by Marc Secchia
Running up a tree, she hurled the meat into the distance. “Fetch!”
Two draconids charged for the meat. The rest turned and raced up into the trees after her.
“Stinking Dragon breath!”
Camouflaging herself, Whisper leaped off a Bracer-giant branch and glided rapidly toward the ground. The pack charged after her – hunting by scent? At the instant she thought she would have had to commit to running right through the traps, there came a sharp snapping of metal ahead and the two unfortunate draconids screamed at a pitch of mortal pain that sawed right through her nerves. More usefully, their erstwhile pack-mates responded immediately to the more pressing imperative, to fall upon and rend their wounded kin with tooth and claw.
The pack thundered past the hidden Whisper, snarling like a single animal in their untrammelled bloodlust. She shuddered. Keep alert. Flatten herself behind a boulder … crack! Snick! Snap!
The bushes beyond her position exploded as planned as the stampeding draconids set off every trap in the vicinity. Some seemed to run on further, judging by the slight fading in the sounds, before another round of twangs, snaps and howls advertised that they had discovered a further zone furnished with multiple examples of a Warlock’s nefarious tendencies.
Silence. Whisper twitched her ears. Now, would the Warlock have left sentries to watch and report? Aye, there came the sound of wings. Dragonets, she suspected, spying a flash of bright yellow and crimson through the foliage. How did the Warlock control the Dragonkind so completely and over such distances? That was a mystery none of the Azarinthine Warlocks seemed able to understand. They had not found any record of a Warlock commanding a Higher Dragon for his familiar, either. Unprecedented. Perhaps that melding of powers through the bond with a familiar allowed him some level of access to draconic minds? If so, Sanfuri was canyons ahead of any of his compatriots, enjoying a level of command and control that boded ill for the victims of his foul schemes.
Hearing and scenting nothing more, Whisper crept forward. Carnage. Three hundred feet of bloody carcasses and sprung traps led to a place where the canyon had been completely blocked by a snarl of razor-edged chains, undoubtedly poisoned. She climbed. The blockage was sixty feet tall and would prove more than challenging for fully armed Human soldiers. Scouting a ways ahead, Whisper found no further traps or trouble as yet.
She hesitated. Aye, return. A clear warning, and then she must run ahead once more.
The Higher Dragonkind lay in wait. She sensed it in her bones.
Chapter 15: Whisper Scout
LEADING THE AZAR army through the tangled wilderness toward the outlying Arborite hamlet of Sunidar was an exercise in stretching a Whisper’s patience to the limit. They were just so slow! So methodical, so frustratingly possessed of the need to sleep for many hours, every night. It was not as though they were working as hard as her, given as she probably covered four or five times the pathetic distance they managed, each and every day. However, she wasn’t carrying armour and weapons and equipment and a laughable overkill of clothing. She had her hide, and that was enough.
That evening, the army camped beside a boulder slide which had not quite succeeded in blocking the trail, given as the boulders measured upward of two hundred feet in diameter. Even the canodraconids, which had now caught up together with Xan, High King of Sleep, and his escort of minders, had no trouble passing through the gaps. Could mental processes truly demand that much of a man’s resources? Xan’s colour was improving to a healthier grey with each passing day, Whisper noted. Each evening, she was required to give a detailed briefing to the scouts and engineers regarding the terrain and challenges to come, before teams rushed ahead to clear the obstacles. Even Queen Xola allowed that they were making ‘reasonable’ progress.
Manrax was full of dour compliments. “Whisper’s got the rights of that, lady,” he said to Xola as her usual briefing concluded. “Never forgets a detail.”
“An engineer’s dream?” growled the Queen, glancing back at her brother’s pentagonal tent, set against the rocks behind, with two guards stationed at each of its five corners. For a royal, that tent was fairly modest, Whisper decided, approvingly. Not so modest, his retinue, which included a man whose sole job appeared to be to polish the King’s already spotless, gleaming armour.
Humans.
That said, she was sorely in need of creating a touch of mischief, and she knew exactly how, based on a conversation yesterday evening. She had even given her word. Nice Whispers like her kept their promises, oath-magic or none.
