Beautiful Fury

by Marc Secchia

He was too narked to dissemble. Softly, the Princess added, There are mysteries about my nature that I haven’t even worked out for myself, Ardan, but I promise I will try to be better about sharing everything with you in the future. It’s been so busy inside, I just want to hide sometimes –

  Oh, you may as well tell everyone, now, he growled, and bit back a self-directed curse. Stupid tongue! We can speak later, beloved.

  Am I, still?

  He gritted his teeth. Can we try to ignore the stubborn male pride? Aye, you are!

  Aranya said, “I wonder if you remember me working with the linguists on a potentially new draconic language?”

  “Indeed,” rumbled Leandrial, “a most curious utterance, little one, but almost undoubtedly draconic in origin – my understanding is that the explicit dracotonic tones and harmonies do not correspond with any known draconic language or dialect. Might it be a type of proto-draconic utterance, do you think? I know that you dream of the Great Onyx. Did you dream this, too?”

  “It was early evening, and I was wide awake,” Aranya said, “but you are correct, noble Leandrial. I did wonder afterward if I had not dreamed it. This is what I heard –”

  Focussing on producing the liquid notes, she intoned, /O stardrop! Precious … peril …/

  Her companions stared at her. Flustered by their awed responses, Aranya said, “Iridiana, do you understand it?”

  Her sister frowned. “I … I’m not sure. Maybe. The latter word is a bit muddled to my mind; I think it’s something about an endangered treasure, right?” She held up her hand to forestall Aranya’s sunken-hearted response. “Let me explain. I feel as if I should understand. It sounds familiar – achingly familiar – but I want to assure you, I see where you might be going with this and I don’t believe my lack of perfect understanding proves or disproves anything.”

  Now, Nyahi was practically reading her mind.

  Having a twin definitely promised unexpected dimensions!

  Trying to smooth the frustration from her voice, Aranya said, “I hoped it might be a star language, as in, a clue as to the identity of our ancestors – tracing back our maternal line through Izariela to Istariela and … beyond? Where did our grandmother come from?”

  “Ari grand-star?” Sapphire piped up unexpectedly.

  Aranya spluttered, “Aye, Sapphire. I did mean my maternal great-grand … star?” Frowning rather fiercely at the suns-set, she said, “Fra’anior did not know what the utterance meant, but he was quick to stress the importance of continuing to investigate. He misses Istariela, you see. He misses her desperately. And you, Iridiana, you were very close indeed. I believe that those words, mean, ‘O stardrop, precious … peril.’ The communication seemed garbled, as though it originated in a place impossibly far away. But it was definitely speech. I’m certain of that.”

  Tenderly, Ardan said, “You imagined – you hoped, Aranya – that you might have heard from the original Star Dragons?”

  “Aye.”

  Nyahi added, “Remember Shan-Jarad’s description of my egg?”

  “ ‘It was at once an egg, and a spark,’ ” Zip quoted, at exactly the same instant as Asturbar said, “ ‘The creature called it a droplet of fire life.’ ”

  “Then why don’t you understand … Starrish, or whatever it was?” Aranya gritted her teeth in frustration. “Shapeshifters understand Dragonish automatically. We are born to it!”

  Zuziana said, “Whereas Star Dragons, who are expressions of Star Fires and are therefore by definition exactly the same as us ‘normal’ Dragon Shapeshifters … shall I continue, noble best friend, or will you just admit your brain is spurting prekki-fruit mush once again?”

  Aranya threw up her hands. “Oh, Zip!”

  “How you abuse my name. Just admit I’m right.”

  “That’ll be the day ralti sheep dance on rainbows,” Ardan suggested.

  She had to laugh. “You’re right, petal.”

  “That I am. Now, why don’t you tell us the rest of your story?”

  Friendship was so much about learning to laugh together.

  Shortly, she continued, “My friends, Fra’anior told me that there are other powers out there amidst the Universe, powers of illimitable evil that roam the spaces between the stars, and are inimical to draconic life in ways that we can hardly begin to imagine. They see us as food. In the time of the Pygmy Dragon, one of the Thoralians managed to summon to our Island-World a creature called the Nurguz. On its own, just one creature devastated virtually all draconic life North of the Rift. It was insatiable. Out there are myriad such creatures, many greater and more voracious still. Fra’anior did not say so, but I believe he implied creatures which are so powerful, they prey upon Ancient Dragons.”

