by Marc Secchia
Aranya speared down, and down, driven on by the song of madness in her mind and the uncontrolled discharge of magic.
Her magic stuttered. Failed. Perhaps no mortal flesh could have contained such a storm. Aranya’s assault slowed. She glanced off a Dragonship’s cabin, tangling her wing in the metal cable of a grappling hook, swerving aside as blackness crowded around her already clouded vision. Her wings refused to answer her commands.
Dimly, somewhere, Aranya was aware of Dragons chasing her, of a speck of blue speeding over to King Beran’s flagship, of the Shadow Dragon’s bellow near the ground … and she crash-landed atop a Dragonship, smashing its platform with her tail. At least three metal-cable nets whipped about her, then two more, all furnished with hooks that bit into her wing membranes and nostrils and paws, just as Yolathion had once captured her.
For a moment she simply lay quiescent, trying to understand what had happened.
Karathion the Red alighted, delivering her left flank a crushing blow of his forepaw. He seized the netting and shook her fiercely. Daughter of the Star Dragon. Slayer of my kin. We meet at last.
Bring her to me. Thoralian, gleeful, rose ponderously into the brilliant dawn.
Instinctively, Aranya snarled, How bravely the snake slithers out of his hole.
Her mind reeled. Where was Fra’anior when she needed him? Never present. But the visions came upon her, more vividly than ever before.
Izariela! Radiant, white-hot with anger. Aranya! What have you become?
Mother?
Karathion ordered his kin to cut the hawsers free, but to leave her tangled in the nets. Dragons crowded around, staring, mocking, laughing fierily at her plight. Aranya smelled smoke, cinnamon and another scent, an evocative, compelling fragrance that she realised must be her mother–imagined or real, she did not know. The Star Dragon appeared to drift right through Karathion’s bulky torso. The sadness in her gaze, unbearable.
I was never there for you, my treasure. This is my fault.
I have storm powers, Mother. I must use them to win the day–surely?
And should this vengeance cost your soul, Aranyi?
Aranya gasped. What?
They must think her mad, raving, mumbling incoherently as the net jerked this way and that.
We Star Dragons refuse the paths of evil. We seek the light, for darkness can never quell the light. I should have passed on our secret knowledge and lore, my daughter, but the lineage is broken unless you can restore it. I can do no more, for each appearing steals more from what remains. Lest I fade … seek the truth …
Mother? Mother!
The vision faded.
Had she done wrong, assuming the form of a dark, vengeful Dragon? What did she mean, to seek the truth? The truth was that Sylakia needed to be defeated, or more Islands and peoples would go the way of Rolodia and Naphtha Cluster. Izariela’s rebuke had to have a deeper meaning than the literal.
Stop bleating for your mother. It’s pathetic, said Karathion. Gripping the net in his four paws, he launched off the Dragonship, shadowed on the port side by Va’assia and to starboard by Ja’arrion.
Ja’arrion? Will you hear me?
I hear you, said Thoralian. If she struggles, Ja’arrion, put out her eyes. She will not need them where we’re going.
As you command, Thoralian, said the Green.
Aranya could just about make out the Azure Dragoness perched atop Beran’s Dragonship. Zip had to hurry, before these Dragons delivered her into Thoralian’s vile paw. Doubtless he had more poison for her, a collar, a place where he could break into her mind and steal her secrets at his leisure.
The Amethyst Dragon rocked in the air, cocooned in so many nets she could see only fragments of the Dragonwing surrounding her, as though she saw the world through a fractured mirror. A mirror–yes! She could be a mirror of Izariela, if nothing else.
Fra’anior had told her to seek the onyx. But Izariela’s way was to seek the light. Her mother’s Dragon form was light. Suddenly, her insight crystallised.
Tiny wavelets of magic rippled over her scales, into her neck, setting her hearts a-quiver. Aranya looked along the length of her muzzle. Her hide was still pockmarked, but it was as white as the driven snows of Immadia, with just a tracing of amethyst around the edges of each scale. Her fire was pure and new. And there was Dragonsong in her hearts, welling from a place she had never known existed, an echo of what her cousin Lyriela was capable of with her music.
Karathion lurched. What the …
The Star power waxed rapidly, colouring Aranya’s world white, blinding her with a purity so intense, it burned like a star’s innermost fire.
