“She says she feels much better,” Zip clarified.
“The wound’s visibly better,” Aranya said. “Can I eat now? Dragon-sized hunger.”
“You deserve it, you pig. I mean, the pig.” Zip tittered and looked pleased at her joke.
“Oh, very funny, Zip.”
Chapter 11: Remoy
The following evening, as the multiple overlapping rainbows of the storm’s aftermath faded into a vast, deepening night, the Princesses of Remoy and Immadia continued their southward journey along the slow curve of the Crescent. At dawn they found another resting place, and continued late the following afternoon. The Islands were all swathed in jungle, varying a little in height and character. A further three nights’ travel brought them to the end of the Crescent. Here they sighted the inhabited Island of Germodia, an Island which had long been a Sylakian ally and supplied them with many of their troops.
They also found trouble.
“Dragonships,” said Aranya, trying not to sound too dispirited, scanning the Island ahead as she turned parallel to the enemy line. “Heaps of them, lined up along our route.”
“We should detour?” said Zip. “Can you manage the flight?”
“I’ll try, but you do remember how Nak drew the map, don’t you?”
“I’ve been this way a few times,” Zuziana reminded her. “Did you have any idea the South was so large?”
“No idea at all,” Aranya admitted. “But the journey from Immadia to Sylakia is fifteen days on its own. My home’s a million leagues from here.”
“Remoy isn’t that southerly, Aranya. There’s still heaps of Islands before the Rift. Do we make the jump over to Tyrodia Island?”
“I guess. But we’d be flying in the daylight.”
They decided to take the risk.
Aranya winged directly eastward now, making a long, long loop around the line of Dragonships which had been spread out to cast the Sylakian net far and wide. Telling herself that no Dragonship could blockade a Dragon, Aranya flew for hour after hour, eventually leaving the Dragonships far behind. Then she swung to the south.
But the situation was repeated at Tyrodia.
“I wish I knew their colours,” said Zuziana. “This might be an invasion fleet headed to the south, or they might be looking for us. Should we be flattered, seeing how the sky’s crawling with Sylakians like fleas on an unfortunate cat? How are you feeling, Aranya?”
“I need to rest.” They had been aloft for a night and much of the following morning with hardly any pause.
“Then let’s stick to the plan.”
Aranya arrowed in low over the Cloudlands, hoping against hope that the Dragonships would be looking upward to the clouds above. She breathed a sigh of relief when they reached Tyrodia Island, but it was very low Island with no cliffs behind which to hide. She quickly climbed over the first peninsula, before furling her wings and dropping sharply into a forest clearing. She crawled beneath cover, where Zip alighted.
They both checked the thickness of the foliage above them.
“That was close,” said Zip. “Are you alright, you poor thing?”
“Let me catch my breath. I could do with a stream.”
Zuziana eyed her with concern. Aranya wanted to be cross with her, but could only stand and pant for a while. She felt as though she had run the annual summer foot-race through the Immadian mountains.
“Shall I go scout?”
Aranya shook her head. “Stay close, Zip. I sense danger. Let’s just lay low for a bit.”
Despite her better intentions, Aranya fell asleep almost the instant her head touched the ground. She dropped off telling herself that the flight had been too much. Nak had been right, again. Juvenile Dragons just did not have the strength to stay aloft for long periods of time.
She dreamed of fire, of burning the forest around her in a rage which had no source or reason. She dreamed of Garthion. Later on, her dream mellowed into fond memories of playing dolls and Dragons with her mother on the thick pile rug in her bedroom.
Aranya awoke to find a wetness on her nose. Dragons cried?
“Search the forest,” she heard. “This one matches the description, no matter what story she spins. We’ll take her to the War-Hammer. Guard her well, you three.”
Zip!
Heat exploded from her belly into her throat. With an effort, Aranya swallowed it down again. Was this her Dragon fire? It would not do to burn the dry forest now. Her Rider was in terrible danger. Her claws flexed and tore the ground at the thought. She imagined ripping the entrails out of Sylakian warriors as they screamed for mercy, claws slashing and teeth chomping through armour and … oh dear. She was thinking like a Dragon, ferocious and vengeful thoughts; thoughts that stunned her with their bloodthirsty passion.
