by Marc Secchia
Go lick your wounds, Thoralian. Because when I catch you again, and I have all my powers, you’re dead!
Chikkan explained, “The magic of your Dragon tears is healing him at a phenomenal rate, Princess Aranya. We can break a bone and it’ll knit in ten minutes. We hope that by making the right adjustments to these apparatuses I borrowed from your clever Immadian doctors, the bones will heal straight and true.”
She glanced idly at him, noting the gleam in his round eyes as he expounded on Yolathion’s treatment. Round eyes? Oh … great Islands!
The Amethyst Dragoness could not help the backward stumble that jostled a table behind her. The medics there growled at her, although no-one wanted to shout at a Dragon. She tried to respond casually, not to let him know that she knew.
“Oops,” she said. “Sorry, everyone, I’m obviously not recovered from the battle.”
Doctor Chikkan gazed quizzically at her. “Are you alright, Princess?”
Sha’aldior, help me, there’s a Chameleon Shifter …
He nodded slowly, almost sadly. Indeed there is, Star Dragon. Indeed there is.
I’m here … oh!
Aranya’s head jerked. Ardan? Another Ardan?
Two identical men came sprinting into the medical area. Two Ardans, both broad and muscular, dark and scarified, identical in every detail. They skidded to a halt, staring at each other. They snarled in concert. Which was the real Ardan? She wheezed unhappily, unable to tell them apart. Could she summon up his soul-fire magic to tell them apart?
When her eyes returned to Doctor Chikkan, it was to find a drawn arrow trained on her torso.
“Sorry, Princess,” he said. “We Chameleons always finish a job. Unlike your abduction at Fra’anior, this arrow will kill a Shapeshifter–the poison is specifically designed to attack the nervous system. There’s neither antidote nor chance of survival.”
“Kerliss?”
“He’s Kerliss,” said the Chameleon Shapeshifter, deliberately not addressing either man. “The one with the poisoned blade is, anyway. I’m Imbiss, whose brother you killed in Immadia.”
“Thoralian wants me alive. One of you could be Thoralian himself.”
The Chameleon laughed softly. “This is a family matter. We don’t care about Thoralian, only about you and the damage you will wreak if you ever reach Herimor.”
Aranya masked her confusion. What kind of reason was that? Revenge, she understood, but what significance did Herimor have in their thinking?
“Let Aranya go!” the Ardan to her left demanded. I’m the real Ardan.
I’m the real Ardan, the other mocked.
“Why wait until now?” Aranya stalled. “You’ve had dozens of opportunities to kill me since we left Sylakia.”
“Thoralian didn’t leave me any spare poisons when he left me in the dungeon.” Imbiss thrust out his jaw. “Because we needed you to kill the Shadow Dragon before he kills us all.”
“This is lunacy,” said the Ardan to her right. “Why imitate me?”
From her left, the other countered, “They wanted to use a copy of me to lure you away, Aranya, but you discovered Chikkan’s disguise before they could put their plan into operation.”
The Amethyst Dragon wanted to scream. They both sounded identical! Acted identical! Even smelled identical. But one of them had to be lying. Chikkan threatened her, because he knew that meant the real Ardan could not act to save her. They could not force her to slay the Shadow Dragon, however, until they revealed which of them was the true Ardan–and the soul-fire, flaring excitedly within her, was hardly a flaming arrow pointing at the true Ardan. She knew his nearness, knew through their link his fear for her …
While she hesitated, one of the Ardans drew his scimitar and charged the other, shouting, “I’ll die for Aranya if I have to!”
The two men fell to ferociously, setting off a minor panic in the medical area. Their blades smashed and sparked together. Aranya followed them closely, trying to discern some small detail that would assure her of which man was Ardan. The Chameleon’s imitation was flawless. The fighters seemed evenly matched in skill, at least, until she began to see one of them gaining the upper hand. Could she use her power of visions? Warily, Aranya reached within, all the while keeping a Dragon’s eye on Imbiss, who had not wavered an inch.
Suddenly, one of the men staggered and fell toward Imbiss’ feet. “Brother, he’s killed me.”
Blood poured from Ardan’s chest.
The other Ardan gave a cry of rage, leaping in with his scimitar upraised.
