by Marc Secchia
Suddenly, the ground beneath one of the catapult emplacements just east of the sinkhole, erupted. The Shadow Dragon! Now, Thoralian would pay.
“Let the battle commence,” Aranya whispered.
Chapter 29: The Shipyards of Yorbik
Roaring a mighty challenge, Ardan cracked the earth asunder as he oriented on the Dragons issuing from the sinkhole. As he had overheard, Thoralian had been hiding some of his Dragons underground. Their task was to hunt for Aranya. While a mysterious force or shield had denied him access to their caves, King Beran had assumed as much, and prepared a backup plan. Four alternative plans, in fact.
Ardan’s fireball lanced into the fluttering horde, spinning two Dragons into a crash-landing on the far side of the gigantic sinkhole. He set the nearest catapult emplacement on fire, and then dived beneath the soil.
Ha! Fight this, you herd of flying sheep!
The sensation of moving through rock was like pressing through incredibly viscous water. Ardan passed through the basal rock for several hundred feet before surging to the surface.
SURPRISE! He ambushed a slow-to-rise Red from beneath, blasting a hole in his belly. The Dragons scattered with wild howls.
To me! Gurdurion the Brown rallied them with a cry. Find Aranya, Karathion. I and my brothers shall hunt this Shadow beast.
At once, the Dragon force split in two. Massive, stolid Karathion led his group of over a dozen Dragons skyward, aiming for the Azure Dragoness and her Riders, who were pounding the Dragonships with shot after shot. Gurdurion, accompanied by five other Brown Dragons, four Greens and a gaggle of Reds, turned toward Ardan with ominous intent. He could not mistake the expression on Gurdurion’s face. The Brown Dragon had a plan, and it involved a Shadow Dragon’s demise.
They would have to find him first. Ardan dived underground, rippling through soil and rock with equal ease. If he had thought as a warrior he was made for this, then as a Dragon, it was a truth magnified a hundred times over. Three hundred yards on, he broached the surface like a trout hooked by a fisherman, changing direction, ambushing soldiers and catapults from beneath, spraying the fire-hose of his fury about him with an indiscriminate appetite for destruction, creating the exact chaos Beran had envisaged. He sensed the Dragons spreading out above him, trying to track his progress. No mind. Ardan ambushed an unwary khaki-coloured Green, snapping his neck with a shake of his mighty jaws.
This is for Naphtha Cluster! Ardan thundered, spraying scales out of his mouth. Bounding atop a crossbow emplacement, he broke the machine off its foundations and squashed the engineers manning it, before darting back to his rocky abode. Now he snuck to the west, to help forge a path for Kylara’s troops, who awaited King Beran’s signal to commence the ground assault.
Ardan broke earth and rock with his back, throwing entire Hammers of troops into disarray. Stupid men. They thought they could wait in orderly squads? He hosed them down with fire, changing their colour from crimson to flaming orange.
Artistic. Aranya would appreciate that.
Sensing Gurdurion’s stalking presence, Ardan turned his tail up and nose-dived for safety. To his shock, something seized him by the tail and stopped him dead in his tracks.
He was trapped! He could not move!
* * * *
The Shadow Dragon’s panicked bellow shattered Aranya’s concentration. She tried to scan the ground. No … Sha’aldior? Where are you?
She saw as if through his eyes, his tail and left wing trapped somehow by solid spars of rock which would not yield to his Shadow power, Gurdurion and his kin above, preparing to rain fire and acid down upon him. Zip! Quick, Ardan’s trapped!
Tossing their plans to the winds, Zuziana folded her wings and dived. That took trust, Aranya realised. The Dragoness reacted before she had assessed the situation. Ri’arion, cool as always despite their abrupt descent, fired burning arrows into two more Dragonships, piercing the armour and setting them ablaze. Then he clipped his bow into its saddle-holster, and drew his enormous blade–avowedly, his favourite weapon.
Ri’arion said, Zip. I know what to do. I’ll help the Shadow Dragon. Shield him. You two distract Gurdurion.
Please don’t leave me–
You have Aranya, who’s better suited to the meld with you than I will ever be. Fly strong and true, my beloved. Be safe.
With a scream of rage, Zuziana fired a double lightning-bolt down into the melee which had developed around the Shadow Dragon, with beast after beast lining up to take their shots at him. Two Brown Dragons dropped, dead. Aranya fired as fast as she could put arrows to the string, driving her sharpened, magic-enhanced Fra’aniorian arrows deep into Dragon hide and muscle. Should she transform now? Was this the time?
