by Marc Secchia
LIKE THIS! Zuziana thundered at the mental and audible levels.
Leandrial was the first to grasp her picture. Her laughter emerged as a rough, pained bark. Link together, my kin! Link paws and tails! The greatest mother of all drew her disparate brood to her sides, binding them with the strength of her forearms and straightening her tail so that they could all find grip. Huge, steely talons curled around Dragon hide. Now they were one. The Land Dragons tucked up their paws and set to skating along on a bed of air–a reversed pneumatic shield–as the trail dipped down a long, winding cleft back toward the safety of the Cloudlands of Wyldaroon. They accelerated smoothly.
Now, Ri’arion fashioned a wedge-shaped shield ahead of them.
A plough? Zip thought incredulously.
We Fra’aniorians till our fields with Dragons, he suggested, rather implausibly.
Farming with Land Dragons? Zip was not convinced Dragonkind would find the image appealing.
The gliding wedge knocked the converging Ice-Runners left and right, several times tumbling them beneath the cavalcade so that the closely-knit group of Welkin-Runners seemed to bobble over a stippled surface, dropping stunned creatures in their wake. The vibrant Blast-Runners shivering around Leandrial’s neck-ruff suddenly oriented as one beast on an attack arising from the port flank. Perfectly coordinated, their muzzles gaped. A shrill whine of shared magic split the air. KAABOOOM!! They struck rock and ice just ahead of the Ice-Runners. Animals tumbled helplessly, kicking up clouds of ice and snow. Brityx’s Dragonwing swirled through the softly-falling but thick snowflakes, firing fireballs in rapid succession. Meantime, Tari’s small command swung away to harry the Ice-Runners ahead.
Leandrial and her kin skated down a broad, flat ridge before hitting a frozen lake. Zuziana saw ice spitting behind as Leandrial lightly employed her talons for rudders. The group swept down a twenty-mile patch of cerulean ice en route to another pair of statues. Fra’anior the seven-headed Dragon, Zip thought, flexing her wings as her Dragon-senses responded automatically to a change in the air pressure. Something was sucking the air away to the South.
Her skull-spikes ached as the Azure Dragoness peered ahead. What by all the volcanic hells of Fra’anior was that magic, that preternatural prickling against her scales? Had they just gaily leaped out of the roasting-pan into the furnace?
The Land Dragons skated off the end of the lake, bisecting the immense statues to either side, before the wide trail suddenly dipped again, traversing a long series of ledges leading down to the Cloudlands. Suddenly, they saw beneath the layer of storm-clouds assaulting the Mesas, and there was not a Dragon in their group who did not voice a started bugle or oath.
Wyldaroon shook in the grips of a legendary storm. Smoky black clouds bubbled the length and breadth of that realm like the surface of a cauldron filled with a ghastly brew, forming and mounting up into the sky before their dumbfounded fire-eyes. It was the magnitude that staggered, the pent-up fury of Nature every Dragon recognised; the impenetrable bands of storm reaching to the horizon laced with towering columns of amethyst lightning that leaped tens of leagues between the threatening thunderheads. Zuziana gasped as she recognised the appalling truth.
That lightning was Aranya’s colour. This was her power, unleashed in a form and on a scale … unimaginable. Amethyst-chased clouds surged and heaved over the deeps, obscuring any Islands of Wyldaroon they might have hoped to see. Out near the horizon, the storm churned around an unseen central point, and forked lightning formed a many-pillared pavilion, playing crazily and constantly across the breadth of her vision.
Something was amiss. Her friend was in danger, tortured, alone.
ARANYA!! Zip howled into the void.
* * * *
Having reversed direction, gale-force winds blew them out of the mountains and mercifully, down into the Cloudlands before the full brunt of the new, magical storm struck Leandrial and the Lesser Dragons. Even the upper layer was agitated and churned up, so the Land Dragoness led them deeper, diving beneath the wilds of Wyldaroon. She and her kin blasted a way through a sea of Island-sized stinging jellies, and after nine hours further travelling they came to a place Leandrial and Tari agreed lay beneath the Gladiator Pits. Here, in this area’s commercial hub, they would begin their search for a lost star.
To a Dragon, and one Human monk, they were battered and travel-weary. The Lesser Dragons badly needed to detoxify; Zip felt far more green than Azure. Accordingly, Leandrial led her command away to feed, rest and heal in the deeps, while Suk’itarix and her mate directed the wing-drooping Lesser Dragons aloft to seek a quiet Island for rest and recuperation.
