Circling the periphery, Konfalgar set the outer trees and brush alight with his incendiary arabesque to prevent escape. Fire did not spew uncontrolled from his maw – it danced a cursive dance and inscribed ancient words of wrath and justice on leafy parchment. As those combustible words declared their warfare below, another red marvel mounted the smoky updraft and hovered above the fray. The clutch leader, Lofty K'Fuur, sang:
“Lords of the air
Are not to be chained;
Creatures of flame
Are not to be tamed;
Lissai as always,
Innocent of blood,
White Talon shall be freed,
And her honor restored,
She who leads – avenged,
When her captors lie
Burnt in the mud.”
As K'Fuur pronounced that last earthy syllable, he drew in his wings and dove. Fire was not his weapon, but the fury of his full-throated bellow, which immobilized the spear-wielder in his tracks. With a snap, K'Fuur’s sudden spreading of his wings bent his trajectory. The soldier dropped his spear and dove behind a tree, but the lissair’s claws sought another target. He scooped up the net immobilizing his comrade and returned to the sky. Two soldiers holding the net became entangled, were swept into the air and dwindled to a speck. Then Lofty K'Fuur released his captives. The accidental olissair heard a faint cry. “Push! Push!” The plummeting soldiers thrust foot against foot, flew apart and spread the net wide. A corner got snagged on a tree limb and arrested their fall; it cracked, and the men tumbled to the ground, groaning.
Thedarra and several of the farmers had fled to a brook running near the cabin and waded into the deepest part of a pool for protection against the flames. Elek-Mouton and Rougelek cruised in and released a pair of boulders. After a scream and a broken leg, the stream cleared, all escape cut off.
From behind his tree, Callyglip watched.
Wheezing and coughing from the billowing smoke, Thedarra saw a narrow path between the flames and ran back toward the fully engulfed cabin. She snatched a knife from the ground and hacked at the ropes still binding Melissa. “Make them stop!”
Ecraveo left the side of the man whose injured leg he was bandaging. “Fool of a woman! Isn’t six bad enough? We don’t need another loose or we all die.” He ran and grabbed Thedarra by the arm.
A Red named K'marontail spied Thedarra, and in the fury of battle mistook her knife slashing as an attack. He landed, charged and spun about, sweeping his spiny tail in a great arc. Meant for Thedarra, it caught Ecraveo in the chest and sent him sprawling. Melissa, who should’ve been doing something, played doctor by calculating how many of the pompous man’s ribs had just broken, and predicting whether his lungs would collapse, or his heart burst.
Meanwhile, Callyglip poked his head out from behind his tree, saw Ecraveo clutching his side, saw the red menace raise his tail to strike, and retreated. Callyglip shook so hard he had to grip the bark to keep from toppling. Pressing his body against the tree to keep hidden, he felt a damp, red spot on his tunic and began hyperventillating. He looked down. It was the extra slice of homzhash he’d saved from lunch. Ever the nervous eater, he pulled it out of his pocket.
Melissa caught a whiff, licked her chops and turned. So did K'marontail. Callyglip eyed the fruit in his hand, looked at the slobbering jaws, and shook his head. He brought his arm back and hurled the fruit off to the side. The red lissair interrupted his attack to snag the morsel. Now exposed, Callyglip spotted a bow lying in the grass. He lunged forward, scooped it up, slung the quiver over his shoulder and strung an arrow. He pulled back – and the arrow fell uselessly to the ground. “Shoroko makes it look so easy.” He scrambled to retrieve the shaft and tried again.
K'marontail saw his danger and charged. Callyglip froze. The lissair’s claws scattered dirt as he hurled himself toward the lanky kid.
Thedarra screamed, “Fire!”
With death yards away, Callyglip unfroze and released the string. Thhhfffft! The arrow plunged into K'marontail’s neck. Blood spurting momentum carried the creature forward and on top of the lad. Skandik and another, gagging their way through the thickening smoke, ran to Callyglip’s side, lifted the thrashing lissair off him and pulled him aside.
“Got to get the poison!” Skandik tore off Callyglip’s tunic, sucked each spine-induced wound and spat.
Thedarra severed another cord securing Melissa. The smoke in her eyes blinded her to the approach of the rest of the red clutch. The ground shook as they landed. Five Red lissai formed a circle around their fallen brother, gulped chest-fulls of air, and prepared to incinerate the battered Hands.