  Her companions stilled.

  “Those creatures would like nothing more than to discover a planet filled with snacks made of the finest fire life and star-life. Therefore, aeons ago when he broke the eggshell, one of Fra’anior’s very first tasks was to establish a planetary shield to protect tasty nibbles – us – from those hostile cosmic powers. To be our bulwark and our sanctuary. He refined his masterwork innumerable times, but the basic design remains the same. The magical shield, which encompasses our entire world, is anchored upon the Mystic Moon. Aye, Mystic is its source of power. The moon is comprised almost purely of horiatite.”

  She held up her fists. “So, imagine my right hand is us and my left is the Mystic Moon. A spherical or bubble shield encircles both of my hands, and those constructs stretch to connect with each other via a long, thin tube – the magic involved is elegantly simple, yet profound. The connection between us and Mystic is malleable. It must be given the complex orbits of the six Moons –”

  “Six?” Asturbar echoed quietly.

  “Aye. There is one more, which has been a secret kept by the Ancient Dragons until now. Ironically, the Onyx called it Dramagon’s Bequest.” Aranya pursed her lips with a decidedly sour air. “It used to orbit Yellow, but about four thousand years ago, that moon crashed into Mystic and disrupted the shield. Fra’anior made repairs with the help of several of his brethren and the buried moon was forgotten. What he did not discover until much more recently, was that in a very similar way to how the First Eggs travelled through the cosmos, Dramagon’s Bequest was not actually a moon. It was a hollowed-out asteroid which contained a deathly payload of cosmic organisms called Shao’lûkayn.”

  Asturbar puffed out his cheeks. “They sound delightful.”

  “Fra’anior doesn’t know exactly what they are or what they do, but when I crashed into an argument between him and Dramagon –”

  “Now, you’ve met Dramagon?” Ardan gasped, smacking his hand to his bald pate.

  She smiled thinly at him. “Aye. Dramagon the Red promptly mistook me for Istariela, it seemed, and tried to squash me like a bug.” The Ancient Red had also called her a stardrop, she recalled now with a frisson of affirmation. It all fit. “Had Fra’anior been less quick I would be a deceased star right now. Dramagon is inconceivably powerful. That incident was when Dramagon revealed the presence of the Shao’lûkayn – and this is also going to sound unbelievable –” she had to suck in a long breath to steady her voice “– but the Storm of Storms suspects the Thoralians will try to fly to the Mystic Moon using the power of the First Egg, crack open Dramagon’s Bequest, and command the creatures within to break the protective barrier over our Island-World and thus pave the way for the Ancient Red’s return.”

  “No!” Ardan’s dark skin tone had turned grey.

  “Should that day come to pass,” Aranya said, “calamity is far too gentle a word. It would be genocide – no, even worse. Global extinction.”

  All the others, even Leandrial, glanced up at the gathering evening and shivered.

  Aranya shuttered her eyes. Noble grand-shell-father, you only ask the impossible. Strengthen thou me according to the task.

  Somewhere, seven heads inclined to her, listening intently.

  Chapter 23: Dramagon�
�s Plot

  THE MYSTIC MOON had fascinated balladeers since time immemorial. Now they knew why. White was merely a brilliant point of light, faraway and unchanging. Yellow was the huge, dominating presence overshadowing most days. Blue and Jade played a lesser role, disappearing behind Yellow or vanishing into thin crescents bleached by the brilliant twin suns. Unlike the others, Mystic was a strange, complex traveller. She had been known to take orbit around Blue, but since records began, astronomers and Dragon scientists had puzzled over her behaviour until they documented a once-a-century phenomenon, when Mystic switched to an orbit that circumnavigated both their world and the Yellow Moon, but at a highly unusual and variable declination. Perhaps magic explained orbital mechanics that outright waggled their wingtips at the constraints of gravity better than any logical hypothesis could postulate, for Mystic was famously unruly. To Aranya’s annoyance, Fra’anior had commented that it was this very contradictory behaviour which had led him to dub the moon as female!

  Most vexing of him.

  To her surprise, Aranya opened her eyes to find Ardan shaking his finger beneath her nose. “To the Moons? The Moons! You … words fail me!”

  “Aye?”

  The Western Isles warrior grunted, “Very well. Tell us about this sixth moon.”

