Song of the Storm Dragon

by Marc Secchia

  ENTIRELY METALLOID BEINGS! Leandrial shouted, deafening them all in her excitement. AMAZING!

  At her shout, the metallic beings scattered across the heated foam, and then converged again. The Amethyst Dragoness frantically shored up their failing shields. Grief, with so much happening, she had failed to recognise the toll taken on all of the Lesser Dragons, not to mention Leandrial. Pushing this amount of complex magic about had drained their gourds to the dregs.

  Suddenly, telepathic utterances pattered against her mind like soft, plinking rain.

  <?Speaking-things?>

 

  <?Confusion?>

 

  They speak some kind of draconic proto-language, Ri’arion gasped, in exact concert with Leandrial.

  I’ll try to speak to them. Aranya tried, … …

  Her fumbling attempt at communication caused the metalloid creatures to explode in delight. Somersaults ensued. Fancy spins. They indulged in froth-skimming and handstands and intrepid leaps up toward Leandrial’s flanks. Then, with bewildering speed, commands pinged between the creatures. Metallic ropes rose as if by magic–of course, magic, the Immadian admonished herself–from the blistering orange-white foam to entangle Leandrial’s’ legs! None of them could have arrested what followed. Snarled up, Leandrial’s muzzle dipped to snag in the flaming lake; subsequently, the entire length of the Dragoness’ body flipped up into the air. There was a dreadful pause in which everyone braced for the worst and in Sapphire’s case, screamed.

  Then, they landed as if cushioned on clouds. The Island scooped them up and hurried off around the maelstrom. Unhurt. Baffled. Leandrial was not tied or otherwise encumbered; the ropes simply vanished, leaving her to squirm to her paws with a venomous hiss.

  It was not every day someone casually flipped a Land Dragoness off of her paws.

  Uh … I’m not sure that’s my exact definition of ‘friends’, Zuziana griped for them all. Right, everyone–heads, wings, paws, check?

  I can’t feel the disruptive magic, Ardan said.

  They all froze, thinking the same: had Thoralian or Shurgal taken a ride through the Rift-Storm on one of these?

  No, the power drain continues, said Leandrial, but nothing like before. I’m convinced that–

  Here they come! Shields! Ri’arion shouted. What the blazes–Aranya, stop!

  The Amethyst called over her shoulder, I’m off to make friends. Show them your tonsils, Leandrial.

  What are tonsils? asked the Land Dragoness.

  * * * *

  Thankfully, Ardan thought, Aranya was not even slightly the fool his gut-reaction painted her. Although he modified his thoughts hastily, a mental snap of her fangs confirmed his secret was no secret. This quality in Aranya of seizing life by the scruff of its protesting neck and giving it a firm shake, never failed to give him the hot and cold shivers. Didn’t she understand, ‘take a rest?’ Scarily focussed, Zip had said, adding that her friend sometimes needed to be surprised out of her ultra-intense, resolute mindset.

  The Amethyst whipped out of Leandrial’s mouth and winged down to the Haven’s blistering surface.

  The Shadow Dragon joined Aranya’s mind as she began to bat thought-monads about with the metallic beings. He became aware of Ri’arion, Zip and Leandrial all looking on with interest; Aranya developed a thumping headache as she puzzled out their form of communication, which was not at all unintelligible, just … ideas in different packaging, as he understood it. Ardan had assumed Ri’arion would assume the role of chief linguist, but his lack of interference suggested that the Princess was doing a creditable job. She identified the Foam-Riders and teased out their motivation for snagging the Land Dragon with their Haven–the hollow metal plate which served as their base for surfing the Rift-Storm. At her request, the metalloid creatures explained that ‘surfing’ was the action of riding fire-currents just as flesh-enclosed fire-spirits–that would be Lesser Dragons–rode the ‘deathly open air’ upon their wings. Apparently, these Foam-Riders were perfectly adapted to living in their native environment.

  Ardan gritted his fangs. If only!

