by Marc Secchia
“Do you think he’ll be in those caves, behind the boulders?” asked Kal. Warm, arid winds blew across the ledge, ruffling the thief’s hair as he descended from Tazithiel’s shoulder. “You’re quite certain about this?”
“Take a sniff,” said the Indigo Dragoness, nosing him forward with her muzzle and a cheeky puff of flame.
“No lizard-breath!” cried Kal, afraid his trousers would start smouldering. He gagged as the first whiff of the caves blistered his nostrils. “Putrid rajal halitosis, what on the Islands is that?”
“Feral Dragon.”
The odour of Dragon roosts often hinted at cinnamon spice, coupled with an inevitable smoky tickle and acrid sulphur. Tazithiel’s natural scent was more sophisticated, putting Kal in mind of water-lilies and aromatic jasmine, although the scent of magic had its way of defying casual classification. Annoy her, however, and all thought of lilies or fragrant spices flew out of the window. Well, Tazithiel’s fire had hint of Helyon incense about it, although the charred victims of her fireballs probably did not pause to appreciate such a delicate distinction.
This Dragon’s lair smelled like the towering bone pile of a Yorbik Island slaughterhouse Kal once had the misfortune to visit, trussed hand and foot. His captors had hoped–in vain, happily–that the carrion-eaters would do away with him. Kal wished one could stop breathing for a period of time, although this smell struck him as powerful enough to eat his flesh like the cannibal slugs for which the Western Isles were notorious.
Readying her magic, Tazithiel followed a trail of filth into the darkness. Kal stuck so close, he trod on her tail. The Dragoness’ stomach gurgled greedily. Again?
Sha’anior? Tazithiel called. Remember your name, Sha’anior.
Remember who you are, Sha’anior, Kal echoed.
A low, vicious snarl shook the caverns.
This feral-Dragon cocktail really does work, doesn’t it, Tazithiel? Kal asked.
Every time, she lied cheerfully.
This hideout had been vacated hundreds of years before. Signs of neglect were everywhere, from rotting doors to the droppings of rodents and caveworms, one of the burrowing nuisances of these parts. They were attracted by food, but were only dangerous if a person stood in their path. By the light of Tazithiel’s eyes, Dragon and Rider padded down a long, gloomy corridor past what must have been storage chambers or living quarters, and on to what Kal recognised as an old-style forge. The Dragon’s tracks were a week old but clear enough, the paw-prints double the Indigo Dragoness’ size.
Sha’anior? Come and speak to us, Tazithiel called.
Suddenly, a Dragon slammed against the entryway to the forge, roaring, fangs chomping. Kal lost a year of his life at the shock. Flame gushed over Tazithiel’s shield. As she tried to soothe the old Orange Dragon, he became madder and madder, smashing himself repeatedly against the doorway but unable to fit through. Kal peeked out from behind Tazithiel’s bulk. Clearly Aranya’s clever ‘anti-feralising’ magic, to translate the concept directly from Dragonish, was not working on this beast. Aranya had informed them that it did not work in four percent of cases.
Then he struck his own forehead. Of course that Orange could not fit! He was a Shapeshifter.
Before he knew it, Kal rushed out from behind Tazithiel’s rump, shouting, “Transform, Sha’anior. Transform!”
Flame exploded around them, driving the Indigo Dragoness back three steps.
Kal shielded his face. Sha’anior, I command you. Transform!
Suddenly, a frail, battered old man ran at them, shrieking … and stopped. Bewildered. He glanced at his hands, and then at Tazithiel, who shuffled her paws uneasily.
“Sha’anior?” asked Kal. “Do you remember your name? Do you–”
“Shut up, whippersnapper,” he barked. “Who is this Dragoness? Why does her Dragonsong whisper songs I have not heard in over two hundred summers? Why am I naked?”
“You were feral,” said Kal.
The Indigo Dragoness seemed mute. But the rail-thin old codger suddenly fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the ground. Tazithiel, my lost shell-sister. Welcome home.
* * * *
The better part of two hours later, Tazithiel landed outside of Kellira’s village, a mile south of the great sinkhole. She carefully wafted Sha’anior to the ground. I wish I could transform, Kal.
It would be unwise, he said. We must ask for food and treatment for Sha’anior.