The instant Imbiss’ eyes flickered from Aranya to the unfolding drama, the Shadow Dragon transformed. His claw clipped the bow, causing the arrow to be shot in a high arc up and over Aranya’s back. “Fool,” laughed Ardan. “I wounded myself.”
Kerliss tried to use his scimitar on the Shadow Dragon, but his blow passed through the Dragon’s shifting, insubstantial shoulder. Ardan’s paw waved at the man’s torso. A dark, wispy presence seemed to tear from the Chameleon Shapeshifter’s chest, a ghostly form that screamed soundlessly at Ardan before fading into nothingness. Aranya blinked.
The Shadow Dragon gestured again, his solid talons punching through Imbiss’ chest.
“Aranya, are you alright?” The Shadow Dragon’s magic rippled. The Chameleon Shapeshifter slumped sideways, dead.
A soul-lost shiver ran the length of her body. The Chameleons’ faces and bodies transformed in death, changing rapidly into smaller, catlike men with curiously featureless features, as though their flesh were a type of pale clay waiting to be moulded. That was eerie, but not nearly as disconcerting as what she had just observed.
Had Ardan just ripped a man’s soul out of his body?
“Fine,” she said, feeling exactly the opposite.
His black eyes glittered like the facets of a diamond, all fierce magic and draconic disdain. “Next time you want me to save your life …”
“I mean it, Ardan. Thank you.”
Chapter 32: A Necessary Oath
THat evening, King Beran’s habitual after-dinner council assumed a markedly different character. His navigation cabin had been abandoned for a ground-level conference, insofar as that was possible with a Land Dragon in attendance. Beran and Ignathion stood on the gantry of his moored flagship in order to address Leandrial at her eye-level.
Aranya swivelled her neck gingerly to survey the battlefield one more time. The Sylakian troops, still several thousand strong, sat under guard beside the burned-out wreck of a meriatite engine factory. Seventy Dragonships were moored around the shipyards, while a further fifteen dirigibles, together with two Red Dragons, patrolled the skies. The dead lay in rows many tens long, or where they had fallen. Hundreds of windrocs soared as close as they dared, eyeballing the feast, but the patrolling Dragons kept them at bay.
Nearby, Ja’arrion overshadowed Lyriela, his bulk making his Dragon-daughter appear svelte and petite, although in her Dragon form, she was larger than either Aranya or Zip. Prince Ta’armion perched on her forepaw. As she watched, Va’assia joined them, fondly rubbing muzzles with her mate and her daughter. To their left, beside the wall of Leandrial’s elbow, Human-Ardan stood next to Kylara, Oyda and Commander Darron, conversing with them in low tones. Having seen Kylara being treated earlier in the medical area, Aranya knew the Warlord had lost two fingers on her right hand, and she sported an array of other less serious wounds.
Ardan had joked about one more scar on his chest. Aranya could not shake the image of the Chameleon Shapeshifter’s inner form screaming its defiance at him, before expiring.
Zuziana, changed to her Human form, waved to Aranya. “Come, sit with us.”
Classic Zip, leaning casually against Leandrial’s knuckle. Nobody else would dare to treat a Land Dragon like that.
“Go easy as you settle down,” Jia fussed.
Aranya said, “I can’t do anything else. I’m not moving for a week.”
The Remoyan Princess settled herself in her customary pos
ition against Aranya’s neck, saying, “Commander Darron lost Estalia today, and every ship of his command. He only survived because one of those Reds up there–Haragoz–literally plucked him out of a drake’s mouth.”
Of the fourteen Dragons who had aided her strike against Thoralian, seven still lived. One would never fly again. Aranya sighed heavily. “Jia, sit with us.”
“How are you feeling, Aranya?” asked Zip.
“Good. My shoulder’s sore, but what hurts the most is that we lost Thoralian.”
King Beran waved his arms for attention. “Now that we’re all here,” he said, “it’s confirmed. Thoralian slew an Immadian soldier and stole his uniform, and has not been seen since. He and at least three of his kin, escaped.” Groans greeted this news. “Nak is recovering. He lost his left foot to a drake, but swears he’ll use the right to boot the creatures properly in the future.” Laughter all round. “Yedior the Brown collapsed and sealed all of the tunnels leading to the drake hatcheries, so at least we don’t need to worry about that–only the several thousand that escaped. And he confirms there are ninety-eight Shapeshifter Dragons yet to be revived, sleeping in those caverns.”
