Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons)

by Secchia, Marc

  “Come here, Zip.”

  A Dragon’s paw, bigger than her friend’s entire back, could easily force her to comply. But Aranya minded her claws and gently persuaded Zip with a curl of her paw and a gentle word. She resisted at first, but then allowed herself to be drawn into a hug. Zuziana put her arms around Aranya’s neck and held her fiercely.

  “You’re a good friend, Aranya.”

  “You were dreaming, Zip. You were glowing blue while you slept, making lightning in the cave. You said something about Dragons.”

  “I did?”

  Aranya swallowed. “The Dragon tears are still at work in you. I’m so sorry, Zip, I–”

  “For saving my life? Petal, I’m so grateful for every breath; for the chance to live and laugh and tease monks and see my family again. What will be, will be.”

  “I just feel so guilty about turning you into–”

  Zuziana said, in a rush, “I dreamed about Garthion. The torture; I can’t get it out of my mind. I was helpless. I screamed, but no-one came to help me. There was a huge Red Dragon and his fire burned me here.” She touched her stomach and chest. “I’m terrified of meeting him again, Aranya. I’m so broken. I only wish I had your courage.”

  Now she dreamed of Dragons? Aranya could not help the guilt that rose in her gorge. “Being Dragon-sized doesn’t guarantee courage, Zip,” she said, wishing now that she had changed into her Human form first. “Do you have any idea how terrified I am for Immadia; how I try not to imagine Sylakian hammers smashing my brothers’ little heads?”

  Zip traced the scales around Aranya’s eye with her forefinger. “It paralyses me. I want to run away and I can’t. The torture goes on and on …”

  “Maybe you were dreaming about the time I burned Garthion.”

  “Maybe. The Dragon in my dream was red–nothing like you. That Red Dragon was evil, in a way … I’ve never felt so cold, Aranya, so … soul-lost.”

  “You were soul-lost?” Aranya shivered. “Zip–I don’t believe any creature can steal your soul.”

  After a while, Zuziana’s shivering abated. Aranya noticed that the storm was beginning to die down. She said, “Anyway, you’re generating so much magical power, I’m going to have to change your name from Zip.”

  “To what?”

  “Zap.”

  Zuziana screwed up her nose. “Very funny. I can play the naming game too, beast.”

  “Zip, you don’t think …”

  “Oh, Aranya.” Zip laughed now, restored to herself. “I love it that you’re a Dragon. I love having a friend like you. But you are sweet, how you want me to metamorphose into a Dragon, too.”

  Aranya growled unhappily.

  “Time to be flying again.” Zip leaped to her feet. “Aranya–look, I’m sorry. I just don’t think the Dragon thing is for me.”

  Maybe it was just wishful thinking, Aranya thought. Who knew what power Dragon tears might have–mythical Dragon tears, which no-one had ever heard of? Having assumed Zuziana had dreamed about the Black Dragon, Fra’anior, the presence of an evil Red Dragon disturbed her. It had to be something to do with those terrible events in the Tower of Sylakia. While living with Aranya, Zip had several times acted very afraid of the fire Aranya produced when she became angry or afraid. Or, who knew what torture did to a person’s mind? Maybe that was the reason.

  But one thing was for certain. If she ever saw Garthion again, she was going to skin him alive.

  Chapter 25: Origins

  The hunters took off on the dying winds of the storm. Aranya revelled in the blustery breeze sweeping in from her left hind quarter, but Ri’arion began to look rather green as soon as they left Yorbik Island’s shores. She bumped and buffeted her way upward, trying to compensate for the wind’s capricious behaviour. Her stomach began to complain of living too close to her throat.

  The suns’ embers burned down into the horizon as she scudded along. The air was clear and fresh, scrubbed clean by the storm. Her Dragon senses thought the air’s tang was delicious, like the smell after a lightning strike. Aranya’s hearts swelled. Inside, some part of Human-Aranya still saw her as a girl flapping her arms. That girl was invariably startled to examine her wingspan or discover that she wasn’t falling out of the sky. Fantastic, her Humanness insisted. Impossible. Dragon-Aranya revelled in the wind’s play, in the power and beauty of a body designed for soaring and swooping, in the incredible feedback from senses which understood exactly how the wind flowed over every square inch of her body, that identified a million scents on the breeze, and gazed as far as the horizon with extraordinary clarity. She willed it, and saw.

