifluous. Aranya’s eyes remained fixed upon the big man, however, gritting his teeth audibly as he lurched toward Ri’arion, as if those words injured him in ways she could not understand. Fresh sweat beaded his bro
w. He swayed, then paused as if searching for something to say, only his stomach interjected a protracted growl-groan as if it fought to burst out of the casing of his armour. He doubled over. The artist in her absently noted that he wore the biggest boots she had ever seen. His feet had to be thrice the width of hers, and half as long again!

  “Is he alright?” Aranya blurted out, discomfited.

  “Unwell,” the Brown Dragoness snapped, but extended a paw as if she expected him to fall.

  “May I touch and heal him?” The Princess winced. When had she learned to ask permission for what she knew must be done? Only, she sensed something odd about this Azingloriax warrior, aside from his mighty presence. Something that gave her pause.

  Iridiana interjected softly, “He’s a proud man. Wait, please.”

  This exchange seemed to tantalise a nerve in the huge Marshal, for he straightened with considerable effort, puffing, “Not so proud as … to take back … hot words. Your Storm magic was uncontrolled, was it not?” Ah, he knew about her Storm! She must have hurt this Iridiana – she questioned Asturbar with her eyes. Apologising without words. Raising an open hand in apparent acceptance, he said more reasonably, “I am Asturbar, and this is Iridiana, the Iridium Shapeshifter Dragoness.”

  Despite that the Marshal’s gruff vowels were nearly as pithily foreshortened as the hairs of his shaven pate, Aranya had no difficulty with the man’s accent, whereas the girl – she could have sounded Immadian, except that her tonal modulations exhibited an inveigling yet completely alien pattern of melody and stress. Judging by her companions’ expressions, Aranya wondered if they thought exactly the same of her!

  “Iridium? That colour is unheard-of,” Huaricithe whispered meantime. “Where do you hail from, fledgling?”

  The young Dragoness bowed graciously, wings outspread. “I –”

  “Yazê-a-Kûz, by the accent?” Gangurtharr interrupted.

  Iridiana flinched. “Yes, but –”

  “Aye, it seems they’ve been concealing their Shapeshifters,” Huari noted evenly. Herimor politics! Aranya did not understand the sudden renewal of tension, or why this statement smacked so overtly of accusation, but she was not about to allow a promising conversation to head back down the proverbial fumarole. Too much was at stake.

  Time to assert herself. Bowing in the formal Immadian manner, she said, “May I acquaint you with Ri’arion of Fra’anior, a mighty warrior-monk, who is married to an Azure Shapeshifter named Zuziana, lately of the Kingdom of Remoy, who in turn – it’s a long tale. I carry her here, within my soul. She’s my best friend.” She rubbed her right eye as it prickled sharply, an echo of grief. “Gangurtharr the Gladiator and Marshal Huaricithe, you appear to know. For my part, I am the Princess Aranya of Immadia, daughter of Izariela, daughter of Istariela the White Dragoness, the fabled beloved of Fra’anior. I am an Amethyst Shapeshifter, and the Star Dragoness.”

  They seemed suitably impressed by her lineage. That, or she would be slain in a welter of righteous indignation at any second. If only she did not have to play the worship-of-Stars card. If only she enjoyed wholeness of presence, she would not have to field their shocked stares as if her mutilated body were a pin board that received dart after dart which cried, ‘Ghastly! Abhorrent! O fate most ruinous!’

  The Fra’aniorian monks said that which did not slay a soul, only strengthened.

  Such faith must be mighty indeed. Until one met the creator Dragon himself, whom many worshipped as a deity, and knew him for kin …

  Asturbar in turn introduced his circle of close advisors and leaders – Iridiana, Yuaki the Brown Shapeshifter, ex-Marshal Chanbar, and Commanders Gashukan and Bantukor, the chunky soldier charged with protecting the entryway. Another Azingloriax warrior. Aranya appreciated the wry quirk of Asturbar’s lips at this point. Less so his Dragoness girlfriend, who behind that ostensibly naïve exterior, was watching Aranya like a windroc eyeing a tasty rock hyrax. Again, she must turn the conversation.

  “I am sorry about the effects of my storm. Terribly sorry, for aye, it was indeed uncontrolled and harmful, Marshal Asturbar. Iridiana. I have … too much magic.” The Princess smiled at no-one in particular, and then dipped her gaze, knowing they must be appalled by her twisted lips. What emerged next was entirely unexpected, product of her anguish. “I must tell you that the Thoralians have captured and enslaved my beloved Shadow Dragon, and when he arrives, all of your protections shall be as nought. No mere walls can withstand the might of the Shadow. Therefore, we must ally rapidly. The enemy is nigh.”