“They’re all on our side,” Zip called out.
Beran frowned at her, saying, “Reviving them will be some task.” Just then, a soldier appeared at the King’s side to ask a question.
Aranya’s head jerked in horrified realisation. “Zip, where’s Ri’arion? I haven’t seen … he didn’t–”
“He’s fine, petal. He’s aloft on Haragoz, conducting some kind of Nameless Man magical search for Thoralian. And when he gets back, I’m going to have words with him for riding another Dragon.”
“He rode Ardan.”
Zip folded her arms stiffly. “I refuse to dignify that.”
“Is this about him leaving you in the middle of the battle?” Aranya earned a sniff for a reply. “Zip, you had me on your back.”
“That’s different.”
“Zip, why’re you so upset? It isn’t something I’ve done, is it?”
“No.”
Aranya blew hot air between her fangs. “Have it your way. I’m too tired to argue.”
King Beran called down, “Ja’arrion? Would you brief us?”
“Very well, o King. Va’assia and I have spoken with the Dragons. We are eleven, including these fledglings–Aranya, Zuziana and Lyriela.”
The Amethyst Dragon felt her belly-fires churn, even as Zip stiffened against her neck. A fledgling? How demeaning a description, after all she had suffered. As if feeling the force of her response, the Green Dragon’s gaze settled upon her.
Ja’arrion added, “That number includes Rezzior the Red and his mate Fydurial, who served Sylakia but now vow to serve us. We plan to stay here, working to revive these Shapeshifters, and hopefully, restoring them to full health. We will establish a Council of Dragon Elders to regulate and advise our kind. In time, we plan to return to the ancient Halls of the Dragons at Gi’shior Island.”
Ta’armion said, “Gi’shior is the ancient home of Dragons, and Ha’athior houses your Natal Cave. Fra’anior welcomes you.”
“As long as we don’t cause trouble?” asked Ja’arrion.
The Prince’s jaw twitched. “Fra’anior welcomes you gladly. We will negotiate the matter of Gi’ishior and learn from our histories, even as we forge our future together.”
“Won’t you first consult the King of Fra’anior in this?”
The Prince turned to look up at the Green Dragon. “I’m married to your daughter, aren’t I?”
I’ll negotiate with my Prince, said Lyriela, curling her paw about him with a mischievous air.
“It is time Fra’anior embraced all forms of its magic,” said the Prince, not without a shiver, “including addressing the status of the secret monasteries which follow the Path of the Dragon, and our magicians and Shapeshifters. I intend to outlaw the hunting of dragonets. You’re right. Not all Islanders long for the return of Dragons. But I have a few ideas, o Ja’arrion the Green, and my father is a reasonable man.”
“May it be so.” Ja’arrion nodded regally.
Listening to the Land Dragon’s respiration reminded Aranya of the sound of her own scarred lungs. Even now, she felt breathless. Are you unwell, great one?
I’m far from my natural realm, little one. Far above it. Even with the aid of the strange Human you call Nameless, I suffer from this thin, unpleasant air.
Then you must return to the Cloudlands.
Not without you, said Leandrial, in a far from comforting tone.
Me? I can’t go down there. It’s pure poison.
The Land Dragon growled, It is agreed. I will not leave without you and your oath, sworn in the name and on the grave of your Star Dragon mother.
Zuziana patted Aranya’s flank uneasily. Petal, hold the fires while I explain.
You’ve agreed something behind my back? Zip?
Aranya found her voice shaking with ire. Did everyone think she was an invalid, just because she had failed to defeat the Sylakian Emperor? Islands’ sakes, they had received the surrender of his forces, what little remained of them! Could it be because she looked beaten, as though she had been chewed up and spat out, several times over? Aye, she had failed. Now there were other, older Dragons who had their own plans, who saw her as a fledgling, and … she was no longer the centre of attention? Aranya chewed her lip unhappily. Please, let arrogance not be her motivation!
