Instead, she checked his desk. Good. Spare message scrolls, a quill pen and ink. Aranya unfurled a scroll and rapidly drew a Dragon’s clawed foot on it–deliberately untidy, so that he would not link it with her artwork. Beneath it she scrawled, ‘Remember Jeradia.’ There, that was obtuse enough. Her eye fell on another scroll on his desk. Leaning close in the dim light, she scanned it rapidly. Several lines in particular sprang out at her: The hawks are nearly trained in our new tactics and should be with you within one month. We will also send crossbows and nets. New tactics? Nets? That did not bode well for a runaway Dragon.
She checked the scroll’s date. Two weeks ago! Oh, roaring rajals …
Aranya placed her scroll delicately behind his neck. She hesitated. Why not? Aranya dropped the merest whisper of a kiss on his cheek. She inhaled the scent of him with her Dragon senses come alive. Leopard, oh yes. A smart move? No. She breathed, “Let our battle commence, Third War-Hammer Yolathion of Jeradia. I shall not be merciful again.”
Aranya retreated to the doorway, watching him with bated breath, but Yolathion did not stir.
She retraced her steps past her first victim, but paused next to the furnace-room door. Nak had said something about chewing meriatite. All was quiet. She filched a small sack of the precious rock from beside the furnace. A gentle press upon the aft door opened it. Good, the gantries were clear. She monkey-climbed the webbing until she stood atop the Dragonship’s sack, balanced on the rope netting. Aranya transformed, before deliberately walking half the length of the Dragonship, puncturing the multi-compartmented hydrogen sacks in dozens of places. “Four sets of claws to your little hammer, Yolathion,” she muttered. “And don’t forget the fangs.”
She spread her wings and ghosted off the top of the Dragonship as it began to sag toward the ground. Aranya landed atop a hill a respectable distance from the Sylakian encampment, where she hunkered down to watch the fun.
It did not take long. Shouts arose; alarms bugled and the Sylakians came rushing out of tent and Dragonship to behold the Third War-Hammer’s vessel as it folded up on the ground. Aranya tuned in with her ears. Ah, the sweet sounds of cracking crysglass and hissing hydrogen, followed by Yolathion’s enraged bellowing as he crawled out from beneath the wreckage, brandishing a scroll–most likely hers. The drifting mist obscured her view for a few minutes, so Aranya had to be content with listening to his interrogation of the two unfortunate sentries. She was certain their headaches would not be improved by having their commanding officer screaming in their faces.
But then one warrior said the girl he had seen had a ‘Northern’ look about her. That was when Aranya lost her taste for the entertainment on offer.
* * * *
For three days, Zip and Aranya devoured scroll upon scroll of Dragon lore. Tarka and Yuka soon declared their boredom and disappeared on day-long hunting trips in the estate grounds.
Many of the records were only of passing interest, but among them were gems of knowledge that the friends set aside to pore over and discuss. Aranya was particularly fascinated to read about Dragon stomachs, which amused Zip endlessly. Some types of Dragons had up to five stomachs. One was always for food. Blue Dragons kept a stomach for water, which they super-heated behind a system of pressure valves before firing the steam out so fast that it could strip flesh from bone in seconds. Other Dragons, primarily the Red colours, usually had one or more stomachs for fire. Some added a stomach for rock and shot white-hot lava at their enemies. The Green Dragon family added stomachs for noxious gases and poison; the Greys had a stomach for boiling glue, which they combined with poison to form a particularly nasty attack. Other attacks were more obviously magical, such as type of Dragon attack called ‘Shivers’, an invisible form of Dragon fire which turned stone to dust.
Zuziana read a whole chest-full of scrolls on Dragon tactics against Dragonships and crossbow or catapult emplacements. “Count the shots,” she read to Aranya. “A single war crossbow takes thirty to forty seconds to reload. That’s the window of opportunity. But beware multiple Dragonships timing their shots, or holding one crossbow shot in reserve against an attack.”