  Asturbar said, “How soon?”

  “Five minutes, no more,” Aranya said brusquely. “We bypassed the Thoralians with a touch of – well, call it magical cheating – in order to heed this call. Iridiana, you said –” her voice leaped to a startled squeak as the warm granite beneath her bare feet leaped palpably “– what was that?”

  “That was a ceiling coming down,” said Asturbar.

  So calm. This Commander seemed in complete control of his leadership team. At last, Aranya allowed her gaze to touch the young Shapeshifter Dragoness’ eyes, and it was with a terrible spasm in her chest that she recognised exactly why she appeared so wide-eyed and ingenuous. Her eyes were almost bereft of natural flame – how had she not noticed before? Dazed. Envious. Too preoccupied with the looming clash of powers when her attention should be focussed right here, in the now, upon this poor, painfully near-sighted Dragoness … at last, she tasted the goodness of the unequivocally beneficent fate which had brought her to this place and to this moment. Her fires flared so brilliantly in response, she felt as if a lava fireball sat ready in her throat.

  Just take one small, right step. Each might be followed by another. Then the next.

  Across from her, Yuaki the Brown clarified, “O peerless Star Dragoness, that would be Azhukazi the Iolite Blue, also called the Necromancer.”

  Her words fell upon ears deaf to their import. Stepping past the startled Marshal toward his girlfriend, she raised her hand and whispered, with an intimation of sevenfold dignity about her delivery, O noble Iridiana, might I perchance touch thine fire eyes?

  Not a question. This was white fires command. The Dragoness responded instinctively, lowering her muzzle in acquiescence as if she sensed the wellsprings of healing power already surging like founts of molten gold through Aranya’s veins, igniting her being, forcing her to draw a nigh-unending, steadying breath as she fought to master her emotions – o Fra’anior, heal this thy child! Almost before the flat of her hand touched Iridiana’s petite muzzle with its gleaming tracery of metallic silver-blue scales, like the vanishingly rare trace element for which she was named, Aranya realised, the white fires leaped forth. Fervent. Savagely potent. Fearfully tender.

  The Dragoness’ magical pathways ignited to the truth of pure Star-Fire. She wheezed and stumbled to one knee. Then, her muzzle tilted and pressed forward to look past Aranya – not without a startled inhale – to Asturbar, her beloved, and the swirling of fires in her eyes gathered pace and clarity by the millisecond, as though clouds swept aside before the advent of the suns’ glory. Aranya watched the healing fires at work from less than ten inches distance; the Dragoness’ debility arrested; the runic threads of magic sinking profoundly deep, reshaping brokenness as wholeness …

  The man whispered, “Nyahi?”

  “Oh! Oh, Boots, I …” The Iridium Dragoness’ slim throat worked painfully. She squealed, “I can see!”

  Aranya chuckled in delighted realisation. They had pet names for each other! Nyahi and Boots! What was a Nyahi, however?

  “I can see everything!”

  Then, a wild kaleidoscope of magic exploded within Iridiana, a paean of pure joy, and a sparkling mauve comet of – well, some chaotic expression of draconic magic unlike anything Aranya had ever imagined – shot up toward the ceiling and fizzed around the great hall, spinning at dizzying speed around the mage-light chandeliers and carolling her happiness with a tinkling of laughter that shook one watc
her to her core. She sounded as if she were a star laughing, but that magic – it was Chaos.

  The artistry of insanity.

  Iridiana was a Chaos Beast? She could not believe it. Asturbar, as Zip had pinned him with her usual accuracy, looked absolutely captivated by the phenomenon. Gang too seemed entranced, Ri’arion cleared his throat with a curmudgeonly rasp, and Huari observed the display with a smile of unabashed wonder, highlighting the dainty-strong beauty of her relative’s features. Zip had that quality. The eyes that glinted, the definite planes of the cheekbones; the chin that only seemed to grow pointier the more mischief it fomented.

  Asturbar whispered, “That’s what she does when she’s happiest.”

  Aranya’s heart clenched so hard, she had to rub her breastbone vigorously. Did he suspect? Was the peril as immediate as she feared, or what exactly were the churned-up feelings tearing about inside her breast just like that creature up there, effervescent until they exploded …

  Ardan came!

  The reach-snap of her alarm brought the light show to an instantaneous halt. The young Shifter reacted like a frightened dragonet, fizzing through five or six inchoate forms before – holy Fra’anior! Had she just turned into a diamond bracelet on Asturbar’s arm? Fantastical, pretty, and what camouflage! Was she afraid? Dissembling? Either way, the issue of the peril she might or might not represent had to be set aside.