What desire did she have to lead the Dragons, anyway? What did she know? That path was the one taken by those who sought absolute power, the Thoralians of the Island-World. If being a Star Dragon meant seeking the light, as Izariela had taught her, then her path led another way. Aranya only wished she knew where. She had been powerful; now she was weak, and limited in what she could do. Living with that reality would be an adjustment–to use a perfectly Immadian understatement.
“Leandrial,” said King Beran. “Will you address us?”
In a voice that shook the earth, the Land Dragon said, “The legends of my kind tell of many First Eggs which hatched the Ancient Dragons. However, one Egg never hatched. For aeons, it lay in the Natal Cave, jealously guarded by the Black Dragon himself, Fra’anior, whose mate was Istariela, the Star Dragon. The Black Dragon grew exceedingly powerful in magic and great in stature amongst the Ancient Dragons, and though we know not the truth of the matter, we know that jealousy flourished and others plotted against him. Soon, there was war between the Ancient Dragons. The history is murky, but it is known that during that cataclysmic war, this potent First Egg came to be stolen by those Land Dragons who dwelled north of the Rift. Dragon rose against Dragon. The Land Dragons were wiped out, but at great cost–and the Egg was lost.”
“Millennia later, rumours arose among the Land Dragons south of the Rift that a First Egg had been found, resting deep in the fiery bowels of our world, where it had been guarded by ten thousand S’gulzzi–how would I describe them in your tongue? Creatures more spirit than flesh, similar to Dragons, who dwell in the unimaginable heat and pressure of our world’s core.”
“Under threat of retribution by the Ancient Dragons, our Elders appointed our mightiest and most cunning warrior, Shurgal, to retrieve the Egg and return it to its rightful place, that the balance of the harmonies might be restored. But Shurgal made a bargain with our most terrible enemies, the Theadurial, for the power he needed to complete this task, may his cowardice shrivel his soul! Shurgal retrieved the Egg, but bequeathed it to the Theadurial in exchange for immortality.”
Perhaps taking in the blank looks around her, or at least, detecting the reactions of her listeners, Leandrial explained, “Theadurial are intelligent creatures …”
Suddenly, a picture appeared in Aranya’s mind, and by the gasps around her, she knew that the others saw the same. The quality of the image was strange, as though viewed through smudged crysglass, but she saw a type of animal she had never imagined–an enormously elongated creature which appeared to b
e comprised of braided filaments, in consistency somehow both crystalline and metallic. It had many centipede-like appendages and cruel, hooked mandibles at both ends, with no apparent organs of sight.
“In its pupal form, the Theadurial enters the body through wound or orifice, typically of a sick or elderly Land Dragon,” said Leandrial. “It attaches to the spinal column. Once the mouthparts grow into the lower brain stem, the parasite is able to control the functions basic to life–heartbeat, breathing and nerve impulses. After it reaches maturity, the Theadurial takes over the higher brain functions. It replicates by laying eggs inside the Land Dragon’s brain, driving the host to insanity and death.”
Aranya shuddered.
“We used to be able to fight them, or eject them with our magic,” the Land Dragon added. “Now, by the First Egg’s power, they enter even healthy Dragons. They will wipe us out.”
For a long time, no-one spoke. Stars began to prickle beyond the Jade moon’s crescent, the sounds of night slowly taking precedence, as if the day’s events still lingered. The Amethyst Dragon looked over her companions, the Dragons and the Humans, all overshadowed by Leandrial’s vast bulk, her breath stirring the trees two hundred feet from her nostrils. How fey the night seemed. How far beyond the imagination of a Princess of Immadia, who had willingly bound herself into exile.
Her hearts ached for the Land Dragon, yet, what could she do?
Pitching her voice into the deepening twilight, Aranya asked, “What is this ‘balance of the harmonies’ you spoke of, Leandrial?”
Zip hissed at her.
Leandrial, however, seemed to appreciate the question. The wash of her magic thrilled Aranya through and through. “Has your egg-mother taught you nothing, little one? Maintaining the balance of the harmonies is a Star Dragon’s paramount duty. Perhaps you might best understand it thus: it describes the way the Island-World ought to be in all of its magical complexity–physically and spiritually, in its relations between its different creatures and realms, and in the powers that inhabit our world. The balance may be damaged or destroyed by our actions, just as Shurgal condemned my people to slavery under the Theadurial.”