  Now, Aranya questioned how they resisted the disruptive magic, a concept the Foam-Riders did not initially grasp. They kept insisting and , by which Zuziana’s mental voice quietly concluded that these creatures must not only be fire-dwellers, but also harboured fire within their bodies, like Dragons. Perhaps that was what kept their metal fluid enough for movement, Ri’arion theorised. Up close, the metalloid creatures were ferociously hot, at least one thousand two hundred degrees, Leandrial’s full-spectrum analysis revealed.

  The Amethyst Dragoness formally requested the Foam-Riders’ help in crossing the Rift, which immediately split them into visibly argumentative groups.

  Several raised their arms threateningly, shouting, <?Kill-confusion?> and <?See-other-four-paw-cross?> Other grey beings intervened, clearly seeking to protect the unflinching Amethyst Dragoness. The two groups spat gobbets of molten metal at each other, shouting,

  roared a group of Foam-Riders.

  Aranya returned. Drat, can’t get this …

  <?Concept: Ride-far?> asked the Foam-Riders.

  Another creature kicked Aranya’s tail with its foot, making her jump. This provoked a chorus of agreement.

  <?Clarify?> asked Aranya, flinching as all of her friends, including Sapphire, piled in to shout questions about the reference to the other ‘four-paws’–which had to be Shurgal or Thoralian, or both. Ardan uncharitably decided the Amethyst looked as if she had wasps in her ear-canals, shaking her muzzle about. Angrily, she cried,

 

  Leandrial flexed her talons against the metal disk. By shielded telepathy, she said, I’m not at all certain I fancy this idea. Be alert, little ones.

  With that, the Foam-Riders began to dance in a frenzy akin to the fiery foam their name evoked. Dozens of new Riders squeezed up out of the surface of the great metal disk, an oval Island in its own right, measuring roughly two miles wide by five long. These more silvery Foam-Riders were apparently comprised of an alloy as fine as the best scimitar-steel Ardan had ever seen; faceless, but clearly intelligent, and able to navigate the Rift-Storm.

  the new group cried in a single voice.

  They raised their arms skyward. Pause. Quickly, a chant developed that literally picked up their Island Haven and whirled it around the maelstrom, aiming for the western periphery. Ardan noticed Leandrial digging in her talons, able to grip even metal, while she marshalled her depleted magic.

  Aye, Ardan thought, assessing his companions’ condition with a jaundiced eye. Aranya was about to drop, Ri’arion sported new, grim lines at the edges of his mouth, and even Sapphire’s wings drooped. His own magic was dimmer than a badly-trimmed lamp.

  What new adventure would they face this day? And what by the fires of heaven itself was a Storm Elemental? Was the Rift not deadly enough already?

  Chapter 15: Promises

  Zuziana wriggled out of Ri’arion’s grasp. “Let me go! I am not letting Aranya have all the fun.”

  “You’re in a foul mood,” the monk observed. “Is matrimony so disagreeable?”

  Despite the ornery fires boiling in her Dragoness-hearts–which Zip did not understand at all–she melted into goo at his woebegone expression. Her indignation swelled, but she gentled her response into a discomfiting leer. “You’re the best monk I ever pocketed for my bridal chest, my dearest man-blossom. I’m disappointed you aren’t content to settle for being purely ornamental baggage in my life.” She caressed his cheek with her knuckle. “Mercy! I think I’m having a lustful contemplation. Oh aye, deeply wicked thoughts consume my Dragoness-hearts
…”

  Get a private room, you two, Ardan chortled. I can hear Ri’arion’s sizzling from over here.

  Ri’arion belted the Dragoness’ flank; then he hopped about, squeezing his hand between his knees as he mouthed a few words that definitely had nothing to do with spiritual contemplation.

  Zuziana of Remoy, Azure Shapeshifter Dragoness, flipped herself off Leandrial’s tongue and joined her best friend and fellow ex-criminal, the Dragon-Princess of Immadia, perched upon a glowing metal oval in the midst of a volcanic storm as hot as the back of an angry Dragon’s throat.

  “I thought I smelled trouble,” Aranya greeted her.

  “That precise odour emanates from the royal gas-producer of Immadia,” Zip returned cheerfully. “So–oh. What are they doing?”

