Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) (40 page)

“Hundreds,” Zip said, dreamily. “A group peeling away to the north, Aranya. They mean to outflank us
from behind the mountains, as King Beran suggested. Wait, we should count them.” Aranya shivered. Now Zip could read her mind? Bizarre. “Around fifty to the north, Aranya. Too many to count in the east.”

“They’re still cresting the horizon,” said Aranya.

“Ooh, I feel ill.” Zuziana swayed in the saddle, putting her hand to her forehead. “That wasn’t a good idea. Let’s take our intelligence to the Commander, Aranya. Oh, I need to take those measurements first. Hang on.”

“Oh, I’ll just hang on the breeze.
” When this received no response, Aranya added, “I’ll hook my wings to a passing cloud and dangle.”

“You’re making a noise, beast. Shh.”

When Zip was finished, Aranya asked, “What is that thing?”

“A league-logger,” said the Princess, rather too smugly for Aranya’s liking. “Something your Immadian scholars apparently found
described in an ancient scroll. It measures angles and works out horizontal distance–in this case, fifty-three leagues to the Dragonships. Making four leagues per hour against the wind; they’ll reach Immadia by this evening.”

After returning with their intelligence, Aranya and Zuziana were ordered to rest until late afternoon, when they flew on another reconnaissance, very similar to the first. The Dragonships were much closer, but not in a particular hurry.

“Closing the northern jaw of his trap,” said King Beran, pacing up and down like a caged rajal. “Sink him into a Cloudlands volcano, I’d do the same. He’ll make a frontal assault around dawn with the bulk of his fleet, on land and in the air, while waiting with his second flank until the battle has been joined and our forces are committed to one front.”

“Aye, Sire,” said Darron.
“Where’s Garthion’s flagship, Aranya?”

“With the northern group, Commander,” she replied. “And … please don’t take this the wrong way, but we didn’t make any
assumptions he would be with his flagship. Princess Zuziana and I agreed that we sensed his presence inside the flagship. Call it a Dragon sense. He once tortured the Princess of Remoy. Now it seems there’s a strange connection between them.”

“Does it go
both ways?” asked the King.

Aranya’s fires flared at the question. Perceptive! She had not thought about that. Poor Zip had nearly fainted at the touch of Garthion’s mind, at the awareness of his proximity and evil. She had been raving for a while, babbling about chains and Dragons and the skin being flayed off her body.

“I don’t know. It could. Dad–also, I need to be honest. My Rider’s not well. Can I talk to you and Commander Darron privately?”

She explained ho
w Princess Zuziana had reacted; that this was unlike her, especially given as they had been through battles before. She told them about her fears about the Dragon tears.

“Aye, Aranya,” said Darron, when her tale was told. “Dragon magic’s
spawned a thousand tales of strange powers. Could be the torture broke her mind; could be your magic still working within her. You chose well to tell us, girl. Thank you for your honesty–and your trust.”

King Beran nodded. “Aye, I’m proud of you, Sparky.”

“Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Commander Darron.”

“Now, you should rest,” said the King. “You’re swaying even as you speak. We’ve spied the Dragonships and will keep a Dragon’s eye on their advance.
Any trouble, we’ll wake you at once and meet on Izariela’s Tower. You’ve my word on that.”

“Dad, we can’t hit them tonight, can we? One flash of an exploding Dragonship
and they’ll see me.”

“Aye. But an attack from above in the morning–that should send those ralti sheep fleeing for the hills. Darron and I will discuss how best we might use you. I’ve never tried to plan
strategy around a Dragon.”

“But Dad, there’s just one of me.”

“So we need to make you count for ten. Your tame monk has given me a few ideas.”

Aranya kissed him on the cheek. “You get some sleep, too.”

“It’ll work out,” said Beran, touching his cheek where she had kissed him. “I just know. Call it a father-of-the-Dragon sense.”

She stared at him. Shaking her head, Aranya went to try to find some elusive sleep.

* * * *

Bang! Bang
-bang-bang!

Aranya jerked awake. She had kicked the sheets into a ferocious tangle. Beside her on the bed, Zuziana sat up at once.

“Quickly,” came the call. “To the tower.”