  Her jaw tightened at his sarcasm. Undeserved sarcasm. It was Ardan’s way of reacting when his worldview was shaken, as it had been from the beginning by a Shapeshifter Princess. Aranya replied evenly, “It’s another of Dramagon’s clandestine projects. All we know of the Shao’lûkayn is three things: One, their fundamental nature depends upon the power of urzul. Two, they are powerful enough to destroy the planetary shield. Three, their name means ‘demeaners of darkness.’ ”

  Zip said, “I take it from your report, His Lightning-Shot Awesomeness is not able to offer aid in time?”

  “He is offering help, as in, telling us what he needs us to do,” Aranya scowled – at herself. That did not work very well. “His self-imposed exile from our Island-World was a calculated risk. A one-way trip to the beyond, precluding all possibility of return. However, his kin are wily and magic is ever-evolving, adapting with the tenacity of life itself. In the days of the Dragonfriend, Numistar Winterborn survived a millennia-long journey to our Island-World buried in the heart of a comet. In our time, it appears that Dramagon’s 6,000 year-old plot is about to come to fruition, with the retrieval of the First Egg combined with the ascendancy of an obedient trio of hench-Dragons who possess a unique combination of powers and ambition. Fra’anior said he cannot break in from the outside to help us without attracting attention of the lethal kind, and he cannot teleport in because that route was deliberately cut off. Break the shield, and we expose our world. Even Dramagon’s wrath pales into insignificance before that prospect.”

  Not that the Thoralians cared. They would doom all for the sake of winning their ascent.

  The Princess continued, “Infurion taught us that urzul, the power that the Thoralians know and the Theadurial use to parasitize Land Dragons, is a corruption of his native Earthen Fires, the fires that rule and are contained in the Rift. Ruzal was a perversion of Sky Fires or our type – uh, your type – of fundamental fires. The Dragonfriend fought the scourge of ruzal in her time and apparently defeated it. But Fra’anior provided a key insight. Dramagon’s ultimate plan hinges upon returning to find this ruzal magic, as it is a living type of magic – in Dragonish, the lost remnant of his spirit.”

  “Hualiama didn’t actually defeat ruzal?” Nyahi echoed.

  “No. I believe she hid it,” Aranya explained. “Perhaps she lacked the means or the power to defeat even a fraction of Dramagon’s magic outright.”

  “Or, it’s deathly to Star Dragonesses,” Iridiana pointed out ruefully.

  That was worth a big grimace.

  Asturbar said, “We call this ‘remnant’ a remainder portion. Traditionally in Wyldaroon, the word refers to a choice portion from his or her own meal that the host offers to honour a guest. I should clarify, it is a draconic custom, not a Human one.”

  Leandrial growled, “So ruzal is a magic sprung from Dramagon’s very own soul? This chills my fires.”

  “Aye, that’s what we fight against,” said Aranya. “Can we conclude that Dramagon the Red is somehow weakened by this loss?”

  “Little one, is the mountain weakened by the loss of a stone?”

  Aranya bit her tongue sharply.

  “What then is the Thoralians’ ambition?” asked Asturbar.

  Ardan replied, “We alluded to this already. Simply put, by serving Dramagon, the Thoralians hope to be elevated to immortality. I sensed however, that not all of their purpose was revealed to me.”

  Zip agreed, “If I were in the Thoralians’ paws, perish the thought, I would not stop at being lackeys.”

  “No,” Ardan noted gruffly. Taking Aranya in his powerful arms, he said, “Why stop at being small and immortal? Why not inhabit a far greater vessel, the body of an Ancient Dragon, whilst enjoying the fruits of eternity? Dramagon must know this. He must be using the Thoralians; doubtless and equally, the Thoralians know they are being used. They are none of them fools.”

  “Which leaves us needing to fly to the Mystic Moon. Minus breathable air,” said the Remoyan.

  “Aye, and we have a bigger problem, too,” Aranya riposted.

  Her own mouth groaned, “Which is?”

  “If we don’t extract the Academy first –”

  “Sodding flying monkeys!” snapped Ardan, while Leandrial’s thunderous reaction shook them all.

  “Whatever a monkey is, I agree,” Iridiana said softly. “Hundreds of people, dying up there – we cannot contemplate failure!”