The storm appeared to have abated, but devastation abounded. The Azure Dragoness could almost not lift a wing, lurching awkwardly as they negotiated a green tunnel between Islands she suddenly realised were linked together by strands of ragions, so that they seemed to fly into a living sponge. Tux’tarax unsubtly lent a shoulder, steadying the Azure as she wobbled badly.
Thanks, she sighed.
Strength to thy paws, o little one of mighty deeds, he said. We shall rest in this place, and share fresh kill, and compose praise-songs to deeds essayed and mightier deeds to come.
Finding a series of linked dells surrounded by towering walls of vegetation and a waterfall that apparently fell from a hole through the centre of a separate Island hovering overhead, the Dragonwing landed and set about securing their temporary roost. Eggs all together, guarded by three Dragons. Hatchlings to wash and play. The fledglings hunted for morsels amidst the luxuriant vegetation, while a number of adults departed to hunt. Zuziana’s ears twitched in delight at the nearby trilling of dragonets. Perfect. She transformed into her Human form and dressed. Wow. A Remoyan dress in Herimor. Picking up Ri’arion’s travelling cloak, which smelled just like him, she covered herself and curled up amidst the baggage. Just a quick nap. Making three eggs while slapping Land Dragons hither and thither was hard work …
Ri’arion kissed her forehead. “I’m off with Brityx and Tari to hunt for Aranya. They don’t want to waste a minute and I don’t blame them. Some storm, huh?”
“Aranya’s storm,” Zip murmured.
“Aye. So we’re looking for–”
“Comet. Amethyst. And sweet, sexy monks.”
He chuckled softly. “Might take us a while, precious petal. Get some rest, alright?”
“G’night.”
The last thing she remembered was Ri’arion saying something to Tari about how excited Aranya would be to learn about her pregnancy.
* * * *
Zip woke to a world of ice. Shivering.
Sallow eyes regarded her from just a few feet above her head. She wanted to scream, but the glistening orbs were so hypnotic, so filled with lustrous malevolence, that the sound died in her throat.
I am Thoralian, said the Dragon, unnecessarily.
She knew. Zip’s heart was an ice-bound wasteland. Tears squeezed forth, freezing in the corners of her eyes.
’Twas a courageous crossing that delivered thee to my paw, little Zuziana. I and my brothers have conversed. We thought it most appropriate that I should accordingly speak with thee. A talon toyed with her cheek, the voice like winter’s breath soughing over icebound peaks. Zuziana of Remoy. So pathetic without your friends. You are nothing without the courage of others.
Zip concentrated. I defy thee, even in my dreams.
Where were the Dragons? Why did she hear nothing? Where was the song of dragonets … for morning had come, she realised, and Ri’arion had not yet returned–but he would, soon.
Dreams? Thoralian’s awful laughter ravaged all hope. Oh, he’s not due back for an hour, yet. Be of good cheer, Azure. We have chosen thee above all others to serve as the right paw of our purposes in this epoch of the Island-World.
What … purposes?
She fought him now, fought furiously in the confines of her mind, screaming helplessly as Thoralian overpowered her. Settle down, he gurgled horribly. We must no
t disturb your precious babes.
The way he said ‘precious’ threw her into a nadir of despair such as she had never experienced in all of her life. In a flash, Zuziana discerned his intent. This was no nightmare; at best, it was an apparition of Thoralian, at worst, he was present in flesh as well as in spirit, and he intended to harm her younglings …
Then, she shrieked for Aranya, for Ri’arion, for anyone, for help from the very heavens themselves, but her cries only echoed in the confines of her skull, and slowly those cries turned to whimpering as his talon traced its way down her throat to her abdomen. She was alone. Abandoned. She could not protect her babes … she must! Zuziana lashed out with every power at her disposal. The massive Yellow-White Dragon staggered a half-step backward, but he recovered immediately to crush her again with his extraordinary mental power.
Ooh, she has grown strong, he jeered and approved at once. She’ll be a fitting hostess to secure our future. Listen closely, little Zuziana. Listen and rejoice in how you have been chosen, above all mothers, to safeguard the glorious future of the Shapeshifter race!
