by Marc Secchia
“Come on, Yolathion. Dagger!”
“Stick with the plan!” he yelled.
Aranya rolled her eyes and snapped, “The idea’s to keep our people out of danger. Work with me.”
Two of the dragonets dropped, pierced by arrows. Her response was as if she had been branded with red-hot irons. Snaking through the air, Aranya arrowed for another Sylakian Dragonship. No way was she letting her friends die–not if she could help it.
She closed her ears to the man on her back shouting at her. Crimson closed in around her vision. She damped it down. Battle rage? Had she warned Yolathion? This was no time to go feral. Aranya ran along the top of a Dragonship, rending it with her claws, before corkscrewing tightly over its neighbour and dropping by surprise on the rear gantry of the rearmost Dragonship in their dwindling fleet. A quarrel skittered off her scales. Aranya ripped the gantry free, sending men and weapons tumbling five hundred feet to the ground. A catapult on the fortress fired but only struck a Sylakian Dragonship.
A Dragon’s laughter bubbled out over the battle.
The giant Jeradian shouted something at her about not destroying the Dragonships. Aranya let her flame lick out around them, taking care where she pointed that incredible hose of fire so that she did not explode any vessels by accident. Suddenly, Sylakian horns sounded below. Green flags and cloth popped up on the battlement walls. The men manning the catapults and crossbows stepped back from their weapons.
Friends! The evil ones have surrendered. Reluctantly, the dragonets broke off their attack. You were amazing, Aranya gushed. We couldn’t have done it without you.
That was definitely the right thing to say. The ice-dragonets broke into a chorus of yipping self-congratulation and silly dancing and posturing, so excited that little spurts of flame kept popping out of their mouths and nostrils.
Sapphire landed on Aranya’s nose, her eyes swirling with excitement. She said, Ar-ar?
Aranya stared. Sapphire, you spoke! Say ‘Aranya’.
“That was completely unacceptable, Aranya,” Yolathion ground out. Sapphire took off at once, squealing in fright. “How are we supposed to work together if I can’t trust you to follow my commands?”
“Your commands? Yolathion–”
“We agreed to leave downing the Dragonships to your little friends.”
“Who were being slaughtered!”
“Islands’ sakes, they’re just animals.”
Her vision blurred. She was so enraged, it was all Aranya could do to keep flying. “Just animals?” she hissed. Her Dragon fire screamed for release, but somehow, she barricaded it behind the wall of her iron will. “I’m just an animal?”
Yolathion smacked her neck again, this time in anger. “I wasn’t suggesting that, Aranya.”
“Well, mighty Jeradian warrior, what exactly did you mean? I’m the man, so you follow my commands? Is that how this relationship is supposed to work?”
“I don’t appreciate your tone,” he said, coldly. “Working together requires trust. The giving and receiving of commands in battle must be clear, or people die. The chain of command is absolute. Yes, I have been a warrior all my life. You haven’t got the experience in battle, despite your father’s ‘special training’ that you told me about. So yes, I will be giving the commands.”
So she was a spoiled Princess and he was the man of war? Silent now–mutinously silent–Aranya swooped down to land near the Sylakian fortress. She did not dare look at him for fear that she’d snap at her Rider.
“Being Dragon and Rider is different to being Human-Aranya and Yolathion,” he added. “Don’t get the two confused.”
Aranya landed. There was so much fire in her, the air shimmered in front of her nose upon each exhalation. “You can dismount,” she said.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m hungry. I need to hunt.”
Yolathion’s expression clearly communicated that he thought she needed to cool off. But he said, “Will you wait until we secure the surrender?”
“I’ll wait overhead,” said Aranya, dismissing him with her tone.
The Jeradian made a show of marching off in a fit of pique. He ignored the gust generated by Aranya’s wings as she launched into the air.
Sapphire came to keep her company while the Amethyst Dragon whiled away the hours it took to track down the Warlord of Haffal Cluster. After that, she hunted for herself and the dragonets. She felt a little foolish at the satisfaction she took in tearing a giant ralti sheep limb from limb, but one hundred and fifty-five tiny appetites–the dragonets had lost five of their number in the battle–and one much larger one took care of the entire beast within a quarter-hour.