“An attack?” mumbled Aranya.

Zip had slept fully dressed. She ran to the door. “Sleeping in the clouds? Hurry!”

Aranya had been dreaming about the Black Dragon. What had he been saying? She could not remember, but it was important.
She ran after Zuziana.

The two Princesses burst up onto the tower. As they did, a flash of fire lit the eastern sky. Aranya
rubbed her eyes as she scanned the horizon. “An attack? Where?”

“They’re attacking each other,” said King Beran. “At least, we think so. Can you transform and tell us?”

At least her father was awake. Aranya waved her arms. “If you clear enough space.”

Aranya’s sleeping-shift fluttered to the ground, torn. In her place stood an Amethyst Dragon. She peered into the night.
Her hearts leaped fitfully at the excitement. “Yes, they’re attacking each other. It’s hard to tell … the fleet is drifting apart and there’s a cloudbank in the way.”

“What about the northern group?” asked Darron. “Our lookouts say they saw what they took for lightning out there, o King. Could we
just send–”

“A Dragon scout?”
said Aranya. “Ri’arion? Zip?”

Ri’arion said, “Take Zip. I’ll stay here in case a ground assault starts.”

“Don’t engage them, yet,” warned the King. “We need information down here to keep people alive.”

“Agreed,” said Zip, mounting up.

“No armour, Dragon Rider?” asked Commander Darron.

“No time.”

When Princess Zuziana was seated, Aranya launched herself over the side of the battlement and raced away into the moonlit night. Zip muttered to herself as she secured the thigh and waist straps. Three moons were high: White, Jade and Blue, giving the night a gentle sparkle that Aranya feared would reveal their presence to anyone who might not be battle-watching, but watching the skies with a telescope. She wished she could be a Black Dragon, like Fra’anior.

A ripple passed through her body.

“What was that?” asked Zip. “Aranya, you’ve changed colour.”

Aranya looked at herself in surprise. She had
shifted to a smoky purple-black colour, a much better companion to the night.

“Neat trick,” said Aranya, casually.

Zip chuckled. “You don’t fool me. You’re more surprised than I am.”

Dragon-Aranya thought about this as she flapped steadily to gain height. The battle out there over the eastern Cloudlands was fierce. Another Dragonship flared into ashes; two were limping toward Immadia,
losing altitude rapidly. It might have been a good opportunity to strike–but what was going on? A strange diversion to hide a sneak attack from the north? The battle seemed too realistic. Even Garthion must surely balk at blowing up his own Dragonships.

She could change colour like the chameleons they had found along the Crescent Islands? Badly, she told herself. She had been thinking
about the Black Dragon. She had arrived at a strange midway point, a colour that was neither of them. Would Ri’arion know about colour-changing Dragons? Everything Nak and Oyda had taught her suggested that Dragon colours were fixed from birth.

A great orange flash lit the clouds hanging over the mountain peaks.

A dozen more wing beats brought Aranya to a height where she could see between the peaks. The northern part of the Sylakian fleet had anchored just the other side of a sharp line of peaks. The battle here was fierce, too, a group of Dragonships coming under heavy fire from a second group which sported the symbol of the windroc. A mutiny in Garthion’s forces, she wondered? Her flames churned steadily in her stomach. Had she not promised her father, she could have gone out there and downed a few Dragonships before they knew what had hit them.

Her eyes focussed. There was Garthion’s
heavily armoured flagship; the man himself standing behind his forward crysglass window, watching the battle. He could see? The Supreme Commander had said the son of Sylakia was blind. She wondered how much he saw, now. Magnified by her sight, his face looked bizarre–scars, she realised, a horrific melting of flesh right up into the hairline …

“
Garthion!” screamed Zip, seeing through Aranya’s eyes. “Oh,
uuunh!
”

Lightning flashed behind her. Suddenly a weight drove Aranya downward; daggers of pain
plunged into her back. She howled and thrashed instinctively, throwing off her attacker. She saw wings spinning past her, the snapping jaws of a Dragon, blue-in-blue eyes blazing with magic, a tail that smashed her in the jaw as the Dragon roared past her and charged away into the night, westward.

Aranya reeled. Another Dragon
!

