The Onyx Dragon

by Marc Secchia

  “Bottomless,” said Leandrial, succinctly.

  “What’s that noise?” Pip shouted back. She felt as though she were talking underwater, but that did not stop a low, powerful rumbling from communicating to her ears and bones simultaneously.

  “A storm approaches. See that darkening in the North?”

  “A storm? You get storms here?”

  “Of course we do. The deeps were amazingly calm today. We were very fortunate. But we’ll need to hurry to stay ahead of that air-storm. There’s no good place to shelter this side and it’s better not to get caught in the open, because storms tend to stir up Hakkulids, and those are an unpleasant business altogether.”

  The notion that something might bring a threat-tremor to Leandrial’s voice performed nasty tricks with Pip’s intestines.

  Acerbically, mostly to deny her own fear, she asked, “So, ground-hugger, how do you propose to walk across a bottomless rift? Hitch a ride on one of those Hakkulids?”

  “Pray they don’t hitch a ride on us,” said her friend.

  “I have exclusive claim to the best transport across the Middle Sea!” Pip declared loftily.

  With a forced-sounding laugh, the Land Dragoness ran over the edge of the rift and, like a lizard on a wall, seemed to experience no trouble whatsoever chasing down a vertical surface. Pip felt the pressure escalate rapidly. In terse tones, Leandrial explained that she needed to dive to a depth where her body would find equilibrium. Then, she would simply swim across. There was also an increase in ambient noise and the abrupt wash of a pressure-front that tossed them from side to side, the first harbinger of the storm.

  Five or six vertical miles later she abruptly turned and launched off the side of the cliff-face. Bizarrely to Pip, all that monstrous tonnage of Land Dragon simply swam through the air. Leandrial was flying, in her own way. Undulating her body powerfully, the Dragoness swam along with concerted strokes of her cupped forepaws and hind-paws, displaying far more urgency than at any point in their journey so far.

  Will you snarl at me if I offer my strength? Pip asked.

  Yes! Please!

  Well, there was an answer. Typically draconic. Taking care not to disturb her shielding, which was creaking at the invisible seams under the pressure, she reached for the Onyx. More familiar now, yet still amazing. Leandrial’s entire body vibrated with her growl of satisfaction as she doubled the frequency of her paw-strokes, the thick air washing across her body like a river, her mouth shut and that eye no doubt gleaming with power. Pip found herself increasingly better attuned to the Dragoness’ harmonic magic; with understanding came a stronger linkage, and with that mental linkage, sight of a type Chymasion had tried to describe to her, the world described in elemental white-fires, the key to draconic life.

  What–what are you doing to my sight? the Land Dragon gasped.

  Uh … sorry, was that me?

  Was that you? Leandrial’s strident tone reflected the strain of her physical effort. Don’t meddle in my mind!

  I’m connecting, not meddling, Pip said, a blunt bludgeon of denial. What’s that shaking?

  Storm’s incoming. Much faster than I expected. Any other clever tricks in those little paws of yours? A Command?

  She supposed she could try to stop a storm two leagues tall and twenty wide, which Leandrial’s vision showed looming on their starboard flank. Pip had imagined wind or waves; what she saw was bands of compression and streaks representing winds fanning out before it; the white-fires intruded again, showing her a scattering of blobs trailing long tendrils or tentacles riding deep in the storm’s belly.

  Hold that vision, Leandrial snapped. I had no idea you could detect Hakkulids inside a rift-storm. Fascinating use of magic, little one.

  Pip studied the creatures apprehensively. Are they Dragons?

  They’re hive-mind Dragons, of relatively low intelligence and high aggression. What you think of as one creature is in reality many linked organisms acting as one. The blob is a central or focal mass controlled by the minds of the creatures that make up those thick filaments you see, thousands upon thousands in number.

  With her rising state of battle-readiness, Leandrial’s mental voice crackled with energy and authority. They’re opportunistic swarm-attackers which we need to avoid if at all possible. The strategy is to swarm, stick to and overwhelm the victim’s magical defences, followed by slowly burning into the hide by use of mandibles armed with the most potent acid known to the Dragonkind. It will eat anything, including unprotected Dragon scales. Hold tight, little one.