Later that afternoon, as the Immadian force worked on repairing the least damaged of the Dragonships, the Warlord reappeared in a fake, chest-thumping rage to demand payment for the sheep from King Beran.
“I guess keeping a Dragon isn’t a cheap option,” her father teased her afterward.
“I’m sure I could convince him otherwise,” said Aranya. “Ungrateful troglodyte.”
“Been saving that word for a special occasion?” King Beran’s eyes, however, twinkled at her. “Easy there, Sparky. Let me explain. It’s a matter of Western Isles pride. We shamed him in the eyes of his warriors by defeating his enemies. This is a way of saving face–hence the ridiculous overpayment.”
“And the delivery of the Sylakian soldiers to the Warlord …”
Beran nodded. “A tough reality, but the type of decision a King needs to be prepared to take. These Sylakians have been killing Isles warriors by the dozen. They had six of their women locked up in the fortress.” His voice thickened with anger. “To tell you how they were mistreated and abused … it would make the most hard-bitten warrior retch, Aranya. I imagine their torture will last a very long time. But we would otherwise disrespect them. We cannot afford to leave disgruntled Warlords behind us. Our forces are spread too thin as it is.”
“But we’ve tripled our Dragonship fleet, Dad.”
“Aye, Sparky.” His eyes softened as he regarded her across the table. “Now, tell me about this flaming row you had with Yolathion.”
* * * *
The weather grew hotter and stickier the further south the combined Immadian, Jeradian and Western Isles forces progressed. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the clouds gathering and darkening on the horizon, but that distant army never marched across the sky. The Islands rose out of the Cloudlands as though their southward progress was a hike up a long, gradual incline, until every rugged massif stood a half-league or more above the brown-tinged clouds. The round, thatched-roof huts grew ever more elaborate, a far cry from the animal-skin shelters she had assumed were standard Western Isles dwellings, and the vegetation impenetrable.
Aranya hunted for the Dragon Fra’anior had demanded she find, but there was neither hide nor hair of such a beast to be found. Not that Dragons had any hair–not even nostril hair, which would be crisped by the first sneeze of Dragon fire. They did not unearth so much as a rumour.
Her overzealous imagination had her picturing a Dragon beneath every boulder. It did not help that the more southerly of the Western Isles took on craggier, toothier outlines, as though monstrous Land Dragons had gnawed upon their rocky bones in ancient times and spat out the remains. Nor did the Black Dragon’s stalking of her dreams cease. He lurked constantly, his presence a spectral migraine which refused to relinquish its hold on her brain.
The Sylakians gave up ground. Beran pushed harder, saying that a significant battle was looming in the near future. The only question was where and when.
One evening, as they sat around the conference table in the Immadian flagship’s forward navigation cabin, which doubled as Beran’s quarters, with Yolathion and two other Immadian leaders, the King thumped his finger on the map between them. “Naphtha Cluster,” he said. “We arrive tomorrow. Our intelligence says the Sylakians attacked the place about two months ago and razed it. Not far beyond is the start o
f Ur-Yagga Cluster, the biggest in the West–over four hundred Islands and two very well equipped Sylakian bases, which underpin their entire operation here in the Western Isles. This, my bones tell me, is the real battle.”
“We should start our eastward attack,” said Yolathion.
“South,” said Aranya. “We should go south. The Black Dragon said–”
The Jeradian placed his hand over hers. Dragon-Aranya would gladly have bitten that quelling touch. He said, “Proceeding south from here, King Beran, leaves our eastern flank vulnerable. By now, the message has travelled to Sylakia. Thoralian will not stand idle.”
“Aye,” said King Beran, tapping a scroll lying on the map. “He’s declared himself Emperor of the Island-World and decreed a schedule of worship. This report from our agents in Sylakia Town suggests that his family is on the move. That, we can safely assume, means Shapeshifters. At least one Dragon has been spotted–a Red, of a monstrous size.”