She began to curse him, but his mental grip cut off even her thoughts. Attend! By the power of urzul I shall place in your womb a fragment of my tripartite spirit–but fear not! It shall not enter your sweet egglings yet–so very tiny! So young and innocent of the ways of Shapeshifters and Men. Did you know you’re expecting two girls and a boy? He paused to indulge in a cackle, gazing deep into Zuziana’s helpless eyes. If you do all that I command, Zuziana, and we three Thoralians survive the battles to come, I shall withdraw this gift. If you falter at the crucial moment, my spirit will infuse your egglings with beautiful, destiny-changing power, and you shall be privileged to become the shell mother of my spirit-progeny, the newest incarnation of my immortal flesh.
She glared at Thoralian, hating him beyond words.
Almost tenderly, he crooned, The Star Dragoness is powerful. But you are Aranya’s most trusted friend. Deliver to us the First Egg, and your babes shall remain unharmed. All this, I swear upon the power of urzul and the blazing forges of my own fire-life.
An awful echo of oath-magic speared into her belly, making Zuziana’s body arch off the frozen ground.
Thoralian growled, Now, for the sake of your cherished egglings, attend to my instructions.
She spiralled into madness.
Chapter 27: Vassals, Hassles and Tassels
ARANYA ROARED AT Gangurtharr, “If you apologise one more time, I swear I will transform you into a toad! I do not want worship! Or fawning! Roaring ruddy volcanoes, Gang, I am … I’m a Dragoness and a seventeen year-old girl! Not Fra’anior! Do you see seven thundering heads? Paws capable of juggling Islands? Storm mantling–oh, Islands’ sakes!” The recently-turned White Dragoness sighed as various frisky growls of thunder around the Island they had returned to following the battle, punctuated her words. “No, I’ve no idea why this freaking stupid storm seems intent on sniffing around my skirts–now, by the sulphurous breath of the Great Onyx himself, will you get down here and let me examine your wounds?”
She peremptorily indicated a spot right in front of her paws. “NOW!”
The hulking, scarred Gladiator, more than thrice her height at the shoulder, retreated a step, shaking his muzzle. He was also bleeding heavily from three large talon-gouges following their last battle, not to mention hundreds of drake-bites all over his lips, muzzle and wings. “No, Your Starry … uh, Majesty. It isn’t right. Not right at all.”
Huari chuckled, “Him? You’ll never get the stars out of his eyes now, Aranya.”
That is IT!! The annoyed Amethyst summarily flattened Gang with a Storm-powered roar. Get over here, you unkempt mound of muscle. Gang snarled in shock as her cunningly shaped shield wafted him over to her on a bed of whirring air. Dragons stared as she handled him like a toy–well, for a second, before she realised she would have nothing left over for healing.
She dumped Gang on his flank. “Stay put. Last warning.”
“She was like this in the arena,” he carped, finding not so much as a sackweight’s-worth of sympathy among the Dragonesses. “Disrespectful. A Dragon has his dignity, you know.”
Humansoul said, Can I come out and play, too?
Don’t you start, snarled Aranya. I’ve had quite enough–oh. You’ve magic?
Practically spitting out of me following that storm.
Alright, I have kind of starved … us, admitted the Dragoness. I’m sorry, petal. I’ve not been a very good friend to the best part of us.
Glad you noticed, her Human said insolently. But I say differently, my fire-blossom-heart.
Aranya’s third heart turned into heated mush at the recognition of her second-soul’s warm love. Then, she turned full circle, ensuring every Dragon present apprehend the measure of her barely-withheld wrath. “I will transform. Can we withhold any comments, snarky or otherwise? The scarring appears worse in my Human form …”
The Island-World seemed to shrink away as a tiny Human folded into the place where her Dragoness had stood. The Princess of Immadia stretched her arms and wriggled her aching shoulders, grateful for once that there were no leering eyes about, only forty murmuring Dragonesses and one exceedingly grumpy male Dragon. Allowing her hair to slide forward to conceal her face, Aranya willed herself not to glance about, for the horror she apprehended was enough. They would see oozing lesions, several newly split open during her battle with Tahootax. Scars clumped in tight, purple knobbles or indentations, twisting her skin peculiarly over her too-lean frame. Open craters adorned her left cheekbone, right hip, outer left calf muscle and exposed the tendons atop her right foot. The skin there looked diseased. Had she picked up an infection to boot? Great.