No, said Zip. Trust Ri’arion. Follow the plan.
Great Islands, Ardan’s gone feral, Aranya gasped. Oh no, this is something else …
A monstrous, dark power gripped the Dragons swarming around Ardan and rattled them, smashed them together, flung them against the ground with irresistible force. Aranya could not see it properly. Shadow hands? A Dragon boasting the many heads of Fra’anior? Was this the Shadow beast they had feared, the devourer of Dragons? Whatever it was, it required an enormous output of magic, Aranya realised. His darkness had a real, visceral power. Faster than she could credit, a dozen of Gurdurion’s kin fell, stunned or killed, she could not tell which. But Gurdurion shielded himself somehow, and alighted near the Shadow Dragon.
The rest of the Dragons streamed upward, angling for the Azure Dragoness, eyeing her with blistering fury.
Where is Aranya? Where’s the Amethyst Dragon? one of the Red Dragons roared. Bring her out so that we can destroy her!
The ground leaped toward them at a dizzying pace.
Turn now, Ri’arion pulsed through the mental link. He launched off Zuziana’s back, the centrifugal force flinging him downward as though he had been shot by a catapult. The monk raised his huge sword above his head, arms locked in position, turning himself into a steely Human arrow.
Aranya began to warn, Dragon–
Zip fired a fireball at the intercepting Red Dragon’s head, a direct strike. He missed his swipe at Ri’arion by mere inches. Then Zip was dodging, jinking, fighting her way through the massed Dragons, desperate for free air. Numerous fireball strikes drained her shield’s energy. An enormous Green Dragon clouted her sideways, and his acid attack seared Zip’s wingtip as she whizzed by.
Breaking free, they raced westward toward Beran’s Dragonship fleet, just a league away now and closing fast.
Aranya felt as though she were sinking into Zip. She was the Dragon. The Dragon was her. Their thoughts and reactions melded perfectly, as though they were one whole being, and she saw and knew everything that Zuziana was doing. There was no conflict, but rather, an awareness of a fluid and mutable partnership, rich and nuanced, and of a new alignment of potentials and powers. Could they share knowledge, she wondered? Draw on each other’s magic? Discover Dragon powers in each other and bring them to life?
These reflections occupied a fraction of a second.
Zuziana-Aranya looked at Gurdurion as the flying monk collided with him. Ri’arion speared viciously between his ribs, just behind the main flight muscles, the force of his fall thrusting the entire length of the sword and his arms beyond the elbows into the Brown Dragon’s heart. The Brown’s head snapped up, jaws agape.
Ahead, the Immadian fleet signalled the ground assault. Flick to the pursuing Dragons. Thirteen in all, led by a vast, regal Red Dragoness whose wingspan, had to measure one hundred and twenty feet if an inch, and beside her, a Green male who topped even that. A certain family likeness struck her …
The Immadian gasped, Ja’arrion and Va’assia!
* * * *
Ardan knew only that the pain had stopped. He was so weak! Head drooping, he faced the Brown Dragon across the short space that separated them.
Gurdurion readied his power. I don’t suppose you’d want to say a few words before
I place a rock in each of your hearts?
Whap! The Brown Dragon shuddered as though kicked by a giant boot. A man bounced off his back, dazed, rolling to his feet by instinct alone. Ri’arion! His shoulder hung at an awkward angle, dislocated.
Gurdurion reared up, clawing at his side where Ardan saw he had been wounded. The Brown’s muzzle opened to scream, but no sound emerged. Suddenly, the force holding him vanished and his wing and tail became his own once more, although both places still felt strange. Ardan pounded forward to sink his claws into Gurdurion’s chest, slashing his second heart to pieces. The Brown slumped, mortally wounded.
Ardan, my friend. Welcome back. Thoralian’s voice echoed in his mind. Where are you hiding Aranya? I’ve been looking forward to our reunion.
The shaven-headed monk dashed over to Ardan. “Reject him.”
The Shadow Dragon shuttered his mind.
How very clever, said Thoralian. You’ve learned a few basics. Where are you hiding Aranya–Sha’aldior? Tell me!