Melissa understood their intent and snapped the remaining ropes. “Truce!” She swiveled her head and stared into each pair of eyes in turn. K'Fuur was fully given over to rage. Konfalgar was intoxicated with the fireball coursing up his windpipe. Rougelek stomped and pawed so wildly that dust clouds eclipsed the moon. Elek-Mouton lowered his head to charge, while tongues of flame slithered out of his mouth. Only K'Pinkelek returned her gaze.
Surveying his appearance, Melissa discerned differences among the dragons. K'Pinkelek’s hue was not the red of a late sunset like K'Fuur, or the reddish brown of tilled soil like Elek-Mouton. His scales were lighter, closer to rose. His tail was longer and slenderer than K'marontail’s, his wingspan greater, and his chest of lesser girth. And his eyes were vast, penetrating – and sane. Melissa put all her energy into her gaze. No one mattered but K'Pinkelek.
He flared his nostrils back at her, which meant “No”.
Melissa stood tall, spread her wings, and repeated her silent appeal. What am I doing? Why do I think this one will act differently from the other lissairn? Her intuition kicked in. He is half-white. He’s had to work twice as hard to prove his loyalty to the Reds. If one is sensible, it's him. Time to press harder. “Do any still have regard for the words of an elder? Will Hands offer more respect to White Talon than Claws?” Melissa gestured to Thedarra, still holding the knife used to set her free, and standing behind the shelter of her wings.
Lofty K'Fuur tossed his head back dismissively. The others glared. K'Pinkelek took a half step back, breathing heavily, eyes darting back and forth. He broke eye contact and stared at the ground.
“The Hands turned aside from revenge, presented their evidence, and have bound me over for trial and justice. My own kind attacked impulsively without knowledge. If you do not desist, bloodshed and open war will result. Do Lissai retain any love for the law?” Melissa folded her wings and waited.
Breathing slowed. The tendrils of flame stopped leaking from red jaws hungry for combat and its spoils. The Hands reappeared from their hiding places and fell in by Ecraveo’s side. Knives were lowered, and arrows moved from bowstring, to hand, to quiver.
K'Fuur spoke. “Has all sense departed from among the Whites? We do not cede sovereignty in criminal cases to Hands! If they acquit you, what precedent will that set? And if they find you guilty – war! What do we gain?”
“The truth,” said Melissa. “I discovered the cause of our discord. Something in our liosh produces an irresistible and intoxicating rage.”
“If that is so, it’s Hands who put it there!” said Konfalgar.
Hands tensed, ready to reach again for arrows.
Cookware clattered as the roof of the cottage collapsed. A spreading specter of smoke billowed from the burning structure and engulfed the battlefield. Burning timber assaulted Melissa’s nostrils first, followed by the stench of the liosh supply going up in smoke. Her eyes watered, but when the hyper-efficient tear ducts of an old olissair restored her vision, nothing looked the same. Standing behind her was not the woman who helped cut her free, but her next meal. The circle of red warriors were no longer lissairn to reason with, they were competition for that feast. The maddening poison was airborne and potent, but not as potent as White Talon’s rage.
* * *
Rain caused the quiet Marboskein to overflow its banks. Shoroko, b
ereft of purpose, lacked the will to find another crossing and made camp. He shimmied up a tree, strung his bow, dropped a ring-necked game bird, started a fire, and gutted and plucked his dinner. While it roasted, he drew water and put stewroot on the boil. Filling his belly kept his mind off his loss until he ladled supper into a bowl.
Embers of memories glowed as much as the scintillating figures circling the ceramic wonder shaped by his sister’s hands. Water glistened in sun the day he dove into the river, plunging deep for the choice mud Sho-Sho required for her pottery. Mucky slop from his bucket became a shimmering swirl on her wheel. Shoroko traced his fingers over the grooves and reliefs. Almost, he could feel the dancing fingers that formed them. His fingers on hers, that would make him live again.
How had she managed that mysterious effect? Once the bubbling stew heated the vessel, the glyphs glowed. Through the murky broth the figures danced. He – and his sister – and another. He raised the dish to smash it, then lowered it slowly instead. The mud was his, the shaping and glazing hers, and the firing…
The kiln was the kindness he had forgotten. The breath of White Talon was the only flame to which Shorassa entrusted her creations, and the products of Shorassa’s care were the only Hand-made vessels White Talon would kiss. Ancient dragon and adolescent girl were as close as sisters.