  Roaring rajals, hold onto what? The inside of her mouth? A strange race developed, with the Land Dragon wriggling along like a dyspeptic snake trapped in a tank of water while the storm gathered momentum from the North, already pushing them off course. Shortly, Leandrial gave up fighting to keep their heading five compass points north of west and slipped more and more into running with the storm, following Pip’s prompts to keep them one step ahead of the as-yet-unseen Hakkulids. A low keening of wind built up without to accompany Leandrial’s low growls of effort, while a tang of ozone reached Pip’s nostrils through her heavy shielding. Lightning to come.

  A heavy buffeting began, slewing them off course as the storm rushed on in all its fury. The Land Dragon swam with smoother strokes, riding the waves of dense, faintly acrid air; lightning crackled all around them but as with most Dragons, atmospheric lightning appeared to pose little immediate danger. Darkness did not matter to a Land Dragon. Her eyesight cut through light or dark with equal facility. Meantime, storm-riding Hakkulids swished by above and below, trailing those long tendrils like spiders anticipating a touch upon their web to trigger the descent upon a hapless insect followed by a deadly, paralysing bite. The wind still strengthened, a cruel, fickle master. Debris knocked into them, bits of plants and leaves and even a brief peppering of small stones.

  Pip gasped, They’re tracking your magic, Leandrial!

  Ay. But I can’t see otherwise …

  It stood to reason that predators down here would rely on magical detection, Pip realised. Leandrial’s unique eye-magic, so effective before, had now become a liability. The great Dragoness jinked and thrashed wildly, dodging several Hakkulids. Pip sensed a great number of draconic minds about them, noting the way that the individual Hakkulids hung together in neat braids to form the tentacles many hundreds of mini-Dragons long, the way their minds seemed to mesh together to form a greater whole in a similar way to how she and Silver had practised joining together to become a more effective battle-unit. Tentacles waved, pushing the creatures through the storm winds. They were not very effective at manoeuvring, but they were many, coming on in thick numbers, reaching out eagerly as they sailed by.

  Leandrial was wrong. These Dragons were smart–perhaps dullards in ones and twos, but in the swarm, the hive-mind became a greater entity, as if the individual nodes acted like the fiery neurons of a Dragon-brain one of her school textbooks had described.

  Should they hide behind a shield, Leandrial would be blind.

  The Dragoness arched her back, allowing three blue-grey tendrils to pass tantalisingly close to her stomach. Another creature avoided. They were right in the storm’s howling belly now, fighting to keep their orientation. The Land Dragon drew relentlessly on her small passenger’s power, muttering that they were making progress and beating the storm, when suddenly, a mighty downdraught caused Leandrial to shear off her intended path. Just a touch sank them; a mere graze of her right knee against one of those Hakkulid tentacles. The entire creature responded as though jolted by lightning. Pip detected adhesion. Dozens of pinpricks of magic stuck fast, tethering the Dragon-units while hundreds more broke their grip on each other to swarm down that tentacle toward Leandrial, chittering hungrily as they came.

  Two more tentacles curved over her back, latching on with ghastly ease despite the wind’s force. A cold tide rippled over the Land Dragon’s hindquarters. Leandrial thrashed wildly, knocking tens of grey or grey-blue mini-Dr
agons into the raging gloom, but there were thousands rushing over her now as the original form of the creature collapsed, the individuals fighting each other like a colony of disturbed cockroaches to swarm their much larger quarry.

  Hundreds of talons became thousands. Reforming in a coat of living armour over the Land Dragon’s hide, the Hakkulid army attacked!