Forty feet of lethal Dragon ought to scare the living pith out of those men.
She scented the forest. She extended her hearing. Ten men, perhaps a patrol. At least seven sets of boots tromped through the thicket they had chosen, beating the bushes with their hammers and daggers as they fanned out, searching. Aranya sank to her belly. Dragons could move quietly when needed. If only Zip would speak, she could orient on her friend. Could she make out Zip’s breathing and distinguish it from the men?
She filtered out the forest noises–three deer, a flock of wild ralti sheep, birds fleeing from the disturbance. One man was coming almost directly toward her. How did one hide a gemstone-bright Amethyst Dragon in a forest? She eased her claws into the ground to scoop up mounds of dirt and leaves. Aranya poured them over her back. No pause for vanity. She stole downhill to a small stream Zip must have found, wet herself in the mud, and repeated the exercise.
Should have done that first …
Aranya bellied along, catlike, searching the undergrowth with all her senses alert. There, that smell–she knew that smell. She almost giggled. After days of travelling, her friend could do with a wash. Her Dragon nose identified her specific odour amongst the skunksome odours of unwashed soldiers as though it were a pink flag waving in a sea of blue. Fantastic sense of smell, Dragons had–Nak’s descriptions did it little justice. A whole world of scents made itself known to her through her nostrils.
She froze as a warrior beat his way into her line of sight.
The man had no idea. He stomped toward her, making a phenomenal racket, until he stood almost beside her shoulder. He paused to take a look around. Aranya decided he must be some kind of local militia. He did not have the uniform of a Sylakian warrior, only a badge of a windroc badly sewn onto his leather tunic.
Never mind. Aranya raised her paw and hammered him to the ground.
Oops. She had broken his neck, meaning only to stun him.
That was not her proudest moment–but Aranya knew that to rescue Zuziana might mean more killing. The Dragon in her had no trouble with that.
An ambulatory pile of mud, sticks and leaves skulked through the forest.
She pushed her muzzle through a patch of bushes. There was Zuziana, looking despondent as a soldier lashed her hands behind her back with a hank of rope. Her eyes crinkled into a smile as she saw an amethyst orb wink at her from beneath a large white-currant bush.
Dragon-Aranya’s fury churned in her belly. They had her Rider. Before she knew it, she coiled and sprang out of the bushes, roaring and snapping and rending with her claws. The three men stood no chance. A precise strike of her claw shredded the ropes. Zip quickly wriggled free.
“You look pretty,” she quipped. “Sword, cloak … right, I’m ready.”
Aranya extended her foreleg. “Hurry. Where’s our equip–”
“On your back. As we agreed.” Zip strapped herself in as they rushed through the forest in search of a clearing. “Before I stupidly ignored your warning and wandered off.”
“Here. Hold on.”
Aranya sprang upward with an adrenalin-fuelled leap, trying to gain enough clearance for the first sweep of her wings. Taking off vertically was a skill she had yet to
master, due to the sheer power required to launch a Dragon’s bulk into the air.
“Watch out!”
Two mighty strokes of her wings lifted them clear of the forest. Her head butted into something soft.
“Dragonship,” yelled Zip.
Aranya heard the zing of Zip’s sword leaving its sheath. She was more worried about archers or crossbows. She snapped and snarled, ripping the sack above her as she tried to free her head and keep aloft at the same time, above the treetops.
“Go, Aranya!”
The Dragonship, hissing as it lost hydrogen, sank toward the forest. Aranya folded in her right wing and rolled to let it drop past her, then flapped furiously to gain height.
“Another one,” called Zip, unnecessarily.
Aranya banked rapidly, accelerating to take them out of range of the approaching Dragonship. Behind them, the forest exploded in a ball of flame–the meriatite furnace had touched off the hydrogen sack.
Dragon-Aranya said, wryly, “Do you think they know we’re here?”
“They might guess.” Zip rubbed her neck awkwardly. “Aranya, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Don’t worry. Let’s just make ourselves scarce, shall we?”
