Song of the Storm Dragon

by Marc Secchia

  They said there was a first time for every hand and paw.

  They flew on for five days, traversing four such floating clusters of Islands, and even a few that stood in the Cloudlands for variety’s sake, it seemed, for despite his light-headed state, Ardan was convinced he saw one of them slowly drifting southward. Impossible soaring Islands! This place was like a distorted mirror, toying with his sense of reality.

  Escape was impossible. Aranya’s continued silence ravaged his hopes–yet he refused to mourn. Not yet.

  As the shadows lengthened on that fifth day, they came at last to a place patrolled by many Dragons, and the military man in Ardan sat up to take notice. Tixi the Red commanded some one hundred and ninety able-bodied fighters in her Dragonwings. Patrols were thick in the air for leagues about her fortress, a state of alert that placed them on a war footing, he judged. He noted two Red Dragons that bore a familial likeness to Tixi, who was hailed as ‘Marshal’ or ‘Mistress’ by the passing Dragons, with palpable respect. She ran a tight operation. He approved of the way her eyes assessed her troops and their deployment, around a single, dense archipelago he estimated to be two leagues tall, four wide and ten long. Some Islands had clearly been turned to farming or animal husbandry, mostly ox-like creatures with a quadruple set of broad and wicked-looking horns, and the workers he saw were Humans, small and tan-skinned like the Southerners around Remoy, but with uniformly dark hair and slanted eyes that reminded him of Doctor Chikkan. Ardan also noted heavier, unintelligent-looking Dragonkind that appeared to serve as transport. He goggled at their triple pairs of wings and the additional, vestigial set of legs tucked up near the base of the tail.

  As Marshal Tixi took reports on the fly, Ardan listened closely. She had recently sealed alliances with Marshals Yuxor, Sabara and Hatuzzar; they requested Dragonwings to protect against the advance of ‘the old Marshal’, who had invaded five Island-Clusters and defeated two Marshals in battle with powerful psychic attacks, before seizing their Islands, Dragonwings and resources. Ardan’s neck prickled. If this was Thoralian’s work, he had certainly wasted not a minute since crossing the Rift. In fact, as the reports and rapid discussion continued, Ardan worked out that the Yellow-White Dragon would have had to travel through time to accomplish all of these achievements. A mystery.

  Yet he had no more time for contemplation.

  Tixi snapped at Kuratarr, “Take him to the harem. Bid them secure him to the house wards.”

  “Aye, Marshal,” growled the Dragon.

  “And tell the Curator I want him kept for me alone. Any shim-shamming with another shall attract an uninhibited ward-punishment.”

  Kuratarr’s grin twisted into an evil leer. “You are cruel, Marshal Tixi.”

  “Cruel and selfish,” she growled, so deeply that Ardan was left in no doubt as to her intent. It only remained to see what his captivity would be, but the Marshal had already staked her hegemony over his life. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached.

  The Grey-Green Dragon flew swiftly down to the entryway of what he assumed was the Marshal’s dwelling, far more an armoured fortress than the descriptor ‘House’ suggested. The great, shimmering brass doors stood fully open to the Marshal’s environment. The pillars housing those massive, sliding outer doors stood one hundred and twenty feet tall and were liberally decorated from top to bottom with inset friezes depicting Dragons in battle. Warm sandstone corridors delved deep into the rock of the Island, but not before Ardan saw that four further layers of armour encased the house itself–natural rock on the outside, then more metal, a space holding thousands of unfamiliar, subdraconic cave-dwelling lizards whose cherry-red eyes burned upon him with dull, monotonous hatred, then a further double-layer of rock and metal which he estimated to be two hundred feet thick. What did this Marshal fear?

  Within, the House was lavishly decorated with fanciful, swirling artwork in earthy ochre, tan and cream colours, and bright chequered hangings, all set within a surprisingly airy layout of vaulting ceilings and broad hallways, staircases and vestibules. They passed barracks and bathing facilities for Dragons, a fully-equipped infirmary and a circular meeting-chamber large enough to hold a hundred Dragonkind–or perhaps, to host single combat before an audience, he wondered–before ascending a sandstone staircase that curved past a row of marble sculptures depicting Tixi’s relatives or ancestors, according to the inscriptions chiselled on their bases. Each statue stood thirty feet tall. On the landing above, they passed more Human-sized accommodation. Slave quarters, he suspected, sized for thousands of workers. All wore metal collars similar to his, but of a less elaborate design; each stamped with a rune he did not recognise, which Ardan assumed denoted House ownership. Charming. A slave culture. This level was redolent with fragrant oils and tasty odours wafting from a kitchen complex, while tall brass braziers billowed the smoke of a complex incense that made his eyes water.

