Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons)

by Secchia, Marc

  Aranya

  Shapeshifter Dragons Book 1

  By Marc Secchia

  Copyright © 2014 Marc Secchia

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.marcsecchia.com

  Dedication

  To Angela in memoriam,

  Who flew to the heavens far too soon,

  Hers was a spirit that soared.

  Table of Contents

  Aranya

  Dedication

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Exiled

  Chapter 2: The Windroc

  Chapter 3: The Tower of Sylakia

  Chapter 4: A Minor War

  Chapter 5: The Butcher of Jeradia

  Chapter 6: Changeling

  Chapter 7: Reborn

  Chapter 8: Fledgling

  Chapter 9: The Raid

  Chapter 10: Rider

  Chapter 11: Remoy

  Chapter 12: The Third War-Hammer

  Chapter 13: Dragon Lore

  Chapter 14: War

  Chapter 15: Hunted

  Chapter 16: The Chase

  Chapter 17: The Net Closes

  Chapter 18: Treason

  Chapter 19: Fra’anior

  Chapter 20: Testing

  Chapter 21: Race to Sylakia

  Chapter 22: Betrayed

  Chapter 23: The Spits

  Chapter 24: Powers

  Chapter 25: Origins

  Chapter 26: Magma Dragon

  Chapter 27: Immadia

  Chapter 28: Reunion

  Chapter 29: Hunting the Hunters

  Chapter 30: Dragonship Battle

  Chapter 31: Shapeshifter

  Chapter 32: Aftermath

  Chapter 33: Mysteries

  Appendix

  About the Author

  Chapter 1: Exiled

  Aranya observed the impending destruction of her kingdom.

  Slow, curiously beautiful, backlit by the splendour of a perfect dawn over the endless cloudscapes hanging above and below her position on the battlements of Immadia castle’s highest tower, the approaching dots promised destruction nonetheless.

  Inevitable, overwhelming destruction.

  They looked like a line of children’s paper balloons hanging out there in the great void, balloons which the children lit and sent heavenward every Iridith Day, the day of the winter solstice–only these would soon loom much larger. Aranya had lost count over the sixty mark. So many! A full-scale invasion. A force the Kingdom of Immadia could not hope to withstand. Annihilation was assured, unless Aranya, Princess of Immadia, bound herself into exile in the land of the barbarous Sylakians, her one life in exchange for many.

  Her quick ears caught a stealthy footstep on the stones behind her. She knew that tread. Her father had come.

  “Sparky,” he said, using his favourite nickname for her, yet it rang through her being as a single dolorous note struck upon sorrow’s gong. “You shouldn’t be standing out here in the cold.”

  “I don’t feel cold.”

  The King’s hands settled a warm ralti-wool cloak upon her shoulders. “You never feel the cold, do you, Aranya? Just like your mother. Now, what’s so important it merits me leaping out of my warm bed to face the dawn?”

  Aranya felt his hands hesitate before leaving her shoulders. Her tone softened. “Thank you for coming, Dad. I appreciate it more than you know.”

  There was a lingering silence between them that spoke of years of misunderstandings, of clashes and remonstrations, of duty and pain and loss, but most of all, of a love held soul-deep. King Beran’s sigh, as he came to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his tall, sixteen summers-old daughter, spoke of all this and more.

  At length, with a fluid gesture, Aranya directed her father’s gaze to the south-eastern horizon, to the line of dots traversing the vast, pockmarked face of the yellow moon called Iridith, just above the roiling, grey-green soup of the deathly Cloudlands. A soft gasp escaped her father’s lips; a tremor shook his frame. Unconsciously, the King shifted closer to her. When she glanced at him, Aranya was startled to see a tear trickling down her father’s bearded cheek.

  He never cried.

  “The day has come,” she said. Her heart bled for Immadia, but even more so for him. Her fate was trivial compared to what might yet be. “Father, the people will need all of your strength now.”

  “I grieve for you, daughter. Do I have your permission–?”