Kal looked over the village. Three dozen huts stood clustered upon a hillside overlooking the unbroken vistas to the West. A wooden stockade surrounded the village, which was neatly built and boasted large vegetable gardens and rude wicker flower-baskets outside of the ornate conical stick-and-mud huts. Each hut was painted with pigment-based paints in a variety of earthen colours and patterns. Evidently, these villagers took pride in their simple homes.
Kal called, “Kellira? We have tamed the Dragon.”
Tazithiel’s fangs clicked sharply next to his ear. “Don’t insult your elders and betters, Rider Kal.”
Kellira’s head and shoulders appeared above the stockade. “Him? He’s just a raggedy old man.” An impossibly vicious snarl emerged from Sha’anior’s throat, while his eyes blazed yellow with magic. “Ah, Shapeshifter? Is he safe?”
Kal began to snort before Tazi stopped him with a tickle of Kinetic power. He sneezed violently.
“We promise not to harm you,” rumbled the Dragoness.
Much apologising, corralling of screaming children and two hours of deep, rapid conversation with Kellira later, Kal found himself writing a scroll addressed to the Academy mentioning minor matters such as the finding of Aranya’s feral shell-son and a thousand drals-worth of gold bullion to be dispatched by Dragonship to a lonely village at the edge of the world, along with supplies, equipment and anything else he and Kellira had been able to dream up. These people had nothing, not even proper ploughs to break the stony ground, or hardship- and disease-resistant mohili wheat or rice varieties with which to improve their harvest. He added a personal message for Riika.
Kal signed with a flourish and handed the scroll to Kellira. “As long as you promise to share the bounty with all the villages under your jurisdiction, o Warlord.”
She gripped his forearm fiercely. “I don’t pretend to understand, Rider Kal …”
He said, “Understand this. I’m filthy rich and I hate to see gold gathering dust when people are struggling to survive. That Dragoness is the daughter of Aranya of Immadia, who I’ve no doubt, will want to come here to visit her shell-son. Your people will need to get used to the presence of Dragons.”
Just outside the stockade, Tazithiel was helping ten children swing off a rope clasped in her paw.
Kellira said, “Being feral was cruel to that old man.”
“Aye.”
“I don’t understand how you look upon the Dragoness. Were I not mistaken, I’d say you’re a man in love.”
“I am. My beloved is bigger than Kyrinda.”
A meaty hand walloped Kal on the back. “Kyrinda is deeply disappointed, Rider Kal. But I do understand. She’s a Dragon Shapeshifter, isn’t she? Just like her famous mother. Don’t you know the legend, Kellira?”
Kal grinned up at the massive Western Isles warrior. “You know, Kyrinda, I once met a man who I believe might be a match for you.”
“A match? For me?” Kyrinda’s laughter boomed over the huts.
“Aye. He’s a Master of Hammers, a warrior like you. Kellira, hand me that scroll. I need to add a note at the bottom.” Kal bent to his work. “Can you send message hawks from here? I forgot to ask.”
“There’s a town on the far side of Yanga,” said Kellira, peering over Kal’s shoulder.
“What’s that say, Rider?” Kyrinda asked suspiciously.
“I’m inviting Master Jandubior to lead the expedition here. One evening as we enjoyed a cold beer, the good Master confessed he would only ever fall in love with a woman who could beat him in arm-wrestling.
Now, I’ve had a little wrestle with you–”
“And lost pitifully,” Tazithiel called over the stockade.
“Ignore the quarrelsome quadruped. I’ve written a challenge on your behalf. Sign or make your mark here by your name, Kyrinda–thank you. Personally, I think he’s in trouble.”
“But, is he big?” Kellira interrupted.
Kyrinda echoed, “Aye. How big is this Jandubior?”
“Big?” Kal stood, measuring his six feet and five inches against Kyrinda, who looked down at him with amusement. “He’d top you by a good foot. Jandubior’s a Jeradian giant, built like one of their mountains. But I reckon you might shade him in the muscle department.”
Kyrinda belted him again. “Great! So glad you came to our Island to be sat on, Rider Kal.”
“Always a pleasure.” Kal staggered off to his next assignment, wondering if she had just broken his ribs.