  Before she knew it, two hours had passed and Aranya sighted the unmistakable silhouette of Ferial Island amidst a field of lime-green Cloudlands ahead.

  She said over her shoulder, “Look ahead. Ferial Island.”

  “Already?” asked Ri’arion.

  “Aranya’s been flying fast,” said Zip. She gazed ahead eagerly.

  Ferial was like the palm of a hand with its fingers upraised, poking out of the Cloudlands. Eleven fingers, Aranya thought, but the analogy fit because they all arose from a single palm-like stem. The Ferial Islanders had connected the fingers at many levels with bridges and gantries, giving rise to the joke that more of Ferial hung over the Cloudlands than was actually based on solid rock. The Islanders pulped the thick vines hanging down the rock faces of their home for the fibres they wove into ropes, which they treated by secret methods against wear and decay. Some of the ropes holding up the gantries were thicker than a man’s torso.

  In the deepening twilight, the Island appeared peaceful, but Aranya saw many signs of storm damage. Several of the gantries hung askew. The wreck of a house lay halfway down a cliff. Twinkling lanterns lighted the byways, showing the curved roofs and round, port-hole like windows and doors for which Ferial Island was also famous. Each and every window had a window-box set beneath it, from which trailed streamers of flowers up to a hundred feet long; great violet and cerise flowers which tickled Aranya’s nostrils as they drifted by the first of Ferial’s rock spires.

  Ri’arion asked, “So, are we heading on up to Helyon, or striking out into the unknown?”

  “I thought we were decided?” Aranya’s voice conveyed more irritation than she had intended.

  “Easy on the roaring, rajal,” Zip smiled.

  “I’m a Dragon,” she snapped. “Sorry, Zip. A jumpy Dragon. Why’re you asking? I’m feeling strong. Very strong.”

  “Well, Ri’arion and I have been map-reading while you’ve been doing the hard work,” said Zuziana. “Exactly how far do you think we’re flying on this leg, Aranya?”

  “Er, four hundred leagues, maybe?”

  Zuziana burst out into cackles of laughter. Aranya summoned up her memories of the map Nak had discussed with them. Her nostrils smoked as she blurted out, “Six … eight hundred leagues? Oh, for the Islands’ sakes, stop laughing and give me the bad news.”

  “A few leagues shy of eleven hundred, as the Dragon flies,” said Ri’arion.

  “What?”

  Zip grabbed Aranya’s spine-spike as the Dragon’s astonishment stopped her wing beat. “Exactly. We’ve been trying figure out how Nak intended us to fly eleven hundred leagues in three days. It’s madness. You’re not a Dragonship–even they couldn’t manage that.”

  Aranya ran the numbers through her mind. She willed her wings to keep moving.

  Ri’arion said, “Nak gave us a detailed lecture on the subject of Dragon flying speeds. Long distance, Dragons are able to sustain speeds of six to eight leagues per hour on average. That’s one hundred and thirty to two hundred and sixteen leagues per day, give or take. Obviously you can swoop or accelerate to much greater speeds, but that immediately reduces your range. And, ‘average’ is actually a nasty little word. You’ve got to rest at some point.”

  “Let’s give her a generous rest of, let’s say, ten hours midway,” said Zip. “Or two rests of five hours apiece.”

  �
�So,” Aranya calculated, “Nak’s expecting me to average fifteen and a half leagues per hour? Over eleven hundred–”

  “Nice work on the twenty-seven times table, genius,” sniped Zip.

  “Yes, only double a normal flying speed,” said Ri’arion, keeping a perfectly straight face.

  Aranya would dearly have liked to smack them both. As it was, she was holding her temper by the thinnest of threads. She said, “How far is this first volcano?”

  “He thought around five hundred leagues, maybe more. Halfway.”

  Zuziana added, more gently than before, “So, how strong are you feeling, Aranya?”

  Aranya eyed Ferial Island to their left as they passed by. If she failed, they were dead. If she failed, Immadia was as good as dead. And if they succeeded against the odds, what hope could one Dragon realistically offer apart from destroying a few of those two hundred Dragonships?

  She had already made her choice back on Sylakia.

  “Give me a bearing,” she said.

  “Third moon to the left and don’t spare the ponies, driver,” said Zip.