“Your friend is my friend, Sho-sho.” His path was clear. White Talon must be saved, which meant Melissa needed his help. He collected his earthenware, rolled his blanket, grabbed his bow and whistled for Fear. Shoroko swung onto its back and said, “Fly!”
* * *
Cracking branches and rapid hoof beats caused Shoroko to abandon the trail. In the distance one growling predator called to another. He heard moaning. After dismounting, he crouched near the edge of the path. A quagga bolted into view with a half-conscious soldier from Ecraveo’s troop slumped back in the saddle. Shoroko ran out and grabbed the reins. The sudden stop sent its rider sliding sideways off his mount. He caught the wounded man and laid him on a tuft of grass. His clothes were charred and his arms burnt.
Shoroko retrieved the canteen from the saddle and poured water on the man’s burns and down his throat.
Cough! Cough!
“What happened?”
“Six Reds… Never had a chance…”
The other man’s quagga perked its ears, stiffened, and galloped away with a panicked neigh. Shoroko reached for his bow, but it was back with Fear. He left the soldier’s side, scrambled through the brush, retrieved his weapon and dashed back.
The soldier was gone. Paw prints and a trail of blood said it all. Shoroko mounted Fear and rode on. Perhaps I can bury the dead. Ten minutes later he crested a ridge and spotted a column of black smoke. Before he could reach the scene of battle, the clouds released their next barrage of rain. Three bow shots from the burning buildings, Fear halted, and no amount of kicking or cajoling would make him advance. Shoroko hopped off and picked his way through the smoldering forest, glad for the rain washing away the smoke.
Shoroko soon heard more than the hiss and pop of the forest blaze. Callyglip’s blubbering was punctuated by Thedarra’s shrieking. Through watery eyes, he saw a rose-colored figure streak skyward. The lissair beat his wings furiously and climbed straight up to the thunderhead. A stream of black flame issued from his jaws.
With his bow, Shoroko slashed a path through the bush. When the leafy resistance ended he tumbled into the clearing, scrambled to his feet and drew an arrow. Five Claws – Melissa included – held five Hands in their talons with teeth ready to make the killing strike. One lissair and several soldiers and farmers lay on the ground, unconscious but breathing. All eyes turned toward Shoroko.
He could only save one, so he swiveled to face K'Fuur, who held Thedarra aloft. He drew his arm back, took aim, and then…
Flash! Boom!
The lightning strike threw the archer back against a tree, sending his shot wide. A fireball danced about the vale until the earth swallowed it. Shoroko regained his footing, but every other Hand and Claw lay on the ground, blackened and unconscious. Seconds later the flapping of wings announced the landing of K'Pinkelek.
Shoroko whipped out another arrow, strung it… And lowered his bow. “You caused this. How? Why?”
“Black flame attracts cloud-shock and commands it in its course. It is a clumsy weapon, but potent.”
“But you outnumbered us.”
“No. They outnumbered me. Madness claimed them. I trusted White Talon’s words and flew.”
Shoroko sniffed the air. “Burning liosh?”
Melissa’s tail twitched.
“We must bind them until the effects wear off,” said K'Pinkelek. The two rushed about lashing the fallen with ropes.
“I am rational again,” said Melissa, when K'Pinkelek knelt beside her.
“Prove it.”
She stood, padded slowly over to Shoroko, and bowed.
“Agreed.”
Thedarra moaned. “Let me go!”
Shoroko drew her near with both arms. Her face brightened, anticipating a kiss.
“No retaliation.” He let go of her and resumed his work. Every time a burnt limb fell from a tree, Shoroko jerked his head about, expecting a new menace. Each Claw to revive added a new growl to the symphony of discontent. They flexed their sinews, tested their bonds, and resigned themselves to glaring at K'Pinkelek. Melissa walked from person to person and lissair to lissair and bathed each in blue flame. Once healed, the Hands’ anger subsided and they formed a phalanx around their unexpected benefactor.