  Chapter 29: Dragons a-Brewing

  FOR MANY LONG minutes, Pip and Leandrial battled to shore up their shield. Meantime the Land Dragon curled up on herself, using the emitted force of her eye to knock many mini-Dragons loose–her power overwhelmed minds or caused nervous systems to overload, putting individual creatures into shock. Clumps of Dragons fell away into the storm. But the hive-mind adjusted. The creatures spread out to maximise the area of attack. They began to pulse in tandem, successive waves that built on each other. Pip dropped most of her own shielding to focus on helping Leandrial, but her own power was limited and still not entirely recovered from her torture. She groaned, crying, Fra’anior … could even that great strength be overwhelmed? She was not an Ancient Dragon. She was the smallest yet the most stubborn, one whose will would never yield to these creatures, whose headache exploded in blinding white light as she drew deeper and deeper …

  Gritting her fangs, Pip endured far beyond the point of reason. Leandrial’s thrashing became a dull, distant thing, her pain a counterpoint to Pip’s own, the roaring of the storm just a faraway vibration felt somewhere in the base of her ear-canals. No! She could not allow the fate of her Island-World to hinge on an attack by these creatures! She could not.

  The inner search turned to her memories of the cave beneath the Crescent Islands. Commands and constructs flashed through her mind. Blue-star. Laughter. Starlight given voice. She yearned as a drowning swimmer for the light above the water, the clean, clear air; the beauty of starlight caressing the great dark strength she wielded now … yearning for a new Dragonsong of magic, rooted in the hitherto unexplored second part of her heritage. Light from darkness. Laughter from pain. The power that had transported a Pygmy girl beyond the Marshal’s ability to hurt her and keep her captive. The voice of that most ancient, most life-giving of magic. Starlight.

  Her voice struck her ears as the deep, drawn-out groan of an earthquake. LIGHT!

  She gave all she had, funnelling it through Leandrial’s shielding. Luminosity pierced her flesh, exquisitely beautiful. Riven right through the Land Dragon’s body, she saw beams of light haloing her enormous companion as if another Dragon of even greater size, a Dragon of pure light, expanded from her flesh in all directions, running with them through the storm. The Hakkulid armour did not peel away. It vaporised.

  You found me. The delighted, musical interjection seemed to reach her awareness from a million leagues distant.

  Then there was laughter and a soft, helpless falling forward into darkness.

  Pip welcomed it.

  * * * *

  Marshal Re’akka’s hand swept across the map-table. “All the Dragons in the Island-World have converged on the Academy, seeking refuge. Poor, blind fools.”

  Silver, together with the thirty-four other Shapeshifters of his family arranged in a wide arc around a sparsely furnished conference room, stood to attention, giving his fullest attention as the Marshal expounded his strategy for the forthcoming battle. Each family member was a Wing-Commander responsible for a Dragonwing numbering three hundred Dragon Assassins. A further one hundred Dragons comprised the Marshal’s personal bodyguard, led by Silver in recognition of his unique powers and ability to shield the Marshal from any sneak attacks by a certain firebrand.

  What if Re’akka learned Silver had no such intention? Did he suspect treachery?

  Not for the first time, Silver thought back to the magical command-word he had suffered to be placed into his psyche, a word which could kill him instantly. Only Kassik and Ga’am knew it; Pip had refused the knowledge. What if that word came to light? Telisia and Rambastion were on another secret mission, one his shell-father had carefully failed to mention in all their conversations, and so far in this briefing. Silver knew better than to bring up the subject. He constantly evaluated his shielding, his actions, his responses, and every nuance of his body language, intonation and gestures when he answered any question. He must be perfect. Yet still, Marshal Re’akka had his intuition.

  Just as he displayed now. “The Pygmy Dragoness lives,” said the Marshal, rubbing his neck as if the hairs there had told him a tale. “I sense we shall meet the Onyx at Jeradia. I felt a great shift in the magical aether, somewhere here.” He indicated a spot on the map perhaps three hundred leagues shy of Jeradia, out in the Middle Sea, a place otherwise unmarked and unremarkable. “She has faced grave danger and prevailed. Do you sense her fire-life through your special bond, Silver?”

  “I do not, shell-father.”

  The yellow eyes lit upon him, assessing, veiling the monstrous power of his mind. Silver hoped he saw conviction, courage and unshakable loyalty. “The traitor Zardon did.”

  “I am not Zardon.”

  His double-meaning was more than clear, boldly posited in the light of his father’s unspoken accusation. I am not a traitor. Every shade of his tone would come under examination like a gemstone being examined by a jeweller for hidden flaws.

  Re’akka turned his back, addressing the wall. “No, you are not. What do you sense, Silver?”