They read legends and histories about Dragons great and grim; those who had partnered with Humans, those who had always kept aloof, and those who had started the Second Great Dragonwar, rising up against Humanity in an attempt to wipe them off the Islands. They read about Dragons called the Ancient Powers, who were said to cause storms and hail, earthquakes and windstorms. Their breath was believed to give rise to the Cloudlands. The legends drew a clear distinction between the Ancient Powers and the Lesser Dragons, those that Aranya assumed were her peers.
Aranya lifted her eyes from her scroll, having mentally added lightning to the list of possible Dragon attacks. “Zip, it’s all nice theory–you know, spitting fire, fireballs, streams of fire and invisible fire and all that, but they don’t say anything about no-fire Dragons.”
“Oh, no-fire Dragons can still cause plenty of trouble,” said Zip, so sweetly that Aranya knew at once she was in trouble. “You know, just to pick a random example, like causing Sylakian War-Hammers to visit Kings to complain about Dragonships being destroyed.”
“Uh–I have a confession to make, Zip.”
“Really? A confession?”
She told her friend about her escapade, leaving out no detail other than kissing Yolathion on the cheek. Aranya tried to sound off-hand about how gorgeous she thought he was. She failed miserably at that task. When Zip demanded to know if the complete truth had been told, she had to sheepishly relate the kissing detail, too.
But Zuziana’s response was unexpected. She said, “Aranya, Sylakian Hammers have spent the last three days tearing Remoy Town apart, looking for someone answering to your description–a bad description, granted, but still. Old widows have been thrown out into the streets, fathers beaten and children threatened with war hammers if they don’t confess. Houses were torched, shops looted and a daytime curfew imposed while the search was carried out. Here. Read this scroll. I don’t think Father’s too impressed with your efforts.”
Aranya read the scroll, pale of cheek. By the time she finished she was ashen. “I should go back and apologise, Zip.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Zuziana shouted. Then she bit her lip and clearly tried for calm. “Look, that’s the last place you should go. We need a plan. I’ve sent the boys back for our saddle and equipment in case we need to leave in a hurry.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Words aren’t enough, Aranya. Maybe we can lead the Sylakians away from Remoy. Yes. Yolathion’s mad enough to take any bait.”
Aranya wiped her eyes. “Zip, I’m such an idiot–”
“You are. Next time, can we decide to be idiots together?” Zip collected a slack-jawed stare from her friend. “I’m your Rider, you idiot. Can you at least pretend we’re in this together? Not flying off to chase enemy officers on our own, even if they’re a thousand times leopard?”
Feeling sick to her stomach at what she had caused, Aranya curled up on the couch and rocked back and forth. How could she have known? A harmless bit of fun soured into a very harmful bit of foolery. The children must have been terrified. Now Zuziana thought Aranya would rather not have her in their partnership, for Aranya had treated her as a worthless tag-along.
“Aranya.” Her friend grabbed her hands and shook them. “Aranya! Listen, I’ve a crazy idea. It would take a pair of complete idiots to pull it off.”
The corners of Aranya’s mouth dragged themselves upward. “You want me to agree to what, exactly?”
“To start a war against Sylakia.”
Honestly? Aranya’s mouth sieved the air for flies. She said, “Two girls decide to start a war on a brutal empire that spans a quarter of the Island-World? Your brain’s turned to prekki-fruit mush.”
Zip touched the underside of Aranya’s chin with her forefinger. “Shut the rabbit-hole, petal. This isn’t two girls. This is a Dragon and her Rider. Now,
you brainless beast, you shall attend in awe and wonder as I outline our strategy for the upcoming war. Pay attention.”
Chapter 14: War
When Iridith declined beneath the horizon at the third hour of night, a Dragon Rider and her Amethyst Dragon emerged upon a wide balcony at the rear of the Remoyan King’s residence. Zuziana, tiny as she was, looked fierce in her new armour. Zuziana embraced her brothers fondly.
“We’ll let Father know,” said Tarka.
Yuka added, “I’ll see to your apology personally, Aranya.”
“May I point out that I am not jealous,” Tarka lied cheerfully.
Zip mounted up and buckled herself in. She strapped a quiver of arrows flat along her left thigh and set her bow crosswise across her shoulders. She checked the oil-pot beside her right knee and her spark-stone at her belt.