  “You’re asking my will in this?” Aranya tried and failed to keep the surprise out of her voice. “I know my duty, Father. The one life–”

  “For the many, aye,” Beran said, his voice taut with emotion, “and an end to a conflict which has bled Immadia dry these past twelve summers. How many Dragonships, Sparky? Eighty? A hundred? Each carries fifty warriors. Thousands of Sylakian warriors. Ever since our ally Rolodia Island fell and many of our Dragonships with her, we knew this day would come. How did you know? Did you … sense it?”

  “I woke early.”

  “We both know the truth of that.” Suddenly he clasped her close, a hug as unexpected as it was welcome. “Aye, I’m asking, because I regret neglecting you so much of late. I understand the anger burning within you. I beg your forgiveness.”

  He’d been wrapped up in his new marriage to Silha, lately Princess of Yaloi Island and now Queen of Immadia, and the twin boys who had soon followed, the new heirs to the realm, which passed through the male succession. Silha was pregnant again. Aranya felt a stab of shame. “And I was jealous, utterly beastly to you all–I love my little brothers, Dad, truly I do. It’s just that I miss Mom so … I’m sorry I made it so hard for you. I won’t make this hard, I promise.”

  The King held her at arm’s length now. There was an unshuttered quality in his gaze that struck her with a depth of vulnerability and pride she had never seen in him before. Suddenly, she was afraid of what he was thinking. She realised that her gaze was almost level with his, now. Her father was not a short man. How had she not noticed?

  “This used to be your mother’s favourite hideout,” he said. “Izariela loved heights, too. Always the heights. Many mornings, I’d find her up here on this tower I named for her, clad in just a thin shift no matter how bitter the cold. She’d be watching the Cloudlands, writing her poetry. I never understood how she could find toxic clouds so inspirational. She once told me she dreamed of flying out there; flying as wild and free as a Dragon. She loved Dragons, like someone else I know.”

  Aranya gave a tiny snort of amusement.

  “Sparky was her nickname for you. She said you were born with fire inside of you, even though you’re a Northerner.”

  “I’m sorry I burned your tapestry last week, Dad.”

  “I know you are. Your mother once burned half my beard off. That took some explaining to the court.” The King sighed deeply. “I never told you, but she was assassinated–poisoned. I’m sorry you were the one to find her.”

  “The scaly lizard-skin, the bleeding … I was only little, but it’s burned in my memory.”

  “Aye. A poison so uncommon it was never identified, nor did we ever discover the truth of the matter, Aranya. Your mother was murdered. That’s all we know.”

  He had never told her. She had always believed the story about a rare sickness; she should have known. Aranya realised what her father was saying. His words marked her as an adult, an equal. She was ready to hear these things. As the armada of dirigible Dragonships waxed against Iridith’s sallow immensity, the moon called Jade peeking from behind it like a shy child clu
tching its mother’s skirts, and dawn’s light burnished Immadia town’s speckled-granite walls and towers into searing glory, Aranya saw her fate blazoned there too. Portents filled the world.

  Today, everything would change. Whether for good or for ill, no-one could know. But ill would come first.

  “You miss her, too.”

  “Aye,” he said again, very softly. “You nearly killed yourself trying to heal her. That was the first time I realised you had powers, Sparky.”

  She said, bitterly, “Your daughter’s sorry she’s an enchant–”

  “Nonsense.” The King seemed surprised he had shaken her so hard. But he rushed on, “This Island-World might be hostile to magic, Aranya, but let’s not you or I ever deny your gifts. Even the fire is a gift.”

  Was it? Aranya was not so certain.

  Beran said, “If you need permission, and if it is mine to give–I grant you that permission now. Be who you are, daughter. Find your destiny; grasp it with both hands. Denial can only lead to pain.”

  “But all an enchantress will earn out there, is death.”

  “Unless she finds a better, nobler path,” he counselled, wisely. “And if you crisp a few Sylakian beards in the doing, will I not rejoice?”

  Aranya laughed.