T
hen she had a second shock. Zip was gone … Zip was the Dragon. Aranya gave chase at once, hurtling away from the battle at her utmost speed. It was Zip. No-one else could have that colour, the azure of her eyes. Her Dragon senses reached out to her friend.
Zip! Zip!

An incoherent scream tore into her mind.

She was feral. Frightened out of her wits, the Dragon sped westward over the mountains, flying erratically. Aranya was surprised she could fly at all. Perhaps it was all Dragon instinct, the shock of the change having driven her mad. Her mind raced. Aranya could transform and land on her friend and try to calm her down, but then they’d lose their only Dragon saddle–which was probably damaged, anyway. And if she missed? A maddened Dragon might just rip her apart. She should know how fast Dragon reactions were.

Aranya made a snap decision. Abandoning
the chase, she stretched out her neck and powered down the mountainside to the castle, gaining tremendous velocity as she swooped, her wings tucked and trimmed to provide the least possible air friction. She checked the sky. If she was quick, Zuziana would not get too far. She back-winged into the tower, making everyone duck as she landed on the edge of the battlement.

“Ri’arion
,” she snarled. “I need you aboard, now.”

“Where’s–we saw another–”

“It’s Zip. She transformed when we saw Garthion.” Aranya sought out her father as the monk scrambled into her saddle.

“You’re wounded,” said Ri’arion.

Ignoring him, Aranya reported rapidly, “It looks like a mutiny. Maybe a smallish number of Dragonships in both fleets, Dad. I don’t know what it means. Who would dare mutiny against Sylakia? I’d watch out for tricks. Garthion is mad enough to try anything. He is definitely out there in the northern group, chasing seven rogue Dragonships. In the bigger group, I counted one hundred and eighty Dragonships–”

Beran nodded. “Got all that. And you’re going to–”

“Chase my Rider–the other Dragon, Dad.”

“Now there’s another Dragon?”

Her father’s eyes narrowed in calculation. Aranya wanted to snarl at him, ‘That’s my friend, not a pawn in our battle!’ But as Ri’arion scrambled into the saddle, she said, biting back her anger, “It’s Zip, as I feared. The transformation has made her mad. How will you signal me? Could you?”

The King said, “K
eep a Dragon’s eye back here. We’ll raise an orange flag on Izariela’s Tower if there’s trouble, alright? White for safety, orange for danger. Hurry back, Aranya.”

Ri’arion said, “Let’s go burn the heavens, Dragon
.”

Aranya hurled herself off the round batt
lements with a low cry–a Dragon’s sob, she realised. She accelerated powerfully, pressing Ri’arion back against her spine-spike. The night was growing old. Three or four hours until dawn, she made it. What would the coming day bring? King Beran would have to scrap all of his plans and start over.

“Easy
there, rajal,” said Ri’arion. “No straps left on this saddle. I need to rig something with my belt.”

“I’ll fly level. Ri’arion, where’s Sapphire?”

“Don’t rightly know. Zuziana sent her off somewhere late yesterday evening. She said she had an idea about the mountains; that there was magic up there. Aranya …”

She recognised the plea in Ri’arion’s voice. Aranya said, “She transformed, Ri’arion. She transf
ormed into a Dragon as blue as the noonday sky.”

“
An Azure Dragon?” said the monk. “Almost definitely the gift of lightning. Also rare, Aranya, but not as rare as you. You said she went feral? You want me to help coax her back?”

“Yes.”

“This sounds like aerial acrobatics to me. Aranya, you know what a bad flyer I am.”

“Time to improve, Ri’arion.”

Aranya scanned the western skies for any sign of Zuziana. Where had she gone? It could not have been far. There, her friend slipped out momentarily from behind a cloud before ducking into another. She was still fleeing westward. Her flight had smoothed out. Was that a good sign? Or was she escaping even faster? Aranya flexed and contracted her muscles in a flowing beat of her own, pressing upward to gain a height advantage over her friend. Poor, poor Zip. Aranya’s Dragon tears had done their terrible work after all. Zip had never wanted to be a Dragon, but her friend had chosen for her. The memory of Zip’s cold, still face hovered in her mind’s eye. What choice could she have made, other than to let her die?