* * *
Melissa addressed the Reds. “White Talon will accompany Commander, excuse me, Wall Marshal Ecraveo to Four Rivers.” When she pronounced his new title, Melissa bowed her head in the soldier’s direction. The real White Talon had informed her that in a crisis, Claws may promote Hands who display valor in their presence. Granting such a title to a hand was unusual; for an act of valor consisting in attacking Claws: unprecedented. Would it soften her adversary’s heart?
For the first time that day, Ecraveo smiled, then scowled to conceal his pleasure.
She continued. “I will stand trial, and abide by their decision. You will fly off, and make no further attempt to disrupt our journey. The truth of my words should now be evident. Trust that the wisdom of one who can heal by fire is the same wisdom that compels her course.”
K'Fuur sported a toothy grin. “If your exaltation conducts her actions with wisdom, she will also respect as wisdom that traveling in chains is a provocation to every untutored eye soaring past.”
Melissa looked at Ecraveo.
“The word of a hlissak is strong as rope to me. She will remain unbound.” Ecraveo faced K'Pinkelek. “By your quick thinking and unselfish bravery, you saved our lives and averted war. The name of K'Pinkelek will always be spoken in honor in my presence. You may unbind your comrades.”
Once free, K'Fuur spoke. “All Kibota will watch your court proceedings with intense interest. Since K'Pinkelek has earned your trust, I insist he accompany you to guarantee that Hlissak Talon is well protected and represented.”
Ecraveo nodded, while K'Pinkelek stood tall.
Lofty K'Fuur shouted, “To Blaze!” He sprinted four steps, spread his wings, and took to the air.
As the five lissairn dwindled into specks, Melissa turned to K'Pinkelek. Behind his inscrutable face gleamed the eyes of an exile intent on demonstrating his loyalty and recovering his place. Keeping the Hands fooled is taking all my cleverness. How will I conceal my identity from K'Pinkelek’s scrutiny?
Chapter 10: Detour Through Marbush
Morning, April 5th. Marbush.
Crevasses and ravines opened into a flat mass of vines, brush, and thistles, and an endless prospect of squat, bent trees. Melissa had foul memories of a childhood trek through a similar landscape, when a nasty boy thrust cockleburs into her long hair, reduced to short hair when her mother’s shears signaled surrender to the inevitable. Her lissine hide provided
a sure defense against such vegetable menaces, so she proudly stomped her way through a patch – and regretted it. She emitted a stream of curses whose meaning she didn’t even know. Shoroko and Fear walked through the same patch without incident.
“No fair! How come they don’t stick to you?”
Thedarra doubled over in laughter.
K’Pinkelek snorted and shook his head. “Your eminence, with your permission, I could singe them a bit. Minor burns are always in order in Claw-Hand negotiations.”
For an instant, the smirk departed from Thedarra’s face. Then she strutted forward, bent low and plucked a burr from Melissa’s hind leg.
“Ouch!”
Thedarra turned and flung it at K’Pinkelek. “Singe away – but flay the guilty scaliburr, not the innocent who’ll be cooking your lunch.”
Melissa intercepted her throw and inspected the spiny menace. Its spikes were smooth and retracted until force was applied. A human foot wouldn’t do, only something as massive as a Lissai or a fan-fan could cause the vegetable spring inside to latch on. “Is it poisonous?”
“The green ones are,” said Shoroko. “That one’s mature. Good in a stew. Darra?”
“I remember it’s one of your favorites. Ecraveo! Stop here for lunch?”
That bossy lass has a way to turn everything to her advantage. I could kill her, but maybe I should just take notes. Melissa was glad cooking would occupy her rival, until Callyglip volunteered. Yet instead of earning him a spoonful of Thedarra’s affection, it only freed her to spend time with Shoroko.
* * *
Thedarra put her hand on Shoroko’s left shoulder, then slid it slowly until she reached his elbow. “Can you help me draw water? If I leave that duty to Cally we’ll all get sick.”
Shoroko lifted his right hand for his hundredth brush off, but with his sister’s death sinking in, he instead put his hand on hers. “Sure. Get the buckets.” While she was gone, he walked up to Melissa. K’Pinkelek had wandered off to satisfy his thirst. “With more ears and eyes about, we need more friends.” He nodded up the path at Thedarra. Then he looked into Melissa’s eyes for an answer. He saw uncertainty, hesitation, and something he assumed sprang from his imagination: jealousy. The olissair’s head bob in assent.
A Most Refined Dragon Page 9