  Ri’arion put his hand over the Princess’ mouth. “The correct direction is a fraction left of Iridith’s zenith, Aranya. Ouch, you little rajal!” Zip giggled. The monk added, “Later on, we should be able to navigate by the stars.”

  Aranya corrected her course easily, climbing with greater purpose into the darkling sky. The breeze helped, but not as much as she would have hoped. Zip helped her set a rhythm of wing beats that would take her up to what they estimated was the right speed. Could a Dragon’s endurance truly be so great? She must remember to rest periodically, even while she was feeling fresh.

  She searched up and down but found no better help from the wind. The Dragons’ Highway Nak had promised was absent. Toward morning, Aranya glanced over her shoulder to check on her Riders. Her mouth dropped open. Zuziana had changed position, lying with both legs across her saddle and her head pillowed on Ri’arion’s lap. The Dragon’s head snaked backward to take a look. At least the waist belt had not been loosened. She wanted to spit with jealousy. Aranya hated her reaction.

  If her jealousy were a Dragon, she told herself, it would be large, iridescent green and very ugly. Deliberately, she rejected those feelings. Oh, great Islands, Ri’arion’s eyes were open. How much had her expression revealed?

  “She’s feeling ill,” said the monk.

  “Ill?”

  “Some kind of stomach problem,” he replied. “Maybe something we ate, maybe just an illness.”

  “The timing’s horrible,” said Aranya. “Poor Zip. Let me know how she is, alright?”

  On and on she flew, straight on her course, keeping her movements as smooth and efficient as possible. She needed to eke every ounce of strength out of her body.

  Zuziana announced how she was when she woke up mid-morning. “Oooooh!” she groaned. “I’m going to explode. Oh …”

  Ri’arion said, “You need to–”

  Zip clutched her stomach. “I’m so sorry.”

  “We can’t turn back now,” Aranya grumbled. “Can you do something without fouling my scales?”

  Ri’arion nodded, clearly seeing the funny side of the situation but withholding for Zip’s sake. “I’ve been thinking. How are you at flying on your side, Aranya?” He illustrated with his hand. “Ninety degrees.”

  “Easy.”

  Shortly, Ri’arion helped Zuziana fix her foot in one of his shorted stirrups and fixed up another strap for her waist. This allowed her to crouch to one side. The monk held her while Zuziana did the necessary with her armour, trousers and underwear.

  “On three,” he called.

  “A quick three,” cried Zuziana.

  Aranya banked; her friend’s stomach made a fearful noise.

  Ri’arion pretended to look at the sky. “Mercy, that’s a strange brown rain we’re having today.”

  Zip laughed helplessly, holding her stomach. “You blasted … just you try this. Oh, what a place to get sick–roaring rajals, that hurts.”

  “Right, let’s get you back in the saddle,” said the monk.

  “Ri’arion’s seen it all now,” Aranya teased, “a Princess of Remoy with her backside waving in the breeze.”

  “Good thing there’s nothing down there,” said Ri’arion, buckling her waist strap in place.

  Zuziana leaned back against him, closing her eyes. “I feel sick.”

  Aranya saw his hand rise to tug aside Zip’s hair, fluttering in his face. The monk brushed her cheek with his lips. The Princess murmured something as she pillowed her head on his lap, the corners of her mouth lifting in a brief smile. Aranya’s head jerked to the fore. Great. Just when she had banished that Green Dragon of jealousy.

  An hour later, poor Zip was hanging over her side again. Her jealousy mellowed into concern for her friend.

  They surged through a day of blazing, unblinking suns-shine, into a wilderness of profound stillness and boundless horizons, where the only sound and movement was the leathery creak of a Dragon’s wing joints, the rasp of her breathing and the occasional conversation of her Riders. Aranya realised that she had never been so far from land. Always, there had been the next Island or the promise of an Island just over the horizon. Now it rested upon her shoulders to bring them to a safe landing. She was no indefatigable Dragonship. She was flesh and blood, responsible for two lives upon her back. But she was also a Dragon, with reserves of power she had not yet learned to measure.

  Aranya began to feel the strain of keeping up a strong wing beat. Forty or more hours, she told herself. She would see them off one at a time. Just keep her gaze ahead and search for that volcano. She scanned the Cloudlands again. From this enormous height she could see swirls of colour flowing through the clouds like rivers, swirling and moving with unknown purpose, stirred by forces she could hardly begin to imagine.