  “Come. I’ve a thousand orders to issue before those dirigibles arrive. We’ll seal your paintings in the secret caverns, together with the great treasures of Immadia Island.”

  “My paintings are hardly a great treasure, Dad.”

  “I’m the King; I get to decide.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “I don’t say it enough, Sparky, but I’m so proud of you, I’m surprised my heart doesn’t puff up and fly off over the Cloudlands of its own accord.”

  “Now you’re just being silly.”

  “I’m your father; I get to decide.” Putting his arm around her shoulders, the King led her back to the narrow staircase which led down into the castle. “You’re the fair image of your mother, Aranya. You take after her in beauty–definitely not your father.”

  “But if I could summon half of your courage, Dad …”

  “I’ll have to take down the Immadian flag,” said the King, glancing at the twenty-foot flagpole gracing the southern edge of Izariela’s Tower. “Sylakian red will fly there, tomorrow. Blood red.”

  As one, they looked back at the suns-rise, as the crowns of the twin suns made their dazzling appearance almost simultaneously over the eastern Cloudlands. The Dragonships were visibly larger, taking form and shape as they beat against the prevailing wind toward the Island of Immadia, one of the most northerly Islands in the Island-World. In the courtyard far below, a soldier began to strike the warning gong with ferocious blows.

  Dong! Dong! Dong!

  Again and again, he pounded the great brass gong, waking the people of Immadia to their new future.

  The King said, “This is a terrible day for our people, Aranya. But all I can think is that nothing will ever fill the hole your loss will tear in my heart.”

  * * * *

  Toward noon of the same day, fifty-strong Hammers of Sylakian warriors began to file into the castle’s courtyard with a heavy tread. Rank after rank of red-robed, helmeted warriors, armed with the two-handed Sylakian war hammers they favoured, marched in with a show of discipline that was as rigid as it was chilling. In her mind’s eye, Aranya had pictured smoke and looting and smirking warriors hauling Immadian women into dark doorways; children screaming and hammers rising and falling as they dealt death, death, death.

  There was none of that.

  The great dirigibles, called Dragonships, shaded the castle with their oblong shadows. One hundred and fifty feet long, the huge, multi-segmented hydrogen sacks, surrounded by netting, supported a pod beneath for cargo or warriors–up to fifty men in ships as large as these. A Hammer per ship–that was the rule. Gantries ran the length of the starboard and port sides of the cabin. The fore and aft gantries usually held one or more war crossbows, huge weapons capable of shooting a six-foot quarrel accurately over distances of two hundred feet and more. The head of a screaming windroc, the symbol of Sylakia, was stitched upon their bulging sides, and adorned the breastplate of every Sylakian warrior. Archers bristled on the gantries overhead. The massive war crossbows were fully drawn, ready to rain burning missiles on the city at the slightest hint of resistance.

  Aranya stood at her father’s right hand, a step to the rear, beside the huge green flag of surrender stretched out in the courtyard, where it could not be missed from the air. Darron, Commander of the Castle and the most senior ranking officer of the Immadian forces, stood to her father’s left. His grey eyes missed nothing. Aranya had known the grizzled Commander since she could remember. He glanced at her now and nodded, seeming to say, ‘Strength, Princess.’ She nodded back.

  Green flags fluttered above the battlements. The Sylakians would respect those flags. Surrender meant life. Rolodia Island had chosen to fight. The Sylakian squads had butchered every last man, woman and child. They slaughtered the cattle and herds, and poisoned the terraced lakes. Then they burned everything. Nothing remained of Rolodia but ashes on the wind.

  Everyone in the Island-World knew how the Sylakians had conquered the Islands above the Cloudlands. Only Herimor, a huge cluster of Island-Kingdoms south of the emptiness called the Rift, held out. No-one dared to invade Herimor. Spits of rock frequented by men said to fly the untameable windrocs, mad enchanters, dozens of active volcanoes, and Islands that changed position with the moons–far more fable than fact surrounded Herimor. There were other Islands above the Cloudlands, she reminded herself, others north even of Immadia, and far toward the eastern suns-rise, which were too small and poor to attract conquest. After all, the meriatite rock they burned to produce hydrogen to float the Dragonships was rare and expensive. Invasion was a costly business.