  “Tens of thousands, Human, Dragon and Shapeshifter,” Aranya corrected soberly. “According to the lore we were able to uncover at the Dragon Library of Gi’ishior, and Nak and Oyda’s memories, the Academy was the last bastion for thousands of refugees fleeing from a Herimor Marshal and the Nurguz. The Pygmy Dragon performed her own brand of twenty-eighth hour heroics to save everyone. Now we just need to make sure they aren’t stranded on the Mystic Moon instead.”

  Her sister’s silver features had never looked so pallid.

  “If the Thoralians manage to birth the Egg,” said Asturbar, slipping his huge paw about Nyahi’s slim hand.

  “Or, if they retrieve the Pygmy Dragon before we do,” Aranya added. “Oyda’s memories strongly suggested Pip knew the Word of Command – indeed, that she might know far more of its ways than I do! She’s young. If the Thoralians twisted her to their bidding …”

  Clenching his fists, Ardan replied, “I’m sure we can imagine a thousand ways everything might end up being crisped in the caldera. What plans do we have? How do we stop these fiends?”

  Zip said, “We need to establish priorities. First, we catch that stupid runaway Egg. Then we extract this Onyx Dragoness and the Academy while they still have half a sniff of surviving the experience. Failing that, our next priority is to enlist Infurion’s help. At the worst, we hitch a ride to the Moon in the same way, Aranya, as you created that slingshot effect to escape from the Rift before. Those are the essential elements, right? Eminently doable.”

  Aranya rather wished those last two words had not emerged from her own mouth.

  * * * *

  As Leandrial dipped into and out of the Cloudlands on her mountain-hugging route that led toward Huaricithe’s old stomping ground of the Gladiator Pits, Ardan and Zip debated the merits of various strategies while Aranya attempted to communicate with Hualiama or Fra’anior. Inspiration seemed sorely lacking amidst their company, and gloom in plentiful but unspoken supply.

  Ardan gritted his teeth, and kept working with his companions. They had to succeed. Somehow, there must be a chink in the triplicate’s armour. He reviewed every nuance of his memories of how they operated, cudgelling his mind for details. How could they bring him low?

  It was Yazina who voiced the obvious, saying, “If Yiis
uriel can break through into the Passage of Darkness before we arrive, that would gain us valuable time, wouldn’t it? Then you Dragons should fly ahead. The Air Breathers are too slow.”

  Asturbar ruffled her hair. “Good thinking.”

  The teen pretended to snap at his hand.

  “Aye, well done, Yazina. A fast strike force has to be our best option, if we hope to smuggle the Pygmy Dragoness out of her century-and-a-half’s sleep,” Ardan agreed. “Ah, Aranya? Are you back, sweet-fires?”

  She yawned and stretched, smiling before self-consciously covering her cratered cheek. “No news is bad news. Too much interference from the vandanite, I guess. I vote for sleep.”

  Ardan saw heartache obfuscate the natural gleam in her eyes before she dipped her gaze.

  By daybreak Leandrial had surged far to the North on a sweeping, extended run, first battling contrary currents before she was able to drop into a canyon of three leagues’ depth in order to enter a beneficial air flow. Her huge form twisted languidly as she took nonchalant-seeming, gliding steps along the boulder-strewn floor, using her long, whiplike tail as a rudder to guide her around the bends. She skimmed along like a champion flier. At this depth, the air pressure was so intense, air acted more as a viscous liquid than a gas. Leandrial always calculated the most efficient path. Her spatulate paws moved as if she were part-swimming and part-gliding in surprisingly low gravity, curving and straightening to maximise their aerodynamic shape and drive; Aranya applied additional shielding elements to enhance her scales and body shape to approach frictionless perfection.

  Their route meandered beneath the great Gladiator Pits, each effectively a nation state in its own right, and thus mostly avoided an under-Cloudlands layer of small but highly aggressive, snakelike burgundy Borers unique to this area of Wyldaroon. They grew a detachable, explosive headpiece that delivered a jolt of powerful acid that operated on both the physical and magical levels, so highly corrosive that it eclipsed the Acid attack of a Lesser Dragon by an order of magnitude. After a few unsavoury experiences, Aranya and Leandrial worked out the appropriate shielding. That did not stop the semi-intelligent and stupidly tenacious Borers from trying, however, and so for hours at a time their progress was accompanied by a staccato chorus pop-poppa-pop as the burgundy acid pods detonated and were swept harmlessly away in their wash.