On the Azure Dragon’s back, Ardan replied, before clamping his jaw. His mental voice shut off simultaneously. How had Thoralian done that? Some sneaky magic …
How could he alert Aranya? She must already see Karathion’s Dragonwing hunting her. Nevertheless, he spoke briefly to the soul-fire dancing within him. They know where you are, Aranya.
It would have to be enough. He had no time to waste.
“Get me aboard!” rapped the monk. “I can help.”
“You don’t have any weapons.”
Ri’arion’s glare seared like Dragon fire. “Aye, because I left my sword in a Dragon’s heart. I am the Nameless Man. My weapons are unseen.” And he threw up a shield, deflecting a putrid green blob of Dragon acid.
The Shadow Dragon wasted not a second more. Scooping the monk into his paw, he tossed him up onto his shoulder. “Hold on, Nameless Man. We need to clear a path for Beran’s troops.”
Ardan felt magic prickling his scales as he leaped into the air. Here was Ri’arion’s mental touch, telling him it was a shield, that he need no longer fear fire or arrow. He had no saddle, but he felt the monk tying himself to the spine-spike behind him with an elongated leather belt. Beran’s meticulous preparations, he realised, feeling a surge of gratitude toward Aranya’s father. Smart man. Always working the strategies down to the least detail.
Three fireballs cleared them a path through the remaining Dragons. Ardan rose beneath the Sylakian Dragonship fleet, picking his next target, a cluster of crossbow emplacements on a nearby hill.
“Shall we mind-meld?” asked Ri’arion. “I’ve worked on a subordinate, slightly separated model. We’d share thoughts but not pain, and you’ll make your own decisions without interference from me.”
Ardan nodded. “Agreed.”
“Tail?”
“Gurdurion’s turned some part of it into stone.”
“Don’t hit anything, or you could crack your tail off,” Ri’arion advised.
The monk’s mind touched Ardan’s. Here I am. Let’s invite each other in, as we practised.
I see Kylara, said the Shadow Dragon.
As the first light of a twin-suns dawn warmed the hilltops surrounding Yorbik’s shipyards, a dark tide rose as if leaching up from the ground. Ardan saw a wave of Western Isles warriors and Jeradians pouring down the hills from the west, with many Fra’aniorian monks in close support. The trained warriors would never have fought in this way before, except in the manoeuvres they had briefly hammered out at Horness. As they stormed toward the brand new, fifteen-foot defensive wall fronted by a ditch of equal depth which Thoralian had constructed as his outer layer of defence, the monks swung into action, levitating the warriors over the barrier in enormous, hundred-foot bounds. Arrows rained down on the defenders as King Beran’s force soared overhead. Then they were down, running, the giant Jeradians swinging their heavy hammers and the Western Isles warriors slicing like shadowy daggers into the massed Hammers of Sylakian troops. The monks wielded their fiery, spectral magic-swords and blasted dust and stones into their enemies’ faces.
The two armies smashed together with a crash that echoed off the hills. The units of Sylakian Hammers crumpled in dozens of places.
“Kylara’s going to be annoyed if we help her troops,” said Ardan, swooping low.
Ri’arion laughed hungrily. “Then let’s annoy her as best we’re able.”
* * * *
As they fled from the chasing Dragons, Aranya called over her shoulder, Ja’arrion and Va’assia, join us! Thoralian is the enemy.
Thoralian is our master, returned the flight of Dragons, in perfect, chilling concert. Their power was telling–Zip was quick, but the bigger Dragons were catching up fast.
“We can’t reach them verbally,” said Zip. “What’s the plan, Aranya? Reveal yourself?”
“The plan is not to drop a dozen enemy Dragons on my Dad!”
“Agreed. Then up we go.”
Aranya understood. The Azure Dragoness stood on her tail, rocketing up into the open, cloudless expanse, while bringing them close enough to the Sylakian fleet so that they would attract the right sort of attention. Quarrels. Metal shards. Nets. The perfect medicine for a pursuing Dragonwing. Zip glanced back to check the pursuit. Through her friend’s eyes, Aranya saw that the Dragon leading the charge was a magnificent, grass-green Dragon with a delicate orange underbelly, and deeper orange details around his eye-ridges, muzzle, wings and underbelly–Ja’arrion.
Great Islands, what a beast! Her uncle. Another of Thoralian’s captives.