Yeeeaaaah! The Red Dragon howled, releasing the net, but it was too late. The star-fire had incinerated all four of his paws, only the bone remaining, crumbling and charred. Molten metal boiled off Aranya’s scales. She shook herself free of the nets as though they were ropes of wet weed.
* * * *
“Catch her, you idiots!” bawled Thoralian.
The Yellow-White Dragon was half a mile below, but his roar carried over the clash of Dragonships and ground troops. Aranya realised that the fleets had finally engaged, largely because the Sylakian dirigibles had been scattered far and wide by her storm attack. Powerful mental strikes rocked her, but her focus on an image of Izariela kept Thoralian at bay. The other Dragons did not dare to touch her after what she had done to Karathion.
Her white flame guttered. Exhausted of magic, Aranya knew she still had her willpower to draw upon. Pumping her flight muscles as hard as she could, the Amethyst Dragon took off with the speed of a frightened bat.
Thoralian had other problems demanding his attention. He directed some airships and Dragons to support his ground troops, while barking out orders for his far-flung forces to reassemble. The well-disciplined Sylakian troops drew together, holding their lines and supporting each other. His Dragon-toting Dragonships moved to the front line. And a new Dragonwing emerged from the depths of his pit, Dragons too fat to fly well. They fanned out to engage Kylara’s combined ground forces, which had seized control of more than a third of the shipyard.
Aranya searched the skies for danger, fearful of the dark patches on her vision, light-headed because of the burning in her inadequate lungs. Quarrels buzzed past her head, startling her. Two bolts skittered off her scales, while another passed through her right wing membrane with a sharp tugging sensation. She could not see enough. How could she fight this battle?
Petal, over here, called Zuziana. I’ve got Lyriela and Jia-Llonya. Now what?
She skidded into a turn, almost slewing into the Azure Dragon. Sorry. Not seeing well. I … thanks, Zip.
At Zuziana’s mental touch, the scene leaped into focus. Her relatives rushed toward them, hot on Aranya’s tail, claws outstretched, fire flickering inside their nostrils. How many could be family? She had no idea.
Lyriela, any time now!
Those a-are my p-parents?
Lyriela! Aranya stifled her snarl. She had every right to feel intimidated. Aranya hoped Zip had her shield up, because Lyriela’s father was on the cusp of making an acid attack. His stomach gurgled horribly. Va’assia, claws hooked, angled in for an attack on the Azure Dragoness. Seconds separated the groups of Dragons from their clash.
That was when Lyriela stood up in the saddle to wave to the Dragons. Mom. Dad. It’s me, Lyriela. With a horrified shriek, she slipped and fell. Jia-Llonya, one position behind her in the saddle, shouted too as she snagged the edge of Lyriela’s trousers, but the fabric tore out of her fingers.
Mom! Lyriela bounced off Zuziana’s flank, wailing for help.
Aranya back-winged frantically, searching for Lyriela in the slipstream generated by Zip’s speed, but the mother Dragoness was faster by far. Shouldering past Aranya, she clasped her paws around Lyriela’s torso before the girl had a chance to fall more than a hundred feet.
Lyriela, baby, is it truly you? Ja’arrion, look, she’s perfect … the Red Drago
ness howled at the sky, the note in her voice so poignant, it made every one of Aranya’s scales vibrate.
Ja’arrion pulled up so rapidly, he blocked two other Dragons and tangled up with them. Va’assia, my third heart, where’ve I been? Dragon-kin–there’s a battle! To me!
Suddenly, most of the Dragonwing were shaking themselves, gazing about in surprise, apologising or bugling the alarm or scrapping amongst themselves for wing-space. Aranya laughed at the sight, a healthy dose of relief mingled with admiration. Lyriela had tapped the power of a mother’s instinct to break Thoralian’s mental shackles. Bold, and brilliant!
Kill the Amethyst Dragon! Thoralian’s forceful voice intruded.
Only one Dragon started toward Aranya. Ja’arrion slapped him across the muzzle, open-clawed, and then spat a glob of acid accurately into the Red’s right eye. He fled, yowling.
Ja’arrion rounded on Aranya. What were you doing with my daughter?