* * * *
Come evening, the villagers gathered around a jasmine-scented bonfire built outside the stockade. More accurately, Tazithiel gathered around half the fire and the entire village, around the rest. They ate roasted python and a grey oryx which the Indigo Dragoness had snapped up two leagues from the village. She had already eaten two herself, she admitted.
Sha’anior, patched up, clothed and fed to bursting, sat alongside the elderly village healer, Jinkyna. Kal narrowed his eyes. They seemed rather cosy, the two oldest members of the congregation.
Kellira raised her wooden tankard of rough root beer. “To the West!”
“Aye, the West!” roared her people.
“May you find what you seek, Dragon and Rider. Now, Sha’anior.” Kellira slapped his knee jovially. “Give of your lore and wisdom to help these travellers as they rise with the dawn winds.”
In the firelight, Sha’anior’s eyes appeared unmistakably draconic, as yellow as the flame reflected within. He stroked his raggedy beard, joshing, “Bah. I don’t know any stories.”
Jinkyna pressed a tankard into his hand. “Wet your throat, old man. Let this earthy goodness fire the tinderbox of your memory.”
The Shapeshifter Dragon said, “Who would like a short story?” The children hooted and snapped their fingers in joy.
Kellira called, “Silence!”
Pitching his voice to the audience with the skill of an experienced storyteller, Sha’anior began, “In times before Human memory, before a Human foot ever trod these Isles, it is said that the Ancient Dragons used to travel from Fra’anior to the far West, and that they held there communion with creatures stranger than any legend–Water Dragons.”
His audience hushed, down to the smallest child. “Aye, we know of Ancient Dragons, those creatures larger than Islands, birthed in the sacred fires of Fra’anior’s Natal Cave. Dragons that voyaged in storms; Dragons who lived in the molten lava of those primal volcanoes that housed the first of the Dragonkind. Magma Dragons, there were, and Storm-Riders, and Dragons of ice and snow. Amongst the famous Ancient Dragon clan we know and name Fra’anior the Black, Dramagon the Red, Numistar the White, and the last Ancient Dragon, Amaryllion Fireborn. Legends tell us friends, that when these great Dragons of yore travelled from Fra’anior, they did not fly over the Islands they had made, nor did they burrow beneath our Island-World’s roots, but rather, the Dragons simply bade the Islands step aside. The very Western Isles bowed and parted at their command as a crowd parts for a Queen in the panoply of her majesty, and thus the Ancient Dragons sailed through to the West.”
Against his back, Kal felt Tazithiel’s belly-fires rising and falling to the rhythm of Sha’anior’s tale.
“I have heard tell, my friends, that the reason for the West’s great emptiness is that the Ancient Dragons used those numberless leagues for their playground. As we play games of sticks and stones, and make our strategies and wars across the playing-board, so the Ancient Dragons played with moving Islands.”
“Land Dragons?” a young boy piped up.
“My son, do you know of Westurdion?”
The little boy with his huge dark eyes shook his head and ducked back into his father’s arms, but a chorus of ‘aye’s’ and ‘well said’ rose around the fire.
Sha’anior continued, “Some say the Land Dragons are gigantic lizards over a mile long, which dwell in a realm of darkness at the bottom of the Cloudlands. So huge are they, a Land Dragon could rest this entire village upon his paw.” Now there was a rush of children for adults’ arms. “Others say they are like Siiyumiel, who appeared to Hualiama Dragonfriend as a kind of turtle, only he was so huge, he bore seven mountains upon his back. Still others say that the Islands themselves were once Dragons, which only sleep beneath us as we dwell upon the upper reaches of their backs, and that if you knew their names, you could speak to an Island and it would speak back in the language of earthquakes and shattering rock.”
“And then–” he paused dramatically “–there are Dragons like Westurdion.”
The silence he evoked seemed to crackle in concert with the bonfire.
“Imagine a Dragon whose head rested in Herimor, beyond the Rift, and whose tail curled about the frozen wastes of the North. His spine spikes are the Islands of the Western Isles, uncountable thousands of Islands arrayed upon his back, and when Fra’anior the Black used to approach, he would say, ‘Brother, stretch your back for us,’ and Westurdion would stir from his aeons-long slumber, and stretch mightily, and behold, his brother Ancient Dragons would crawl over his back to the far side. Now, younglings, you must never make Westurdion laugh, for he would shake us all off his back like fleas off a ralti sheep!”