“You’ve no idea what it’s like to be at the sharp end of an angry Dragon’s claws. If you’re not careful, I might start to suspect that you care …”
“I don’t enjoy the killing.”
Aranya wished Zip would change the topic of conversation. She concentrated on flying across the rolling meadows and dark green hilltop forests of Tyrodia Island. They did not seem to terrace much here, she noticed, unlike the North. Was that due to better rainfall patterns? Why would the ancients have spent so much time shaping the northern Islands to conform to their apparently enormous appetite for water?
Zuziana asked, “So, what about Dragon-Aranya? How does she feel about killing?”
She already knew how she’d answer. “It’s different in my Dragon form, Zip. I couldn’t control myself back there, when I saw you in danger. It’s not just a set of clothes I change. I’m still Aranya. But it’s more–I don’t know. It’s deep; hard to explain.”
“It’s simple. You are a Dragon. Dragons have claws and teeth and like to burn things when they get angry. Right?”
“I guess.”
Zuziana patted her back. “Aranya, a girl can walk tall in this world with a friend like you. ‘Huh, you don’t scare me.’ ‘Why not? I’m going to have you for breakfast, wench.’ ‘Why don’t you talk to my friend over there? She’ll have you for breakfast.’ ‘Who’s your friend?’ ‘Oh, that cute little Dragon.’”
Aranya laughed. “Do you often have whole conversations with yourself, Zip?”
“Regularly.”
Aranya winged steadily across the interior of Tyrodia Island, a long sliver of land lying northwest by southeast. Ahead, a line of steep fells intersected their path.
“Aranya, how did you find me in the forest?”
“By smell. Dragon nose, you know.”
“Are you suggesting that a Princess of Remoy may be identified by body odour alone?”
Dragon-Aranya turned her head to eyeball her Rider. “Of course not. I’m merely suggesting that if you want your family to welcome you with open arms, you might need to bathe first.”
“You and your big nose. Ha!”
As they bantered back and forth, Aranya soared up over the edge of the violet-flowered, heathery fells and coasted down the far side.
“Um, Aranya.” Zip pointed ahead. “Eyes front.”
An army encampment sprawled before them, covering the entire breadth and length of a valley that led down to a town–Tyros, the ancient capital of Tyrodia. Three or four dozen Dragonships bobbed peacefully above the tent-city, flying crimson Sylakian pennants.
Aranya back-winged hastily. “Oh, flying ralti sheep.”
“Do you think we’ve found the invasion fleet for Herimor, perchance?” asked Zuziana.
“Yes, and war catapults.”
“Full reverse!”
Aranya turned tail and fled as a brace of crossbow quarrels and a speculative catapult-shot whooshed through the air toward her. She jinked to dodge the wickedly barbed quarrels. They fled back over the fells.
“Northeast,” said Zuziana. “There’s a clutch of uninhabited Islands out there, I recall, where we can lay low. Lots of caves.”
“But Remoy is south–oh.”
She could hear the smirk in Zuziana’s voice as her friend said, “Basic tactics, Dragon. We’ll double back under the cover of darkness. I’ll say nothing about me being the brains and you being the brawn in this partnership.”
“You just did, Zip.”
* * * *
The Islands northeast of Tyrodia hardly qualified as Islands, but they were jumbled, riddled with caves and capped with jungles teeming with flying vervet monkeys. Here, Aranya and Zuziana ousted a cliff fox family from their cave and lay low for two days while a dozen Dragonships quartered their hideout. Aranya snacked on a mountain goat, which she found to be tough and decidedly unappetising. She helped Zuziana pick vine-melons and unripe tinker-bananas. They tracked down a trickle of water together. Their supplies were running low.
On the evening of the second day, they made ready to depart.
“A decent loop around Tyrodia,” said Zip, “and then we strike for Remoy. This cloud cover should help. Can you see when it’s this dark?”
“Well enough to bite you. Yes, Zip. I see much better in the dark than–”
“Good.” Zuziana fixed their packs in place. “I’ve clothes ready for you. We might want to scout the town, although I’m quite well known and a tall Northerner would stick out like–”
“–a Dragon flying across Iridith’s face on a cloudless night?”