Aranya faced down his thunder with a smile. Islands’ greetings … uncle.
What?
Surprise made him expectorate a fireball.
Ducking the blaze, Aranya said, I am Aranya, daughter of King Beran and Izariela of Ha’athior.
She may as well have slapped the Green Dragon across the muzzle with a gigantic trout. He shook his head like a hound drying its coat, his eyes filled with suspicion and wonder. You’re … who? My niece? You do have the look of Izariela about you … unexpectedly, he thrust his muzzle into her face, and breathed deeply. A deep sigh quivered his mighty frame. Aye. That’s my twin. How can this be?
You’ve been asleep for years, uncle, captured and held by Thoralian.
Fire surged into his eyes. Thoralian! However, Ja’arrion could not resist looking over at his mate. Aranya’s gaze followed his.
Lyriela had never appeared happier, coddled against a Red Dragon’s bosom, Va’assia crooning softly to her. Aranya wanted to be her so badly, it knotted up her Dragon hearts. Why not Izariela bending her muzzle over her daughter? Why did she have to be the one to settle for visions of a hopeless, longed-for future, when the reality slumbered icy-cold in an Immadian tomb–if slumber it was?
Her cousin had an understanding nod for Aranya. Dad, Mom, we’re in the middle of a battle here. Will you help us?
Va’assia’s belly-fires announced her ire. You speak? You can’t be our girl.
She’s a Shapeshifter, too, said Aranya.
The Red mother-Dragon’s eyes whirled with curiosity as she examined her captive. My darling, my petal, where have the years fled? You’re all grown up. That Thoralian! I’m going to kill him!
I can’t wing into battle without a Rider, Ja’arrion worried. I go feral.
Aranya began to shake her head in frustration, but a perfect solution made all three of her hearts skip and dance. Hurry to Beran’s flagship, my kin. There you’ll find two old Dragon Riders, Nak and Oyda. Won’t you take them into battle? They’ll fill you in on all the details. Thoralian is below–
That traitor! snarled Va’assia.
Then you know the enemy, said Aranya, launching into a highly compressed summary of events. It struck her that just as a mother’s instinct had broken Thoralian’s hold, so a mother’s fury would scorch him.
Half a battlefield away, part of her mind watched Sha’aldior as he and Ri’arion began their assault on Thoralian’s position. Perfect timing. Her gratitude rippled across the link between them. Strength to you, mighty Shadow Dragon. We’re coming.
Sha’aldior bellowed, CANNIBAL! YOU ARE MINE!
But, just a second later, her half-blind gaze whipped about. Roaring rajals, what was that?
Chapter 30: Thoralian’s Hour
As the armies on the ground and the airships in the sky convulsed in the paroxysms of war, the Shadow Dragon’s head rose in wonder. “They turned the Dragons to our side. Look. That one’s cuddling Lyriela.” To his surprise, the monstrous Shadow Dragon felt his hearts squeezing in his chest. “Beautiful,” he sniffled.
Ri’arion nodded. “Lyriela’s one smart girl, faking her fall. This changes the balance. What’s Beran signalling?”
“It’s about the Dragons,” said Ardan. “We’ve work to do, monk.”
“Aye.”
Mentally, the monk and the Shadow Dragon drew together. Thoralian. He was the target, the lynchpin of the Sylakian effort. He had to be stopped. Ri’arion fashioned a shield as Ardan took off, firing a couple of parting fireballs to blow holes in the Sylakian formations facing Kylara’s forces.
“Great Islands, is that Prince Ta’armion down there?” said Ri’arion, sending Ardan a mental picture of a blood-splattered, grinning Prince fighting at the forefront of a knot of female Western Isles warriors.
“He’s using a scimitar?” said Ardan.
“Half a scimitar, and his effectiveness doesn’t seem to be lacking.”
The Shadow Dragon puzzled over this. “Evidently, having a Dragoness for a wife does wonders for some men.”