Surely, her Shapeshifter Human should display an open belly-wound? There was none. Only a fine white line crossing her abdominals toward her lower ribs belied Tahootax’s ruthless strike. What? Too much to consider; white-fires flared in her mind as Aranya tried to pinpoint–a divergence between her other-manifestations? Fear sparked in her mind. This must be what Fra’anior sought to warn her about. Carrying around so much Storm was undoubtedly tearing her apart.
What triggered the Storm? It must be mighty magic indeed, yet not a conscious act of will. Just for once, could she not be forced to carry these burdens?
In a troubled voice she said, “Gang–”
Aranya froze as a talon swept back the veil of her hair. Huaricithe! The Dragoness made a throat-clicking sound, her breath rasping noticeably, and her fires sighed and hissed as if a bonfire had been dumped upside-down.
Repulsive, these scars. The devastation betrayed by her whisper threatened to steal all sanity.
Itomiki the Green, the oldest of the Shapeshifters at one hundred and forty-one years, said, Nay, that is not … you must transform, noble Huari. Show the Star Dragoness the truth.
Air imploded against her back.
Huaricithe seized Aranya’s left hand impulsively. Look at me. Behold.
Expressive blue eyes framed by masses of tight blue curls. An impish chin. A face so Hualiama’s, yet subtly different, that Aranya felt soul-lost, transported through time … a quivering hand warm upon her cheek, tracing the cheekbone with wonder, tenderly stroking her chin. Although Huari was tiny, just a finger under five feet and Aranya over a foot taller, there was in the slant of the eyes and the jaw’s contour, in the delicately pointed ears and the slender limbs, an unmistakable familial likeness. The woman was also heavily scarred on her left hip. Pox-marks, Aranya saw. A different strain …
She sat down with a bump on Gangurtharr’s curved paw, blurting out, “Oh. Oh! Oh!” Very erudite, Immadia! Overwhelmed. Sensing the curling flame of a Shapeshifter’s fire-soul, nearby, singing with joy, she said, “Is that why you’re so Blue?”
Gang said, “Where did you say you hail from?”
“You wouldn’t know my Island-home,” Aranya said.
“Try us,” purred Itomiki.
Simultaneously, Huari
whispered, “In our clan’s tradition, I’m an eleventh-generation descendant of Hualiama Dragonfriend and Grandion–at least, that’s our ancestral lore-claim, a claim which saw us almost wiped out. Blasphemy, see? Our clan fled to Wyldaroon. Hid our heritage. But … don’t you see it? Don’t you? I have to know!”
The Grey-Green’s paw tapped Aranya’s backside. “Well, you sure flicked an Island out of the Cloudlands there, Scrap. What’s the meaning of all this crazy-forbidden hair? Didn’t know rainbows were possible in Human women.”
“Stop that,” said Aranya, automatically.
“The more powerful they are, the worse the pox,” he retorted. “Huari knew immediately–didn’t you?”
The Shapeshifter’s eyes gleamed with her core power. “I had hoped for a powerful ally, Gang; when I saw her defeat Tahootax, I knew–my thoughts clutched pollen in the wind, clearly. Of course, I had no clue Aranya was a Star Dragoness. Or … who are you?”
Aranya rubbed her temples fiercely, flailing to catch up with the conversational twists and turns. “Slow down, Huaricithe …”
Gang had a very particular gleam in his eye as he looked Huari over. “I find you handsome in your Human form, Huaricithe. Very–” he clamped his jaw shut and curled the talons of his free paw up and over Aranya’s shoulders with a forceful expletive. “What is this? Explain!”
She had seen that gleam before, in Ardan. By his reaction, Gang was in for a rude shock–a promotion to Humanity. Or was that a demotion? Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. She forced it away. If she had learned any one thing about destinies in the Island-World, she had not been tossed together with a long-lost relative on a mere whim of Fra’anior’s. Sneaky, shell-grandfather. Truly sneaky. Like landing her on Nak and Oyda’s doorstep. Nak and Gangurtharr would get on like fireballs and windrocs, of that she had no doubt.
She said, unsteadily, “I am Aranya, Princess of Immadia.”
She had thought the Dragons would not know where Immadia was, but Huaricithe immediately demanded, “Immadia? As in the Immadia of legend, North of the Rift?”