  Meriatite was why the Sylakians were here.

  The warriors marched into position until they surrounded the square on all four sides. Suddenly, they crashed to one knee. They beat the hafts of their war hammers against the flagstones, a brisk cadence forming a single great drumbeat. The clear, sweet trump of Sylakian war horns rang through the din. The crescendo rolled thunderously around the square.

  Suddenly, silence descended like a shout.

  “Ignathion, First War-Hammer of Sylakia!” bellowed one of the warriors.

  “IGNATHION!” A thousand mailed fists struck armoured breastplates.

  A bear of a man strode into the square. Well over six feet tall and broad-shouldered, the deliberate tramp of his boots seemed to shake the ground–although Aranya knew that was impossible. He looked about, briefly, dark of skin and darker of eye, before marching right up to the green flag. He frowned at the King of Immadia.

  With a rustling of feet and garments the King of Immadia, his Queen, Princess Aranya and every non-Sylakian person present prostrated themselves, arms outflung, in the posture of abject surrender. The silence became as thick as blood.

  The man said, “I am Ignathion, First War-Hammer of Sylakia, conqueror of a thousand Islands.” He hardly needed to raise his voice to fill the courtyard. “I see that Immadia has chosen the path of wisdom this day. In the name of the Supreme Commander of Sylakia, I accept the surrender of Immadia Island.”

  Aranya felt War-Hammer’s gaze as a crushing weight. She dared not breathe.

  “Let it be known that your treacherous alliance with Rolodia Island will not be forgotten, nor forgiven,” Ignathion growled. “For that you will pay dearly, I assure you. Arise, King Beran. Your service to Sylakia has begun.”

  Her father rose. Aranya stood, too.

  “Who do you offer of your household, King Beran?”

  Beran cleared his throat. “In accordance with the customs of war, I offer my daughter, the Princess Aranya of Immadia, to be your hostage, First War-Hammer.”

  Only she knew what that cost her father.

  As she stepped forward, Ignathion looked her over with a curl of his li
p, as though she were nothing more than chattels amongst the loot of his conquest. Aranya masked her anxiety and vexation. She knew he would see a tall, slender young woman, garbed in a flowing violet dress of Helyon silk, the colour of the Immadian royal household, with her braided hair wrestled into a hairnet beneath the obligatory, face-framing headscarf that hid every last strand from public view. Her dress was proper, typical of all women of the Islands, but perhaps finer than most, for the public show of a woman’s hair was seen as unseemly. He could find no fault in her appearance, that much was certain.

  But her hair was another matter she had not mentioned to her father, along with the fact that her powers were growing–growing to the point of being uncontrollable. Aranya withheld a grimace. Crazy hair; crazy powers. The Sylakians had no idea what kind of hostage she might prove to be.

  It was scant comfort.

  “A pretty trophy for my trophy room,” boomed Ignathion. “Take her away. Chain her in my Dragonship.”

  Fury speared into Aranya at his choice of words. A trophy? Another animal’s head to stuff and mount on his wall? Fire crackled across her vision. As always, her anger made heat ignite within her body, a fiery windstorm that she must at all costs restrain … Aranya glanced to the skies as she shuddered, fighting to damp her rage.

  She saw a dozen dirigibles anchored above the city. Many more, well over a hundred Dragonships, bobbed outside the walls. Most had been emptied of their cargo of warriors, who had taken strategic positions in and around the city. But one Dragonship caught her attention. It flew the banner of the Crimson Hammers, Sylakia’s famously brutal first regiment; legendary warriors who were said to drink the blood of their victims in battle. Quicker than thought, a curl of fire slipped beyond her control.

  BRAAAAOOOOMM!

  The Dragonship detonated in a ball of fire.

  Burning cloth and bits of rope and wood rained down on the city. Echo upon echo rolled back from the frozen mountains flanking Immadia’s capital city to the north and west.