Kal had the impression that Sha’anior rather enjoyed the chorus of squeals his dire imprecation evoked.
But now, the white-haired old-timer turned his gaze upon Kal and Tazithiel, and the Rider felt the Dragoness stiffen. “I once heard a tale from an aged Dragon. I may be a touch senile, but he was truly a cracked water jug. He told me of the Water Dragons. When the Ancient Dragons first flew to the West to play in the vastness between the Western Isles and the Rim-Wall Mountains, they heard a strange song. It was music like Dragonsong, only it seemed to arise from beyond the mountains. It was beautiful music, evocative and magical, and the Ancient Dragons searched long and hard for its source. Fra’anior himself was entranced, but it was his brother Amaryllion who saw visions of strange Dragons in the mists beyond the mountains, Dragons who moved and swam in vast lakes of water they called oceans, but they were not Dragons as we know them, for they had fins for swimming and flippers rather than wings. Amaryllion said they were Dragonkind, only Dragons trapped in an unnatural form. Water Dragons.”
“And the Water Dragons warned Amaryllion not to open the Rim-Wall Mountains until the time when the Dragons could be united once more, and the Water Dragons would be restored to their true form and beauty. So if you fly near the Rim-Wall Mountains today, you might hear the sad song of Water Dragons as they lament for their release, and find in the eerie mists of that place, visions of a new Dragonkind and a new magic we know nothing about. The magic of song.”
A chorus of whistles and knee-slapping greeted the conclusion of Sha’anior’s tale. There was more tale-telling around the fire that night, but his words remained with Kal, as though the old Orange Shapeshifter had etched them upon his mind, and he knew Tazithiel felt the same way. Was this wisdom? If the Ancient Dragons had feared to venture beyond the Rim-Wall Mountains, what right had he and Tazithiel to dare what they had not?
As the fire died to embers and Kellira’s people slipped away to their huts, Sha’anior came over to sit with him and the Indigo Dragoness.
He said, “It is hard to believe you are my shell-sister, Tazithiel, yet the Dragonsong of your soul-fires does not lie. My seventh sense is particularly well developed in the art of insight. It always has been. Not foresight, mind you,” he chuckled softly, “or I might have fled when I sensed you coming.”
“I made that mistake,” said Kal, winking at Tazi. “I tried to burgle her roost
and look where it landed me.”
Unexpectedly, Sha’anior pressed himself against Tazithiel’s muzzle. Her paw rose to clasp his back. “Forgive the intimacy. Forgive us, for never finding you. There are times in our lives when we cannot understand fate. We can only scream and curse uselessly, and learn to live with the result. Tazithiel, it is clear to me that my early intuition of your uniqueness as an eggling was well founded. You are indeed a Star Dragoness, party to all that your heritage brings. There have been but four Star Dragonesses since the time of the Ancient Dragons–Istariela, Izariela, Aranya and now you. Our mother must be so proud.”
“We’ve had our disagreements,” Tazi said stiffly.
“We’re a fierce and proud family,” he said.
Brother and sister chuckled together. Kal was amazed at the disparity in ages, but then, Star Dragon eggs did not conform to the usual rules. Nobody seemed to know what had befallen her egg, but Tazithiel had been born one hundred and sixty-seven years after her six egg-siblings, of whom only one still lived–Sha’anior.
“I was supposed to offer advice, not timeworn legends,” the Orange Shapeshifter added. “I felt the stories important, but there is one more thing to share from my heart to yours. This is for both Dragon and Rider. I don’t know if you know, but each Dragon is born with a secret name. Aranya may know how you find out what it is, but I for one have never been clear how some Dragons know their secret name and others don’t. But what I mean to say is, somehow, I sense that the power of draconic names is wrapped up in this mystery you mentioned, the mystery of the opening of the suns. Must you overfly the Rim-Wall itself? I fear that may be impossible. Is there a secret passage through? More likely. But I have confidence in my shell-mother’s judgement. If she believes the time for this crazy expedition is now, then we can only trust and propel ourselves into the unknown.”
Clasping Kal’s arm, he drew the thief close. “Hasten back. I’m not going anywhere. I demand to know the truth about the Water Dragons. And when I look at you, I sense that the power of destiny throbs in your veins. Both of you.”