Aranya craned her neck to examine her Rider’s new equipment. The banded, silvery metal armour fit her as though it were made to measure. Probably a long-dead Remoyan relative who had been a Dragon Rider, judging from the petite size–but she was pleased and so was Zip. The armourer had spent a great deal of trouble over balancing the coverage of vital parts with flexibility. The elbow and shoulder joints moved freely without having a single weak point she could see. Her thighs, knees and calves were well armoured too, aside from the obvious breastplate. Plating, she should say, given as it was seven pieces. What kind of metal was this, so light and flexible? The scrolls said nothing but that it had been forged in Dragon fire.
But Aranya worried, “Are you quite sure about the oil, Zip?”
“It’s what the Dragon lore says Riders did,” she replied.
“If it sloshes on you …”
“The armour’s fireproof. Hopefully.” Zuziana patted Aranya’s side. “Look, we’ve discussed this.”
“You’re as stubborn as a mountain goat. Fine.”
Aranya stepped up onto the wide ornamental wall of the balcony.
Yuka said, “Go burn the heavens, Dragon and Rider.” He grinned his impish grin, so like his sister that Aranya’s eyes flicked between them several times.
She spread her wings and took to the air.
Always, that first rush thrilled her. Human-Aranya could not believe she was flying. She could not believe the power of her wing beats thrusting her across the dark fields of Remoy, toward the towering wall of forest that separated the King’s estate from the outside world. Only the Mystic moon shone, high in the sky so brilliant with stars it was almost white. A rare sight, Aranya thought. An Immadian would call it a good omen. She quivered as the cool wind brushed her scales. Her throat swelled with an exultant bugle that she did not release. The Sylakians should not be forewarned.
Still lay the Island-World beneath the whisper of a Dragon’s wings.
Aranya knew the Sylakians would be watching, this time. They arrowed toward the encampment, keeping as low as possible.
Zuziana’s voice came to her ear, “This is magical, my friend.”
Aranya turned to blink her amethyst eyes, widely drinking in what light there was, at her friend. “Nak and Oyda said it, Zip. Flying is mystical beneath a Mystic moon.”
“I’m just thankful, Aranya.”
She considered this. “I am, too, but I wonder what we should do with this gift.”
Zip chuckled, “I thought I was supposed to be the practical one? Aranya, doing is what we’re doing–if you’ll excuse the play on words. I don’t see you terrorising villagers, stealing their sheep and hoarding gold in a cave.”
“I suppose not.”
After a quarter-hour aloft, Aranya heard the spark-stone clicking as Zuziana lit the oil pot. Once it was burning, she gathered speed. Her Rider seated her helm on her head.
Zuziana flexed the bow. Her voice issued reverberantly from inside her helmet, “I’m out of practice. Try not to singe us, Aranya.”
Dragon and Rider raced over a low line of hills, closing in on the Sylakian encampment. Aranya angled for the nearest of the Dragonships, her wings flexing with the air currents as they blasted over the perimeter of sentries–who were awake, but they passed over them before the alarm could be raised.
“Let’s tickle them awake, Zip.”
Flames licked hungrily around the arrow Zip dipped into the oil pot. Each arrow had been prepared and fitted with an oil-soaked collar just behind the arrowhead. It burned fiercely. Zuziana shouted at Aranya to keep her eyes forward and peeled for crossbow quarrels. A streak of orange shot into the flank of the nearest Dragonship.
Thunder echoed off the hills. A blinding flash disoriented Aranya for a moment. The Princess of Remoy grumbled about suns-spots on her vision as she fitted a second arrow to her bow. Dragon-Aranya’s membranes worked over her eyes. Now she remembered what Nak had said about looking at the suns. She glanced back to see the Dragonship’s frame outlined in charred, glowing embers. The rest was gone.
“Ready,” called Zip.
Aranya adjusted her flight muscles, sweeping past the conflagration. “Take the shot …”
Sss! The arrow leaped across the intervening space like a hungry rajal pouncing on its prey. A wave of heat scorched Dragon and Rider as the Dragonship exploded. Aranya swerved instinctively, taking Zuziana away from the furnace blast. A fiery joy sang within her being. Dragons were creatures of flame, creatures of the inferno of heat and smoke and blazing passions. Now her roar resounded, cutting short the warning trumpets of the Sylakian troops, unnecessary now that the hills blazed orange in the reflection of the fires they had caused. Dragon-Aranya’s wrath burned against these men.