  He stiffened at the implied insult, that he was less than Zardon. Silver said, “I sense Shurgal, also, is not as dead as we would prefer.”

  “Shurgal? His part in this great game is, as yet, clouded to me.” The Marshal whirled abruptly, making Silver’s heart lurch into his throat. “He is alive?”

  Silver tried not to stare at the dark circles beneath his father’s eyes, which made him imagine a woodcarving being hollowed out from the inside. What burned him up so? What had Re’akka sacrificed for the power he wielded, and was he aware of the cost?

  However, the imperative in his father’s question was clear, expressed with draconic skill. Silver stepped forward, willing his knees to remain firm, his intuition to flower. Discipline was his forte, not intuition. He was not Pip. She was a hothouse of emotions, a storm in a goblet as they said in Herimor. He might better contain a lightning-bolt in his paw than try to command her.

  Staring down at the map, Silver willed his rudimentary intuition forth. Maybe there was something. Maybe the Marshal’s heritage did run in his veins, much as he hated the idea. A spark.

  Silver’s finger stabbed out. “Here, shell-father. Heading toward Elidia.”

  “I concur.”

  Just two words, and he enjoyed full restoration. A cold sweat of relief broke out on his forehead. Silver willed it not to shine forth like a beacon as he stepped back into his assigned position. What did the rest of the family think about a Shapeshifter with whitish-silver hair and silver eyes, he wondered? Not one had shown him the slightest regard, apart from fear. That fear was deeply hidden but present, the suspicion that Silver possessed mental powers just like his father’s, that he was being groomed for leadership above them. So, the battles did not stop in the nursery. Fierce joy made Silver’s eyes flash, just once, as he glanced about the room. Let them quiver!

  Re’akka turned his briefing to the disposition of their forces and the timing of a potential attack. Three days. Three more to cross the remaining leagues of the Middle Sea, and then they would arrive at Jeradia.

  Could Pip detect him? Would she recognise the Dragonsong of his hearts?

  * * * *

  Pygmies said that when the body slept, it was preparation for life. When the soul slept, life grew within a Pygmy.

  Thus it was that when Pip woke and felt a cool breeze upon her cheek mingling with the warm, redolent breath of a Land Dragon, she felt as though she had slept a thousand years and woken in a world subtly changed from what had been before. She stretched lazily, yawning so widely her jaw made a popping noise. Unnnnhhhh …

  Leandrial
stirred. Awake at last, little one?

  Where are we?

  Below your Jeradia, at the base of the cliffs on the northern flank, at an altitude suited to your thin-air-loving kind, replied the Dragoness, helpfully. One day and a half I ran, bringing us from the rift to your home. And now I must depart and find fire-springs for healing, for I sense that Shurgal will soon reappear to trouble us once more.

  Pip glanced about, inordinately pleased to find herself lying on a flat granite boulder beneath a huge overhang that almost dipped into the Cloudlands. The day was fine, the hour, near noon. Leandrial must have brought her here and placed her on this rock. She had journeyed to the bottom of the world–well, near enough–and returned to her realm above the Cloudlands.

  Impossible! The Pygmy Dragoness smiled ferociously. No, she would neither ignore nor deny that word any longer. She would celebrate it!

  Leandrial, how can I thank you enough?

  Just above the lapping clouds beneath that overhang, a massive draconic smile curved the Land Dragon’s moss-green lips. The single eye turned upon her, its beautiful magic dulled by exhaustion but very much alive. I’d ask you for just one little favour. An Egg.

  I promise. Pip laughed, holding out her paws as if it were somehow physically possible to hug a Land Dragon. If it is at all in my power, I promise it shall be done.

  If it is at all in my power, I promise I shall deal with Shurgal and return to help you against this Marshal, said Leandrial. How do you say farewell? Fly strong and true?

  And for Leandrial–clear skies? Clear Cloudlands? Flying Land Dragons? Smiling back, Pip said, I say, shall we be friends?

  Leandrial’s right forepaw rose to mimic Pip’s gesture. Carefully, she touched the tip of her non-retractable talon to the tip of Pip’s first talon, the equivalent of the Human forefinger. Having braved death together, friends forever.