  Aranya shrugged her left shoulder. “Sweeping, methinks.”

  The silvery Foam-Riders scooted ahead of and around their Haven in neat formation as if dancing to an unheard tune, perhaps the melody of the Rift-Storm. Their arms made horizontal gestures at shoulder-level with every long, balletic step upon the foam, as if they sought by main force to smooth the path ahead. The dance was perfectly synchronised. The Haven chased after its masters as if propelling untold tens of thousands of tonnes of metal was as simple a matter as a butterfly’s leap from one tasty flower to another. As they were protected from the immediate impact of the destructive magic, the companions enjoyed an unexpected rest–relatively speaking. Zip tasted the air with all the guile of her phenomenal Dragon senses, and concluded the Rift was still insidiously leaching away her Dragon-magic. Meantime, Aranya explained that the Havens stuck to a narrow, very particular range within the Rift-Storm, but when she evidently noticed her friend was listening with less than half an ear-canal, she said:

  “What’re the boys up to, Your Scary-Scaliness?”

  “Figuring out from Leandrial’s data, how to save our hides,” Zip informed her bluntly. “I was thinking about how best to protect our teensy companion–”

  “Metal armour?”

  “Shameless embezzlement of another’s inspiration is wholly unbecoming in a Princess.”

  “Ooh, you’re confusing me with all these big words this morning,” Aranya cooed. “And here I mistook you for a simpleminded, underfed waif from a rustic trout-fishery somewhere south of–” mid-insult, Zuziana began to take a nip at her friend’s shoulder, hesitated, and then decided Dragons had the right idea after all. Snap! Aranya’s wings flared in startlement “–ouch! You little vixen, you plucked a scale!”

  “Aw, you broke my fingernail,” Zip teased right back.

  The Amethyst Dragoness’ wild answering snarl suddenly morphed into peals of belly-laughter. To the Azure’s amazement, the supposed Immadian icicle fell off her paws laughing, thumping down on her flank. There she writhed in glorious indignity, gasping and hooting.

  Zip tickled her friend’s chin with a talon. “Funny-bug bit you, Amethyst-eyes?”

  She clutched her stomach. “Ooh, that hurts!”

  Sane? Or insane? She chuckled along with Aranya, wondering if laughing at fate was actually a deeply authentic, rational response to the unknown dangers that still faced them. Slowly, she realised aloud, “It’s Hualiama’s gift, Aranyi. I didn’t understand before. Dragons roar and fulminate, but there’s a curiously … Human … power in laughing at fate–isn’t there?”

  The Immadian Dragoness squirmed back onto her paws, as wild of eye as Zuziana had ever seen her.

  Zip said, “Dragons are all ‘noble strength of paw! Mighty fangs and mightier deeds!’ You know–even your inner Dragoness insists upon it. Humans laugh. It’s a Human-power, as great as any Dragon fire or Storm or Lightning.”

  “But how–I’m expected to laugh at this?” Aranya’s paw touched her ravaged cheek.

  Zip shook her muzzle. “I … don’t know, Aranyi. Because of? In spite of? How can I put words to such grief? Yet I know–” she moved forward to place a gentle kiss upon that brutally scarred Dragonflesh “–I do know the greatest damage was wrought in your heart. And it’s your heart that’ll defeat Thoralian. Only when your heart rises; I see …”

  She shivered, staring unseeing into the fiery orange-red wall across the maelstrom, tasting eerie clues and fire-stoking whispers upon the desiccated breeze.

  “You see what?” Aranya prompted.

  A White Dragoness reborn! Zip heard herself cry. Then, darkness seized her.

  * * * *

  Four and a half hours saw them traverse the maelstrom. With the Azure laid low by her own paw, Aranya rode the metal disk into the upward-pouring fires around noon. The Foam-Riders worked unstintingly, while she stood alongside the crook of the first knuckle of Leandrial’s fore-talon, and tried not to think of how that joint alone was longer and wider than a fledgling Dragoness. The others rested and talked through Zuziana’s proposal of creating metal armour for Leandrial; later, Aranya debated the conundrum of the Rift-Storm’s Balance or Imbalance with her companions.