  Kuratarr stumped past vast storage chambers for grains, dried fruits and herbs, and up a third staircase, this one guarded by a trio of bored-looking shell-brothers, hulking Grey-Greens who visibly stiffened as they looked him over. Hmm. Thoughts of escape would have to entail a better disguise than everyone instantly recognising him for a Shapeshifter.

  Observing the subtle signs of deference accorded to his captor, Ardan noted their scars and mien–the Grey-Greens were not battle-ready. A lame wing, paralysed hindquarters … one was blind. His lip curled unconsciously. House-Dragons. Low growls and a warning snap toward his head modified Ardan’s expression. Vicious threats followed him up the staircase as Kuratarr took the steps ten at a time, clearly impatient to complete his task. Even he had to knock at the fifty-foot wide doors at the top–again, gorgeously decorated brass relief-work touched with artistic tints worked into the metal in ways beyond his knowledge. Aranya would have been delighted.

  A faint prickle upon his skin warned him of magic. Ruddy spitting cobras, so the collar had not removed all sensation–or more likely, it was the extraordinary power of whatever wards guarded the House here. He knew enough of ward-lore to be extremely wary. Often, Dragons renewed wards over the years, creating a layering effect of power upon power that was almost unbreakable if one did not possess the key.

  With a low rumbling of well-oiled rollers, the doors cracked open upon a new realm. Living and entertainment quarters. And a girl.

  Ardan’s eyes popped at her costume, a silky blue negligee that hid–well, absolutely nothing at all. She looked him over with prurient curiosity enough to make the most hard-bitten warrior blush.

  “Ooh, fresh meat for the table, Kuratarr?” she drawled. “You’re far too kind.”

  Fresh meat? Ardan tested the lay of his molars once more. Pretty, but as hard as the blade of Kylara’s scimitar, if he was not mistaken.

  “Fetch the Curator, Shizina,” Kuratarr growled, not relinquishing his Dragon’s-fist hold on Ardan for a second.

  “Alright, mighty Kuratarr,” Shizina lisped, making moon-eyes at him over her shoulder, “keep your gorgeous scales on. Your wish is forever my bidding.”

  Ardan’s scarified eyebrows crawled as the woman blatantly flirted with the Dragon! What the hells? That tone would have earned a fisticuff from Ja’arrion. She sashayed away in a trail of cloying perfume, to the tinkling of the tiny golden bells on her indecent clothing. Ardan could not help but stare.

  A talon flicked his head. “Enjoy looking, Shifter, but no touching or the wards will zap your worthless hide to cinders,” growled the Grey-Green. “Since you pretend ignorance of Yandoon Archipelago customs, allow me to elucidate. The harem is where Tixi keeps her personal menagerie of Humans to entertain her guests–male and female, old and young, fat ones, dwarves, whatever takes their fancy. The Curator is your god, your master and the hand of life and death behind these doors. You’ll learn obedience, and fast.”

  “When I escape, I’ll stuff your wings down your throat and choke you with them, Kuratarr,” Ardan replied politely.

  A twitch of Kuratarr�
��s paw caused Ardan’s ribs to creak. He bit back a groan.

  “Kuratarr. Orders?”

  The Western Isles warrior saw a short, round woman clad in enough silk to robe a Dragonship. Yellow, catlike eyes appraised him–the eyes of a predator. He’d underestimate this one at his peril, Ardan deduced immediately. Dark curls framed a face that might have been sweet, save for the burning eyes. Dragoness? Almost certainly.

  The Curator waggled her be-ringed fingers in his direction. Ardan felt unseen magic pluck the ring upon his neck. Cold speared into his breast. “Alright, the initial wards are set. Name?”

  Ardan clamped his jaw shut.

  “Any special remarks?” the Curator asked coldly.

  “Kept for Tixi alone. Full ward-punishment. She will interrogate him later,” said Kuratarr, unconsciously mimicking the Curator’s blunt style of delivery. “He’s a Black Dragon Shapeshifter wearing a triple-strong Lavanias collar. He has unique powers to modify his body shape and nature. Be wary of this one.”