  Suddenly, she saw something that made her breath stop in her throat.

  The creature needed no magnification. An Island, was her first thought. But it was moving. The creature had a tortoise’s shell, but segmented. It reminded Aranya of a serpent as it slithered through the Cloudlands. A vast body rose and sank amidst the poisonous gases, a body the size of an Island. The closer she flew, the larger it loomed. Aranya rested on the wing, observing in mute awe. She bent her head backward to tell Zuziana and Ri’arion where to look. Their stunned expressions told a tale all of their own. There was a humbling realisation of mortality, of the tininess of even a Dragon in comparison to a slow-moving creature that had to be half a league from head to tail, although they could tell that much was hidden beneath the Cloudlands.

  “Do you think we woke it up?” Zip asked quietly. “Don’t go any closer, Aranya. We don’t want to find its mouth.”

  “My people have legends about such creatures,” said Ri’arion, frowning. “I can’t remember … aye … no. It’ll come back to me.”

  Zuziana chuckled, “Brain fallen asleep, Ri’arion?”

  “No, only my backside. Come, Dragon Rider, stretch those legs.”

  With various creative groans and complaints, her two Riders helped each other unbuckle, stand up Dragonback and stretch out their legs. Aranya wished she could have done the same. She concentrated on her wing beat. How could she make it more efficient? Trim the third joint? Flex the flight struts differently? Nothing seemed to help.

  When they sat down, Ri’arion said, “I don’t think I’ve told you two how we Ha’athior Islanders tell the tale of the beginnings of our Island-World. Would you like to hear it?”

  “I would,” said Aranya.

  Zip clapped her hands and acted silly.

  Ri’arion made a strange half-bow in his saddle. “Before the dawn of time, the world circled the twin suns in perpetuity. But one day a gigantic comet crashed into our world. The resulting explosion, greater than any in history before it or since, created this great depression we call the Island-World, encircling it with an impassable barrier of mountains twenty
-five leagues high. The explosion was so great that it released the mighty fires of the underworld, the fires that we call volcanoes.”

  “But that comet contained a load stranger still, hid deep within its bowels, a load which was not immune to that fiery crash-landing–a clutch of Dragon eggs, the eggs of the Ancient Dragons. Where they came from no-one knows, not even the Dragons themselves. In time, bathed in the fires of the first creation, the Dragon eggs hatched. Mighty were the Dragons that lived in those times before memory, Dragons who dwelled in volcanoes and shaped the earth and the air by the power of their magic. They raised up prodigious towers of rock to become the Islands, and consigned the poisonous Cloudlands to their resting place at the bottom of the world. Those were the Dragons of old. Mighty were their deeds.”

  “But as they rested and nested upon their towers of rock, those Dragon ancestors became restless and lazy. So they decided to make for themselves a race of slaves–”

  “Humans?” interrupted Zip. “We were slaves?”

  “Silence, slave,” said Aranya. “I quite like the idea–and I’m collecting, as you can see.”

  “I don’t like this story anymore,” sulked the Princess of Remoy.

  “Anyway,” said Ri’arion, “the Dragons created the Human race and breathed life into their nostrils. They made many wonders besides, wonders now lost to the Island-World. They populated the Islands with creatures and plants, which the Dragons alone boasted skills to design. Their slaves laboured and sweated and built for the Dragons great palaces of stone and lakes in which to bathe, and caves to hold their clutches of Dragon eggs. They hunted for the Dragons and served them in every way. Thus was the world, for many thousands of summers.”

  “But the Dragon-kind grew lazy and feckless, pandering more and more to their baser desires, while their Human slaves became numerous and cunning. They chafed under the claw of the ruler.”

  “Story’s getting better,” said Zip.

  “What happened then?” asked Aranya.

  “The legends differ,” said Ri’arion, shrugging apologetically. “Some say that Humans rose up against the Ancient Dragons and cast them down in the First Great Dragonwar. The Dragons destroyed many Islands in retaliation, casting them beneath the Cloudlands and creating the Rift. Other legends hold that the Dragons fought each other first and slaughtered a great number of the Dragonish race. Weakened, they could no longer stand against the power of their former slaves. I have heard tales of Dragon gravesites on some Islands, which hold the bones of thousands of Dragons.”