As the Dragon powered upward, they quickly became ensnarled in the thick of the battle. Darron’s smaller fleet had run into stiff resistance from eight of the Dragon-carrying dirigibles. Thoralian glided into the heart of his forces, using them for shelter as he concentrated on controlling and positioning his minions. Rapid-fire, they exchanged thoughts, while they observed a Dragonwing assembling around Aranya. The monstrous Green took Nak on board, the Dragon Rider gesticulating and spouting a hundred words when one would do. Both Human and Dragon chuckled at this. They spied the tiny dot of Sapphire buzzing around Aranya’s head. King Beran’s dirigibles steadily drove a wedge into the Sylakian Dragonships, fighting with taut discipline as four Dragons from the now-friendly group winged over to assist them.
“Her Star Dragon power is remarkable,” said Ri’arion, enviously.
“I saw. So, we’re agreed?”
“Aye.”
Tilting on his wingtip, Ardan quickened his wingbeat. Summoning the fires. Shaping them. His neck stretched out, perfectly straight. The Nameless Man supplied him with a surprise infusion of power, his incredible brain calculating the precise confluence of Dragonships moving at different angles and velocities, feeding this data to the Shadow Dragon, who responded in perfect concord, trimming his wings ever so slightly, and a dip of two feet … he became a volcano, a glossy darkness merging into his Dragon fire as it erupted from his maw.
“GRRAAARGGH!” The discharge jolted Ardan.
A dark bolt of fire passed perfectly through a line of converging Dragonships, four explosions in succession enveloping three of Thoralian’s kin in the heat of hydrogen fires, and still there was enough to splash against the Yellow-White Dragon’s flank. Thoralian flinched.
Ardan accelerated along the path he had forged, raging a wordless challenge. Aranya! Remember her pain! Two more bolts departed his maw, almost bringing him to a standstill. Fire blasted against their shield. Ri’arion held firm, but as the smoke cleared, Ardan found himself surrounded by at least ten Dragons, all pounding him with shot after shot. They knew exactly what to do against a shield.
Ri’arion yelled, “Move!”
The Shadow Dragon imitated a flying boulder. Ha. The Princess of Remoy’s taunt had now turned into a useful reality. “Surprise!” he growled, sinking ten talons into the spine of a Red below him. The female screeched like a windroc.
Leaping away from his paralysed victim, Ardan surged through a cloud of smoke Ri’arion had somehow produced from his storehouse of tricks, and ambushed a Green. A mouthful of wing later, the crippled Green Dragon spiralled toward the ground.
“Watch the ice!”
A deluge of freezing rain collected against the shield, accompanied by a barrage of hailstones up to six inches in diameter. The Nameless Man groaned, forced under immense strain to extinguish their shield. The monk’s hands waved, bending the air about them, sending the flow of Thoralian’s hailstone attack into a flanking Dragonship, redirecting an incoming fireball into the maw of a Dragon opposite. Ar
dan smashed straight into the ensuing explosion, savaged his opponent, and broke away.
Then, a brilliant new power infused his being, cutting through the Yellow-White Dragon’s ice attack as though his hail and ice shards were pollen blown on a breeze. How had Ri’arion–no, not the monk. Aranya, the unique character of her clear, refining fire seething within him … had he drawn on her power, somehow, through their link? He must not drain Aranya; yet he sensed it was not so. The brighter the light, the stronger the shadow it cast.
Thoralian’s jaw dropped as the Shadow Dragon emerged from the chaos and smoke, a vengeful distillation of all that was dark and beautiful about the night.
Ardan roared, CANNIBAL! YOU ARE MINE!
The Sylakian froze, the panicked flutter of his flanks and wings clear to Ardan’s Dragon-sight.
Then, with a cruel smile, he lowered a talon to point at the sinkhole, directly beneath him. Release the drakes, he commanded.
* * * *
Nak waved his cane as though he intended to poke Thoralian in the eye and kill him. “We’ll clear you a path, Aranya. Stay tight, Dragons.”
Seated atop Ja’arrion, Oyda grinned with a ferocity that was all Dragon. She reached down to smack her mount on the shoulder. Thou, the fires of Fra’anior! “Fly strong and true, my beauty.”
Thundering his challenge, Ja’arrion launched his Dragonwing, fifteen strong, into battle.
Not to be outdone, Nak cracked his cane against Va’assia’s neck, crying, Let thy volcanic heart burn, o draconic song of the Islands! He stared stupidly at the splintered half left in his hand. Then, he yelled, “This sliver of wood has Thoralian’s name on it!”