Trotting over to the King’s tent, she addressed a tall, young soldier standing so firmly to attention at his post, that he trembled slightly all over. “Yatux. A message, if you will.”
“Uh, Whisper? What is the message?”
She placed her hands on her hips. “You’ll have to bend down, you oaf.”
“Cannot possibly, lady.”
“Has your armour been welded into place?” His long, serious face threatened to break into a forbidden grin.
The girl next to him, Sihui, did smile. “I suspect it has, Whisper,” she said.
Full Azarinthe plate-armour was a wonder of engineering, comprised of metal plates for the upper body that slid over each other to create a surprising freedom of movement, set upon the usual base of chainmail, and similar strong plates for the thighs and calves. The boots were the universal soldier-tough, round-toed leather sort that laced midway up the calf, and for protection of the head they wore Azar round helms, with a loose flap of chainmail to protect the neck.
Yatux managed to stiffen even further, until he would have put a petrified tree to shame. “I am on duty, my lady. I apologise.” He thumped the halt of his long spear on the ground for emphasis. The weapon was unusual, being able to fire the spearhead if needed. He would carry seven spare spearheads at the back of his belt. “Later, if you would. My monarch –”
Whisper scaled his leg and reached for his belt.
“Hey! What …”
“Silence. You are on duty. Look alert, soldier,” Whisper ordered. “What do you Humans say? Eyes front! Attention!”
Yatux twitched as Sihui, stationed at his right hand, stifled a giggle. Whisper knew she had the most amazing hair, a lustrous grey waterfall that fell just past her waist, right now, braided up in a pretty design thanks to somebody’s paws while they chatted last night. He did not budge as she swung up his left arm and perched upon his plate-mail clad shoulder, but she sensed his outrage. Duty, with a capital ‘D’. He stared ahead fixedly.
She was mischief. All capitals.
Whisper leaned close to his ear and lowered her voice. “I am authorised to pass on the following message. When you finish your duty at the ninth hour of this night, someone would very much like to speak to you behind the vegetable wagon. Will you attend?”
“I, er –” he licked his lips nervously “– who?”
“She is known to you.” Whisper ad-libbed, “Just between you and me, I think this person might have certain intentions. But who am I to judge?”
Yatux managed somehow to stop his eyes from rolling wildly to the right, but Whisper could clearly scent the aroma of chemistry in the air. Interesting. Humans attracted each other by scent? Pheromones, said her memory. Invisible carriers of attraction. The young man’s pulse leaped about in his throat like an eager fish, while Sihui’s fingers betrayed a tell-tale tremor as she adjusted her belt unnecessarily.
“Would you like to send a return message?” asked Whisper.
“I … I will attend, of course. With all gladness,” he stammered. “Will you tell her that, Whisper? I have great … regard. For her. I mean, uh … if it is who I think … she is?”
She tickled his cheek with her whiskers as she bent closer to his ear. “Consider the message delivered. Well done, Yatux. At ease.”
“Ease? That is not acceptable conduct, lady!”
Poor boy. He must starch his underwear daily.
Nonetheless, Whisper avoided catchi
ng Sihui’s eye as she slipped down Yatux’s arm and leaped to the ground. She rather suspected Sihui intended to initiate an un-starching process at the appointed hour. Passing on whispers could be most agreeable, she concluded, abuzz with delight. Job done. The rest was up to them.
At the very instant her paws touched the tough, mossy footing, King Xan came bursting out of his tent, bawling, “Whisper! Where’s the Whisper?”
“Right here, o King,” she said promptly. “You forgot your –”
“Whisper! You must go evacuate the hamlet!”
“– shorts,” she finished. “At once, King Xan. Why?”
“The Dragons will attack there, or if they cannot use hostages against us, they will attack at the bridge beyond Sunidar.”
“Cloak for His Majesty!” snapped Whisper. Sihui dashed inside the tent.