  The fingers waggled languidly once more, but at greater length than before. Ardan shook his head as a sensation like a borer wasp dug into his skull. Meantime, Shizina mooched up behind the Curator, openly ogling Ardan with her dark, moody gaze and an inviting pout pasted on her painted lips. Both of the women wore their curly black hair very short and heavily oiled. Ardan pictured an Amethyst Dragoness in his mind.

  “Oh, is she the one?” the Curator said playfully. “Mistress Tixi will have the truth out of you in two shakes of a hummingbird’s wing. There, nameless man, you’re all set to join our happy little brood. By way of welcome, I think we should test the wards.”

  Without any warning whatsoever, the woman’s left hand shot forward to clasp Ardan’s groin!

  A yelp had just begun to form in his throat when lightning struck him fifteen feet across the hall. The warrior barely felt his body strike the ground; his skull rang as if he had been blasted by an Aranya-style blue-hot fireball. The Curator eyed him coldly. “You’ll find answering my questions by far the easier option, Shapeshifter Dragon. Name?”

  He gritted his teeth. “Dragon.”

  Her eyes, however, flicked to follow Sapphire’s entry to the harem. “What’s this? A dragonet?”

  Kuratarr purred, “Goes with him, apparently. Good luck, that is.”

  The woman’s eyes gleamed with draconic interest. “I’m well acquainted with superstitions regarding dragonets, Kuratarr. His pet can stay for now–we’ll see if dragonets are as beneficial as everyone says they are. Shizina, help this wretch understand what’ll happen if he tries to step beyond the ward’s bounds.”

  Ardan had struggled into a sitting position, his limbs trembling like leaves in a strong breeze, when Shizina knelt before him. Freaking windroc of a woman! Fear churned his belly as her lips pursed … he jerked his head away, but the plush lips brushed his earlobe.

  KAAABOOOM! Ardan felt his body convulse as though he were caught in the throes of a violent epileptic fit. Darkness pounded him into oblivion.

  Chapter 19: Hair and More

  TRansforming so HARD and fast that the air snapped away from her with a sharp whap! Zuziana plucked her flying monk away half a foot above a boulder and jinked speedily, her hasty mind-meld allowing them to anticipate and avoid the attack.

  Superheated orange fire hosed across the rock they had just vacated, blasting the ultra-dry skortik-flowers into oblivion and giving Ri’arion’s trousers an undeserved cremation.

  My sword! he pulsed.

  The Azure asked, Go back?

  At the speed of thought, they agreed. Zuziana folded herself almost in half, deftly using her lithe fledgling-size to outmanoeuvre their stalwart Grey-Green attacker. He thundered by, striking with his talons and lacerating only the air behind her smartly departing haunches.

  GRRROOAARR!! the Dragon howled.

  Amidst the smoke and ruin, the Azure Dragoness caught sight of a wink of metal. Ri’arion’s favourite sword, the massive two-handed weapon he favoured in combat. The rest of their effects had safely been deposited in one of Leandrial’s increasingly handy cheek-pockets, and a boon that was too, since the massive male had spared no iota of his powerful Dragon fire blast. Zip snatched up the weapon, tossed the monk into the air, and landed him neatly between her spine-spikes.

  Feral! he gasped.

  The Azure Dragoness briefly eyed the monster as he braked smoothly and swivelled on a wingtip, returning for his quarry. Strange how she could pick out the qualities that marked the male as feral–strangely fixed crimson elements in the eye-orbs, an unblinking stare and the stiff flexion of his talons–but her eyes were drawn more urgently to a Dragonwing arrowing down from the south-eastern quarter, barely a mile above and closing fast. They could not fight twenty-two adult Dragons, beasts closely matched in size and power, each one fully a third larger than Ardan. Only the leader stood out, a bright, belligerent Green.

  She broke for the Cloudlands.

  Stop the feral one! roared the Green. Halt, strangers.

  Halt? Ri’arion scoffed.

  Zip said one word, Opportunity …

  The monk nodded, understanding at once the flow of her thoughts. Zip-Zip, get us close to the feral Dragon. I’ll try to turn him. Watch that the others don’t cut off our escape.

  Close? Too close? The Azure squirmed out of the path of a fireball, plucked a stunning, twisting somersault out of the bag of tricks she did not know she was capable of, and practically landed on the outraged feral Dragon’s back. Whoops.