Zuziana swung her gaze forward again, depriving Aranya of a vision in which the Green Dragon turned against the Sylakians. How to break through to those Shapeshifter Dragons, the Immadian wondered? Could they succeed in stealing them from Thoralian, whose mental power seemed to hold them in a kind of hypnosis? Use Ri’arion’s power? Lyriela!
“Yes,” said Zuziana, in tune with Aranya’s thoughts. “We need a diversion.”
“I’ll be the diversion.”
“Aren’t you too weak?”
“No. I’ve a storm up my sleeve. Get me above the fleet, Zip.”
This was the only way. Aranya felt unready, but she did not want Zip to know it. Much depended on King Beran’s airship forces not being trounced by the superior Dragonship-and-Dragon combination of the Sylakian dirigible fleet, or the ground assault would quickly come under attack from the air and be overwhelmed.
Could she scare Thoralian out of hiding?
Zuziana powered upward, rising so fast that her Rider’s stomach felt as though it had retreated into her shoes. “Make yourself useful meantime, petal. I’m not lugging you about for the joy of it.”
Aranya raised the Pygmy bow. “Liar.”
The Azure Dragon adjusted her flight path with a slight flexion of her wings, curving them around a withering hail of catapult-shot while giving Aranya a clear shot to the port side. Her eye narrowed. Now.
WHOMP! An explosion rocked them.
The Dragons closed in relentlessly, dodging the fire of their own vessels. Together, Aranya and Zuziana flowed into a change of direction, flashing between the massed dirigible balloons, corkscrewing as they climbed, a seamless harmony of thought and action. Shots taken at the speed of Dragon reactions. Adjusting their flight path to avoid a metal net flung at their noses. Mocking the fat Dragons they passed, provoking one Red into firing a fatal fireball–he succeeded only in blowing up the vessel beneath his belly.
“Moron,” giggled Zip, using the blast for extra propulsion.
Where the lithe Azure Dragoness passed, the Dragonwing could not follow. Far larger and bulkier, the pursing Dragons became snarled between the close-packed Sylakian dirigibles, running into each other, even brawling on the wing as frustration set in. Thoralian’s commands streaming upward, confused, irritated and contradictory. Aranya recalled suddenly what her father had said about him. Thoralian was a one-dimensional thinker. It made stealing his Dragons all the more essential.
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As Zuziana whizzed past the uppermost vessels of the Sylakian fleet, Aranya unsnapped her buckles and gathered her feet beneath her.
“Fly true, my friend.”
“Wait. Higher, while you gather your storm.”
Aranya reached out with her mind, picturing Fra’anior’s habitual abode within a tempest, the way his voice broke over her with primeval force, the awe-inspiring connection he enjoyed with the powers of wind and hail and lightning. Pain blossomed within her breast. She trembled. Great Islands, it was too much, the hunger for storm power consuming her mind, her body, demanding all of her magic …
Her friend cried, “Wait! Command it, petal.”
Aranya tasted ozone on her tongue mingled with the moisture of incipient rain. The wind buffeting her hair as though it sought to tear her braids out by their roots. She stood Dragonback, bending her knees in concert with Zip’s passage, the act of balancing seemingly effortless when two minds acted in concert. Together, Dragon and Rider speared up into the sky above the buzzing hive of Sylakian Dragonships, stacked miles high above Yorbik Island. Zip brought them over the centre of the Sylakian formation.
The Princess of Immadia raised her arms. Crying a commanding word in Dragonish, “We are one!” she hurled her body into space.
The storm rushed to embrace her. Clouds raced from the horizons at inconceivable speeds, mustering, billowing, swelling with all the potential of their electrical charge and weight of hail. A titanic pressure squeezed her ears. Her rotating body drew the winds together into a screaming core. Clouds as black as night funnelled in her wake as Aranya’s fall gathered speed, intent on one purpose–to roust Thoralian out of his den, and destroy him.
She transformed.
Dark and vengeful, the no-more Amethyst Dragon plunged like a meteorite into the top of the Sylakian Dragonship fleet. Hatred made an open furnace of her mind. Now taste this, Thoralian! Aranya unleashed her revenge. A tornado of flame ripped free from the vortex of her magic, slewing into the Dragonships, puncturing them, hurling Dragons off their perches and exploding dozens of Sylakian airships in a series of blinding flashes. Multiple branches of lightning struck from her body. The storm winds flung ashes and debris in every direction, an awesome trail of destruction left in her wake.