“Quite.”
Aranya looked her friend over. “You aren’t wearing a headscarf?”
“We don’t have Remoyan headscarves,” said Zip. “These Sylakian ones would brand us immediately–as Sylakians. That could be unhealthy in the wrong quarter of town.”
“Unless you’ve a Dragon in your pocket.”
Zip put her hands to her hips and regarded her friend sternly. “Unless we’ve already alerted the entire Sylakian fleet to our presence, Aranya. Don’t look so woebegone. We’ll get better at this, I promise.”
Aranya huffed crossly.
Putting her hand beneath Aranya’s chin, Zuziana scratched her as one would scratch a cat to make it purr. “Where’s my proud, fierce little Dragon, then?”
The Dragon’s scowl deepened. Perhaps, as Nak had suggested, a little nibble of Zuziana might not be inappropriate. She did have beautiful hair, Aranya thought, lustrous brown ringlets which tumbled down her back. She said, “I love your hair, Zip. Maybe we should start a fashion.”
“Princess of Remoy refuses to wear a headscarf?” Zuziana grinned. “Imagine the scandal.”
“Dragon enforces Remoy’s ban on headscarves.”
“Now you’re talking. No, what about ‘Dragon burns all headscarves’?”
Aranya pretended to consider this. “A little unhealthy for the heads inside them, I’d say.”
They chuckled for a long time after that.
Driven along by a fresh breeze, they flew southward all that night, avoiding Tyrodia Island by a respectable margin. Aranya flew as high as she dared, given that another squall was developing–the south Islands being completely different to the North in this respect. Immadia always had autumn storms; Remoy, thundery spring squalls. At intervals she rested on the wing, gliding along for half an hour or so, which was a trick Oyda had suggested to extend the flying range of a Dragon.
Zip kept asking, “Can you see Remoy yet?”
Aranya shook her head. “It’s a long haul, Zip. I’m doing my best.”
“Shall I disembark and push?”
“Shall I snack on the toes of your left foot or the right?”
But Zuziana did curl up to
make herself as small as possible, reducing the tiny drag her body caused on the airstream flowing over Aranya’s back. Soon after, Aranya heard her snoring softly.
She wished she could sleep mid-flight.
As dawn sulked in, filtering through the overcast skies, Aranya sighted the tall dome of Remoy Island. Her focus brought her a sight of the eighteen terrace-lake levels for which Remoy was renowned, before the rain blurred her vision. Zuziana awoke with a cross exclamation.
“I saw Remoy,” Aranya told her.
“You did?” Zip brightened. “Brr, I’m cold. This rain should at least clean you off, Aranya.”
“Break out the soap and you can have a bath, too.”
Zuziana wiped her streaming face. “I appreciate your honesty, you ill-bred Immadian. Actually, this storm’s good. Shall we make straight for that inner garden I told you about?”
Aranya nodded. “If we’re willing to fly up into the storm. Remoy’s high, Zip.”
Her Rider said, “Nak said lightning was no problem.” But her voice betrayed how little she believed that statement.
Dragon-Aranya agreed with Zuziana’s assessment. No soldier liked the rain. They would take to the nearest shelter, disinclined to watch the sky. Making straight for the inner courtyard of Remoy’s Royal Palace would place them among people likely to be friendly, even to a Dragon who had severely irritated the greatest power in the Island-World.
Under Zip’s direction, Aranya hurried skyward, crossing terrace after terrace brimful of water until she screamed up over the brow of Remoy, called the Jade Isle, and she saw at least a little of its famed beauty–the waving fields of jade-coloured mohili wheat, the great lines of khaki-green oaks protecting them from the elements, the jewel-like lakes scattered across its surface. There, dimly seen in the distance, were the towers and battlements of a city which had defied the Sylakian horde for the better part of a year’s siege.
She flapped harder, pressing up into the storm, concealing them amidst the first wispy clouds as they winged toward the city. Zip shivered and shivered. Aranya checked–her lips were blue, but Zip only smiled and peered over her friend’s shoulder. She pointed out the Palace.
Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) Page 16