  Aye, touch him! cried Ri’arion.

  Gripping the strange Dragon’s spine-spikes briefly with her talons, Zuziana’s hearts jolted as the massive power of the monk’s psychic command surged through her paws and into the Dragon beneath them.

  The powerful Fra’aniorian Enchanter bawled, Desist, mighty Dragon, and remember thyself!

  The Grey-Green blinked half a dozen times, very rapidly. I … remember.

  Declare thy name! demanded the monk.

  I am Tux’tarax! he growled, shaking himself from wingtip to tail. I thank thee for thy rescue, strange sojourners. What is thy Name and Line, Dragoness? And which Archipelago canst claim thy fame? Thou art of one mind with this Human?

  He is my mate, Zuziana said without thinking.

  However, the Dragon only performed an unfamiliar genuflection of his eye-fires. He is almost a Dragon in power. Now, here comes my mate, the peerless Suk’itarix of Ralladoon. Do tarry, that we might share fresh kill together, for the Dragonsong of thy praises shall be my cry.

  By which, Zuziana deduced that the incoming Dragonwing might be friendly, and he intended to compliment Ri’arion by comparing him to the Dragonkind. Tux’tarax spoke an exotic dialect of Dragonish, if she understood the context-indicators and shades of his speech correctly; thus, he must also instantly identify her as a foreigner. Would these Dragons side with Thoralian and his ilk? They had not the first notion of Herimor’s political situation. Could they turn the act of succouring a feral Dragon to their advantage?

  Ri’arion’s presence enfolded her in strength as the Azure Dragoness sideslipped slightly away from Tux’tarax, a draconic politeness. His orientation bespoke calm. Her Dragon-sight read the indicators with preternatural speed–checking the set of his muscles, the slight smile revealing his fangs, the sheathed talons, the speed of his breathing and the dull rumbling of his belly-fires. This Dragon worked to calm himself from full battle-readiness, and was manifestly delighted to see his mate.

  Suk’itarix, the fragrant smoke of my soul, he bugled powerfully, making the Azure’s wings twitch. I am hale once more.

  Tux’tarax, mine unshakable right paw, she sang back. Flying at once to her mate, the Green exchanged swift wingtip-touches and a fond nip that clashed against his right shoulder. Mine fires sing an ode of Dragonsong–for roost-less we might be, but none the poorer for each other’s company. Who are these you attacked, mine third heart?

  Many fire-eyes turned upon Zuziana and R
i’arion as Tux’tarax said, This noble Dragoness and her Rider succoured me from my feral battle-state, but I know them not. Shall we become acquainted?

  Suk’itarix added, The fruit of our hunt is yet unplucked, yet we would share fresh kill with thee, strangers, for my mate’s sake. But first, tell us–who are you for? And how came you to the Northern Kahilate?

  Zuziana consulted Ri’arion, but neither of them could deduce from the Dragoness’ manner what an honest reply might gain them–friend or foe?

  Finally, Zip said, We seek a Marshal of old called Thoralian. We heard he travelled from the North.

  As one, the Dragonwing stiffened. Fires rose to battle-pitch. The Azure back-winged to keep a few Dragon-lengths between her and the encircling Dragonwing.

  Wait! cried Tux’tarax, flapping hard to position himself protectively in front of the Remoyan Dragoness. There is no glamour about this fledgling.

  The Green snarled, Or, her protections are so perfect, we cannot detect her glamour.

  Ri’arion meantime fed Zuziana a highly compressed account of his reading the Dragons. Each mind was protected with ward-like magic he concluded must be the mysterious Herimor ‘glamour’, which he pictured as a shifting multi-layered set of veils like silk blown in a breeze. They had seen her chestnut locks and thereby knew she was no denizen of the Kahilate, for Humans and Shifters had tight black curls. Long hair provoked their minds to taboo-shades, which neither of them understood. Would they trust Zuziana at all? When he penetrated one of the weaker Dragon-minds, but for a millisecond, the monk saw they had been in a battle with a Dragonwing perhaps sent by Thoralian. Good.

  Their mental conversation was so rapid, the Grey-Green was still busy interrupting his mate when Zip and Ri’arion reached their conclusion.

  Not even a breath of glamour-magic? snarled Tux’tarax.

  At the same time, a grizzled female in the Dragonwing snarled, But the Human’s unusual psychic probe has penetrated our thoughts. See? He’s the true danger.