“All the more reason to find this ally,” said Aranya. She and Zip used to joke about the evil empire of Sylakia. Now, it had become a reality. She pictured a dark, ravaging shadow rising over the Islands, and irritably suppressed an accompanying surge of nausea.
Beran stroked his beard. “Did Fra’anior say that this beast was friendly, Sparky? Or just that you were to find it?”
Aranya frowned. The Black Dragon’s inarticulate roaring had filled her dreams once again, the night before. Why would Fra’anior not trust her to complete what he had demanded? “No. Only that I was to locate it–I assume he meant, ‘recruit the Dragon to our cause’.”
“Proceeding further south exposes our flank,” the giant Jeradian repeated. He frowned when Aranya extracted her hand from his grasp. “I’m with King Beran on this. We need to consolidate our position.”
“Aye,” said Beran. “I’ll sleep on it. My best ideas come in the middle of the night.”
She glowered at the map as the meeting broke up. Aranya hated it when her father sided with Yolathion. She was so on edge. Was it just her Dragon senses? Was her target near? Why had the great Black Dragon not been more specific? And why, for that matter, if he was one of the Ancient Dragon Powers, did he only have the power to visit her in her dreams? What did that portend?
In a moment, she and Yolathion were left alone as King Beran left to speak to his Steersman.
Yolathion’s strong hands massaged her shoulders. “Islands of stress in here,” he said.
“Yoli,” she changed his name to the intimate form, “why do I feel that I’ve offended you? Every time we talk strategy, you and I end up butting heads like male ralti sheep in the mating season.” She wanted to add, ‘I wish you’d back me up just once,’ but she did not add this thought for fear of angering him. Could she not just tell him how much that trait demeaned and exasperated her, she wondered? Why tread on eggshells with this man?
His deep chuckle made her bones tingle. “Yoli? What’s that, a nickname?”
“It’s the intimate–”
“Another Immadian thing? Great Islands, this cross-cultural relationship really is about rearranging matters inside my skull.”
Aranya tilted her head to kiss his fingers. “That’s nice. Don’t stop.”
“So, what do I call you? Ari?”
“Aranyi, if you’d like.”
His fingers rested on the pulse in her neck. “Well, Aranyi, when will we move beyond just kissing?”
“When–I mean, if–we marry. You did carry me over a threshold once, if you recall.”
Moons and stars, was Yolathion about to discuss the future with her? Her heart turned cartwheels at the thought. She had so longed for this conversation!
“Thou art beautiful.” He tugged the seam of her headscarf. Aranya shivered, her inner fires stirring like the ever-restless tides agitating the Cloudlands. Her heart galloped up into her throat, and the heat between them grew sweetly intense. Oh, Dragon fires and volcanoes! Was this the moment? What would he say?
He said, “Incomparable Immadia, doth thy heart not move with mine, through the stars and into eternity?”
Although, the Jeradian way of breaking into ancient speech patterns in order to express deep emotion, while it made her want to giggle, was also rather endearing. “It–ah, doth. So to speak.” She sighed, “I mean, our hearts do sing together, thou fierce rajal of a man.”
He said, “I yearn for more than just thy kisses.”
“Don’t.” She caught his hands before they moved too far. “Yolathion! I … it’s not proper.”
Now who was the prize prude? Panicked, Aranya reached out with her magic to snuff out a fire-whirlwind which had sprung to life next to the crysglass window.
“Not proper?” he laughed, but there was an uneasy edge beneath his manner. “We are a couple, aye? You are beautiful, and I desire you. Why does this affront you? Unless I am sorely mistaken–and I’m not without experience–you desire me equally.”
“You’re experienced?”
“You’re not?” His echo stabbed her heart sorely. Mocking, it opened a rift between them she had never imagined existed. Tears pricked her eyes, unshed. “You swept my heart away over the Cloudlands, Aranya. Don’t tell me you didn’t know exactly what you were doing when you first smiled at me, that day in the Tower of Sylakia. It was seduction.”
She choked out, “You’ve b-been with other g-girls?”
The tall Jeradian laughed curtly, walking to the forward crysglass window as though he wished to walk into the stars outside. He whirled on his heel, his dark eyes flashing. “Why does your judgement sting my ears, Immadia?”