Caught up in her passion, she almost didn’t hear Zuziana shouting at her to watch out for crossbow quarrels.
Aranya’s tail snapped sideways, knocking them off their previous path. She heard a crossbow twang; the sound of the quarrel, a low, angry whistling through the air. But the shot went awry. She took them between two Dragonships. Yolathion’s … Zip was not ready. She plucked out another arrow, lit it, raised the short bow and fired almost in one motion. Aranya tucked in her wings and rolled as the Dragonship exploded right next to them, letting her belly feel the heat and her body protect Zuziana from the explosion.
“Ouch! Darn it, Aranya.”
“I can’t avoid the flames if you shoot a Dragonship right next to us.”
“No, I mean, oooooh!”
Aranya wobbled in the air as she tried to look at Zuziana, whose scream trailed off into a groan. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m burned.”
Aranya’s wings flared as she braked. She heard Zuziana’s neck pop as the gravitational forces pressed them hard in their bellies. The Dragon rocketed upward. Two crossbow quarrels passed beneath them, one clipping the edge of her wing and chipping a chunk of light bone off her flight strut.
“Ha, they shot their own Dragonship. Zip, are you–”
“Bring us around, Aranya. I still want to deliver this message to your leopard-man.”
In the light of the fires, what she could see of Zuziana’s face was pale and drawn with pain, not at all her usual tan.
“You think after this–”
“I’m fine. Turn!”
Yolathion would want to kill her. He did already. But Aranya knew that, whatever she might feel for a man who served Sylakia, like his father before him, she must deny it for the sake of others. Her Dragon hearts sang a melancholy song as she arced through the night air, bringing them back to the Sylakian camp at a different angle of attack. All of Nak’s words on crossbows and shot-angles and tactics–bless that crazy old man. Laughter bubbled though her. At least he knew what he was doing when he tweaked a Dragon’s backside. She missed him. He would have loved to be breathing fire and smoke with her and Zuziana, or dodging crossbow quarrels, like this one spitting toward them now.
She dodged it easily. More would come.
Arrows rose to meet them, the Hammers of warriors organised on the ground now, sheltering behind their shields as their archers aimed at the Dragon in
the sky. Arrows pattered against her tough, scaly hide like the first fat drops of rain before a thunderstorm. She saw Yolathion, aground, bellowing orders at his men–clad only in his armoured trousers, a huge hammer clutched in his left hand. She ripped her eyes off him.
Good. Now they could destroy his Dragonship without destroying Yolathion.
The laughter born in her Dragon hearts, wild and vicious and sad, thundered over the burning camp. Dragonships, helplessly tethered, awaited their burning arrows. Two began to rise into the air. Smart. That would give better attacking options and a field of fire for the war crossbows. Aranya powered on, swooping into the heart of the camp, feeling the next Dragonship crisp at the bite of Zuziana’s arrow as though it were a strange, slow flare against her senses, tracking the crossbow quarrels as the men struggled to aim at her darting form, using a moored Dragonship to protect her right flank as she lined up her next shot, Zip working in concert with her, raising her bow to their port side and taking the shot that destroyed another Dragonship. She doubled back abruptly, confusing the Sylakians’ riposte as she ducked beneath a Dragonship, tucking in her wings to avoid the anchor hawsers and then rolling upward, almost brushing the side of the ship with her tucked-up legs. Without thinking, she adjusted to bring her talons to bear, opening a ten-foot rent in the hydrogen sack.
“Useless oil,” Zuziana shouted, pain sharpening her words. “Oh, Aranya … once more around. I’ve got the scroll ready.”
Aranya jinked to her left. A crossbow quarrel smashed into a Sylakian warrior on the ground. They snaked through the air until Aranya could orient on Yolathion. There he was, snarling of face, sculpted of muscle, stalking through the battle not as a leopard, but like a rajal shaking its mane as it roared at the enemy.
Shouting something about having spotted him, Zip took aim and shot their message at the War-Hammer.
Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) Page 19