Xan said crisply, “They will have a bolt-hole or some escape route already planned. The timing is critical, Whisper. Those dragonets you mentioned, those that flew from the Bracer-giant crack once you had triggered Sanfuri’s traps, those were the warning. Don’t stare, you gormless furball! Don’t think that just because I look like I’m sleeping, I’m not actually listening.” Then, he smiled wryly as Sihui threw a cloak over his shoulders, hiding his nakedness. “Oh. That’s the curse of my gift. Will you go, Whisper? Their lives depend upon it.”
She bowed. “With all speed.”
“I’m sorry I snapped at … oh,” he said again, probably watching a blur of russet fur heading out of the encampment.
* * * *
Whisper ran as she had never run before. She knew the trail. She had every rock and turn, every descent and shortcut blazed in her mind. That was the only mercy, the factor which had allowed the Humans to make progress that satisfied the Queen, for they did not need to repeat any of the mistakes she had made before, or backtrack from blind canyons and trail portions buried beneath landslides. She whipped by poisonous, sneaking drakkids and inquisitive frill-tailed bush-dragonets with abandon, not waiting about for their carnivorous instincts to ignite before she shook the dust off her paws. She did, however, pause when a group of lime-green Arboreal Dragons blocked the trail ahead, demanding to know what trouble the Whisper was running from, this time?
She skidded to a halt. “Dragons. I thank you for your aid, last time I passed through.”
“We were only protecting our territory,” said a large male.
“Well, I was protecting the Whisper even if you weren’t, you old flame-fart,” said one of the females.
“Smoke-breath.”
“Grizzled old tangle-claws.”
Whisper observed this exchange with surprise, then burst out laughing as the two Arboreals twined necks fondly, chorusing, “I love your wings!”
Another of the Arboreals, a twelve-foot male with the characteristic leaf-patterned scales of his kind, a perfect camouflage in shades of green, mock-snapped toward her. “Are you laughing at us, you walking fang-cleaner?”
Boldly, she returned, “Oh, pack it away, numb-gums – and, before you ask, I don’t love you.”
The Dragons, including the one who had threatened her, fell about laughing. Shortly, they asked her about her mission, and why the tearing hurry? Immediately following her reply, the older male growled, “Well, that’s Arboreal territory.”
“Our cousins’ territory,” his mate corrected.
“Huh. I’m not senile yet, unlike you, you hoary, armoured slug,” he snorted. “That’s cousin Maxurbranch, isn’t it?”
“No, Yantobrach claims the territory over the hairless monkeys’ rock-house,” argued his mate.
“Oh, little Yantobranch?”
“He’s bigger than you, you decrepit fungus-farm.”
The old Dragon laughed, “Is that why you keep scratching your armpits, because you store last year’s snacks under there?”
“I love your wings!” They nuzzled each other fondly.
Several of the younger Arboreals rolled their fire-eyes extravagantly and argued between themselves, or advised Whisper that this was normal behaviour from their sunstrike-mad parents, but with a territorial invasion in the offing, there was only one answer. These Dragons would visit their relatives, today – just to see if there might not be a fun battle to sink their talons into.
All help, couched in insults or not, was definitely most welcome.
I am impertinent!
These moments of self-discovery were definitely not following a salubrious trend, Whisper told herself sternly, showing the Arboreal Dragons a clean pair of heels. They charged off in several directions, some to ‘sound the tree-drums’, whatever those were, which apparently would summon various other colonies of cousins to battle. It appeared that there would be outright family war if the right protocols were not observed, such as not sharing the good news of a nice all-claws-flying brawl, she assumed.
For four hours longer, Whisper charged through canyon and tunnel, crossing two rock-bridges that might have provided buttresses for Human hamlets, and scaling a rockslide that shifted beneath her weight and almost dumped her into a fast-flowing river. Trail-signs rushed past her, as fast as her regrets. Why had she not stopped, even briefly, at Sunidar on the way out? Arborites were famously as stubborn as only axe-wielders could be, according to Xan, while Rhyme had described Azarinthine ways as ‘subtle to the point of obfuscation’. Had she ever met Queen Xola, that subtle wielder of verbal clubs? Would the citizens of Sunidar believe her word, or only act with the benefit of a few fireballs to warm their backsides?