“It isn’t judge–” Foolish, Aranya! The knowing curve of his lips destroyed her confidence. It made her recall, incongruously, the warning implicit in the Black Dragon’s belling in her dreams. She thrust Fra’anior out of her head, fighting to find the calm, reasonable words she needed.
She said, “In Immadia, we wait until we’re married.”
“What does marriage matter?” he cut in. “You take your Northern customs so seriously. It’s not the Jeradian way. We have consorts. A relationship for a season. If the relationship does not work, either the woman or the man is free to move on. If there is desire, then there is no impediment.”
“What about commitment? Love? Faithfulness?”
“Of course.” He spread his hands, gazing earnestly at her. “I love you, Aranya. I’d be faithful.”
For how long? The emptiness in her heart made her inward scream echo in a space which had never seemed colder or darker. How long before Yolathion decided to move on, because Immadians took marriage promises ‘seriously’ and Jeradians did not? He did not even define faithfulness as she did. Come that day, her heart would be devastated.
He said, “Do you seek only the Immadian way for yourself? What would you want, Aranya?”
She thought about Ignathion and his two pretty but calculating consorts. She thought about her experience in Remoy with Zuziana’s family, consisting of one father, four mothers and seventeen siblings, none of whom knew who their real birth mother was. What did Aranya really want? Kisses were sweet, but she wanted so much more than for him just to desire her body. Respect for her opinions and her skills would be a good start. Loving the Dragon in her was also essential. How could she say these things without offending him?
In a small voice, Aranya ventured, “All I want is you, Yolathion. Is that so selfish?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, heaving a gusty sigh. “We can work this out, Aranya. We’ve grown up differently. It’s just a cultural distinction, that’s all.”
“We’ll work it out,” said Aranya, allowing him to draw her to her feet and into his strong embrace.
But there were so many differences, her heart wailed. He wanted to be in command. He wanted his woman to smile prettily and not venture a contrary opinion. That was not Aranya. In her Dragon form, even less so. Beran and Izariela had raised their daughter to be strong and independent. Yolathion was cautious. He consid
ered each move carefully, a trait he had picked up from his father. But somehow, Ignathion did not strike her as so rigid in his thinking. It was almost as though, having set his mind on one thing, Yolathion found any change an impossible wrench.
In all this, they were complete opposites.
What creature could be more free-spirited than a Dragon?
But Nak and Oyda were hardly alike. Her father liked and respected Yolathion, didn’t he? Zip had practically shoved her into the Jeradian’s arms. Was she worrying about nothing? At least Yolathion prized her enough to wait for her to make up her mind.
Aranya returned his kisses with growing passion. She had enough of creating fear as a Dragon. She did not want to fear her future as well.
Chapter 5: The Nameless Man
Zuziana bared her needle-sharp fangs at her Rider, Ri’arion. She took a playful snap at his knee. “You moons-mad monk! You still want to dance upon my back, mid-flight?”
“The saddle straps restrict me.”
“Oh, cramping your style, am I?” sniped Zip. “An inexperienced, Dragon-fire-less, powerless Azure Dragon is–”
“Just what the Nameless Man wishes to ride into battle,” Ri’arion interrupted. “Who, I mean. Look, we’ll work it out. You’re nervous about taking on the Sylakians at Gemalka. I promised to take care of you, dear one, and I shall. I am not without powers.”
The Princess of Remoy, thirty feet of azure wings, gleaming fangs and sleek, scaly reptilian hide, stared unseeing at the horizon as she heaved a Dragon-sized sigh. She rested on the wing, riding the slight breeze that pressed against her body and slowed Commander Darron’s Dragonship fleet as they buzzed along to the rear, as though she were a child towing an incongruously enormous string of hydrogen balloons. Zuziana angled her flight upward, surprised as ever by the power of her flight muscles and the ease with which her body rode the air currents. So much for being a diminutive Remoyan, barely five feet tall. Now she was a petite Dragoness. Aye. And less than a third of the size Garthion had been, Islands’ sakes!