  Now, even Zuziana was given to prophetic utterance?

  At least, she harboured new hope …

  We will return for your shell-daughter, Great Fra’anior, she said suddenly. We will find a way.

  Thunder crashed at the fringes of her awareness.

  The swirling curtain of lava-fire parted before them, crimsons and oranges and yellows playing with incendiary abandon, similarly to the inside of one’s eyelids when a person turned their shuttered eyes to face the noon brunt of the twin suns. The Haven pressed in. A pale orange mist played around its nose and sides, as the metal heated up to a furnace glow. The motion changed, swaying and trembling as the screaming storm slowly enfolded the metal disk. No Foam-Rider shirked its duty. Aranya had learned they had no gender. New creatures budded off the old in an organic process decided by the ‘Chief-fire’, who seemed to be a caretaker or god.

  To Balance the Rift-Storm as she had immediately imagined, thereby wiping it out, would destroy these creatures. How could it be right to destroy life, even life that thrived amidst perverse magic? And if the Rift vanished by some miracle, where would all this uncanny power … go? It must originate from somewhere–for could she imagine that there might be a world beyond her own mountain-enclosed Island-World, these trapped fires finding ways to burst forth out there and destroy all life, whereas via the Rift-Storm their abominable taint was contained or dealt with in some manner beyond her ken …

  She shivered so hard, Aranya lost another two scales. They had been loose. Va’assia said that some scale-turnover was normal for Dragons, but too much was unhealthy.

  She whispered, Balance is so problematical.

  Leandrial replied, Aye, little one. Balance is the simplicity of a petal, and the complexity of the Universe’s own song. It was Fra’anior himself, your grandsire, who did say, ‘The more I learned of Balance, the less I understood.’

  If the Great Onyx himself could not … Aranya fell silent, feeling crushed.

  In response, the great Dragoness bent that massive digit a little more, clumsily stroking Aranya’s flank. I wish thou wert mine own shell-daughter, little one. I did once mislay the Pygmy Dragoness. Never again, did I swear. Never again!

  I am in mine hearts, the Immadian responded impulsively. Thou art mother, teacher, comforter and friend, Leandrial; mine staunch right paw. No Dragoness could ask for more in this life.

  All between them was an absolute accord of fires.

  Presently, the great muzzle bent until the light of Leandrial’s single eye burned upon the Amethyst Dragoness. In that glorious wash, light sang to light and sonorous tones played within melodies within threnodies, until the infinitesimal attained the infinite and what could be known was only the song of a moment, and each fleeting moment could but hint at the far greater, ultimately ungraspable tessellations of eternity.

  So Aranya meditated; the day flowed into the past, and the companions slept in a protected haven amidst the ever-fires of the Rift-Storm.

  By evening of the f
ollowing day, the Dragons estimated they had travelled roughly three hundred leagues westward from the maelstrom. The enigma of their destination seemed no closer to revelation. Each time Aranya inquired, the Foam-Riders cried, or But they were willing to answer such questions as she could fashion about their environment–so she learned that the Rift-Storm grew wider the further West they travelled, and that there were many Havens. The Riders believed that the fires were generated by the Storm Elementals they had named before, creatures which dwelled beneath what they described as dark, solid earth–rock, she assumed, in the world’s core-fires. She teased out of them that Thoralian and Shurgal had both passed through; Shurgal’s passage was enshrined in their legends as forged by a fiery kernel of white-magic in his possession that ‘burned fire itself’–unquestionably a description of the First Egg–and Thoralian on the wings of ‘evil, life-stealing non-magic’. Urzul.

  Although Dragon-senses measured time without need for reference to suns, moons or stars, evening in this environment was hardly worth the name. The fires only appeared to burn brighter as the ambient light, somewhere above and around the Rift-Storm, faded. Indeed, the Foam-Dwellers had a word for darkness which translated as ‘the absence of fires’, apparently, a source of great agitation or fear.

  At last, Aranya stirred, sensing excitement amongst the Foam-Riders.