Sometimes, she did wish to be a Dragon. They had wings, fireballs and all the charm of ambulatory furnaces – but people did stop and listen to them. Petrified with fright, of course.
Nonetheless, her paws whispered upon the trail until the light clouds scudding above the canyons blushed pink on their undersides, and the world of gemstone-augmented radiance grew wondrous, flashing with crystal-refracted beams so thick she could almost sieve their light with her talons. Mystical auras and evocative aromas played against her senses, but Whisper had determined to play coy with what she had begun to call her world-sense. Aye, there was something. That something wooed her, shadowed her and flew down trails with her; it was present in a fragrant breeze or winked indigo hints off a mighty fandolite spar; it drummed beneath her paws flying over stone and loam, moss and water; it sang delicately in starlight chimes, but she pretended to ignore all of this. She absorbed instead. Everything, every trace, every hint – she breathed so deep, the ache in her lungs seemed to transfer to her tail, but she could not capture this elusive sense.
No mind. Whispers enjoyed games, unless they were the deadly sort played by Warlocks that involved cages, whips and severed tails.
At last she saw the low buttress, really just a wide shendite and mauve granite ledge jutting out of the side of a canyon eight miles deep, that sheltered the Human hamlet. No Dragons.
Whisper sagged with relief.
Less relieving was the argument she proceeded to have with the Arborites. Being a creature freshly plucked from legend did not count for as much as a finch’s tweet out here, nor did her threat to bring Princess Rhyme down on them with enormous prejudice. At least they dispatched a few scouts to check their surrounds while the rest of the village elders and warriors fell to arguing properly. Cue much flexing of muscles from both men and women, hands upon axes, and soon she was being ignored as they shouted back and forth:
“Rhyme? We got a Princess, now? You know something about a Princess?”
“It’s that snotty-nosed urchin used to march through here with her father, King whatsisname, isn’t it?”
“Ah, the girl who always played with axes?”
“Aye, that’s the one.”
“Pretty, she was,” the Chief put in.
“Aye, for shame, with your wife standing right here, you rock-chewing dolt!” Smack!
Whisper decided her diplomatic skills were sadly in need of refinement. Funny how all these blue-skinned people ap
peared so chunky in the frame after so many days spent with the tall, slender Azarinthe. They were not about to listen to a messenger who barely reached the height of the shiny belt buckles adorning their generous stomachs.
It was just as well, then, that a young girl burst into the gathering in the chief’s hut, yelling, “Fire! Fire on the columnside ridge! Dragons!”
“Take cover!” bellowed Chief Horine, evidently forgetting all about his winsome vision of a young Rhyme. “Gather the people and get them down into the tunnels! Defences! Catapults!” He rounded on Whisper. “Who’s behind this attack?”
“Sanfuri,” she growled.
The man stared down at her, his large hand twisting on the haft of his axe. “Why didn’t you just say so before?”
“Because you were too busy chattering at each other like a pack of idiot drakkids,” she burst out. “Ah, sorry. I meant –”
A huge gong resounded beneath the stone buttress, summoning the villagers to battle.
“Shut it, Whisper. We just weren’t listening – well, we sure are listening now.”
Perhaps her theory of Dragons and fireballs worked.
* * * *
Whisper stood with Chief Horine as he organised his defences. Now, she could appreciate Arborite stone architecture. The cosy hamlet’s tan sandstone block-houses were spread out beneath the buttress, but despite the cover, still had heavy slate roofs up top and walls that had to measure two feet thick. Each and every house was apparently connected by tunnels carved through solid rock, in the first instance for fleeing to a cave deeper within the cliff wall, which could be closed by Dragon-proof doors that were solid granite, five feet thick, and secondly, the tunnels were their fighting-base. She observed that the overhead buttress made the flying space treacherous even for the Dragonkind, while the hamlet also boasted five catapult emplacements located strategically around the edge of the village, only, these were the type of catapult that hurled Dragon-sized axes over decent distances.