Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) (41 page)

Zip raced on and on, her sleek blue scales glinting in the moonlight, but the difference in their experience
soon became apparent. Aranya was faster and more efficient in the air. It took time, because she had started so far behind, but she was catching her friend now. For the first time, Aranya could appreciate another Dragon in flight. Zuziana was slender, smaller than her by about ten feet in length and more delicately built overall, but she was still sleek and sliced across the stars with the deadly intent of an Immadian forked dagger. Her outspread wings reflected the starlight. The large flight surfaces flexed and adjusted minutely to the changes in air pressure and conditions, while her tail acted as a rudder. Her paws were tucked beneath her body for streamlining in flight.

Zip? Zuziana of Remoy?
Aranya called.

The Dragon looked over her shoulder,
the catlike pupils of her eyes dilated with terror. She stalled in the air.

Aranya lunged, but her friend recovered somehow and darted beneath her in the opposite direction. Aranya wheeled so hard that Ri’arion grunted, but then he also raised his voice.

“Zip,” cried the monk. “Zuziana of Remoy! Remember who you are. We are friends, your friends, Zuziana; we’ve come to take care of you. You’re Human, Zip. You’ve no need to fear.”

With a low whimper
, the Azure Dragon jinked to the south.

Ri’arion unbuckled his belt. “Let’s see if we can get me onto her back.”

“Mind the spine-spikes.”

Aranya closed with the Azure Dragon. She kept speaking gently to her as Ri’arion climbed down to her forepaw and then swung beneath it. Two more abrupt changes of direction, and suddenly the monk’s weight lifted. Aranya bounced in the air.

Ri’arion landed, not very comfortably and within an inch of losing his manhood, on the base of Zuziana’s neck. The Azure Dragon howled and tumbled through the air, but Ri’arion locked his legs around her neck and clung white-knuckled to her spines, soothing her as one would soothe a frightened pony or kitten, even as they fell through the air. Suddenly, Aranya saw Zip’s eyes contract.

“Ri’arion?” she said. “What’
re you doing … what am I … I’m flying!”

With that,
she dropped like a stone.

Aranya remembered the interplay of her Human and Dragon minds all too well. She still did it from time to time, letting her Human brain try to direct her flight or landing with unpredictable and inelegant results. Dragon-Aranya furled her wings and plummeted after her friend,
bringing herself beneath the fall. A mighty weight crashed against her back and shoulders.

“Transform, Zip,” she heard Ri’arion order.

Abruptly, the weight vanished. Ri’arion stood on the inner edge of her left wing, his weight making her innermost strut bend like a green stick, as he helped Zip into the saddle. She was naked–oh, Aranya remembered that–and shivering with shock. Ri’arion tore off his shirt and helped Zuziana draw it over her head. He swung up into the next space behind her and put his arms around her waist.

“Beloved,” he whispered. “You’re safe. Everything will be fine.”

“I’m a Dragon.”

“A very
attractive Azure Dragon,” said Ri’arion. “I think I could fall in love with your Dragon-form all over again, Zuziana.”

I
n a tiny voice, Zip said, “You could?”

“Aye. True as Fra’anior smokes every day
; true as the suns rise at dawn.”

Aranya wanted to close her ears, but her sensitive hearing caught their soft conversation perfectly.
She wanted to scream. Why could it not have been like this between her and Yolathion?

She turned to the east, startled to see that the suns were just about to make their appearance over the horizon. The chase had taken longer than she thought. The Sylakians were coming. Her eyes homed in on the city. Dragonships? More Dragonships than she expected … an orange flag
. Orange! Adrenalin surged into her veins; Aranya cried out in dismay and hurled herself through the air as she raced back toward the beleaguered Island of Immadia.

At Ri’arion’s worried query, she replied, “Orange flag–danger. We arranged the signal.”

Ri’arion and Zuziana stared ahead. “Dragonships? Those are ours, surely?”

“No, they fly the
rajal. Whose symbol is that?”

“Jeradia,” said the Princess of Remoy. “
It must be Jeradia–Yolathion. What’s he doing? Why’s he over the city? How did King Beran allow him to approach so easily? Aranya, Yolathion commands the Jeradian troops in Garthion’s army. I learned that just after he captured us. I don’t remember much, but I do remember him talking about ‘the Jeradian Dragonships’.”

Aran
ya cried, “It’s a trick. A trap. I knew it!”

S
he could not
fly back to Immadia Island fast enough. Aranya wanted to wail and rail at Zip for luring her away at the crucial moment, but that was unfair. Aranya knew she had done right. King Beran must have his reasons for letting those Jeradian Dragonships approach his city. Ri’arion and Zip both tried to reason with her, but Aranya could not exorcise the leaden dread from her soul. All she could envision was fiery bolts raining down upon her people, and red-cloaked soldiers marching through the streets.

The oran
ge flag waved jauntily above Izariela’s Tower. Stuck to a twenty-foot flagpole, it screamed ‘warning!’

Aranya arrowed across the flanks of the western mountains. Her wings beat furiously, driving her onward at a speed that whip
ped the words out of her Riders’ mouths. The world became a tunnel, the castle rimmed in darkness closing in around her vision. Pressure built in her breast. There was a tautness within her that was not muscular. It wasn’t her fire; this was different. Aranya struggled to breathe. Her magic gathered in ways she had never experienced before. Her eyes fixed on the huge courtyard that lay before the gates of the inner keep. Three Jeradian Dragonships were moored there. Her eyes followed the hawsers downward. The men had to be hidden behind the buildings. She could not see; her father was in grave peril and she could not see to help him, she was too far …

Atop her back, Zuziana shouted at her. The words reverberated off of Aranya’
s ears without understanding. Green flags? What was green to a Dragon? A piercing whistling came to her attention, a sound that climbed the registers to a painful shrill, presaging a great wind that lashed in from her tail, scudding the Dragon along on an irresistible torrent of air. She blurred in over the city, moving fast, much too fast. Roof tiles and straw blasted off roofs in the storm-wash of her passing. Aranya could not help herself. Power choked her throat and blinded her eyes. All she saw was crimson fury. As the courtyard came into her line of sight, Aranya spied Yolathion, Third War-Hammer of the Sylakian fleet, facing her father over a short space, his hammer upraised in the act of striking him.

Dad!
Terror stopped her hearts.

Aranya’s throat worked. Her
stomach clenched so hard she thought she had broken something. At once, a roar like a peal of thunder blasted out of her, a sound so loud it arrested her flight mid-air as though she had slammed into a wall. The detonation picked men up like windswept leaves and scattered them across the square. Several warriors smashed into the sides of buildings. Dust screamed across the paving stones. Windows blasted off their hinges. One of the moored Dragonships crumpled inward, while all three were swept away above the city.

Dragon-Aranya landed in the square. Her Dragon sight surveyed the wreckage
. A low rumble of satisfaction throbbed deep in her chest.

“Aranya
, Aranya!” she heard, vaguely, a faraway cry.

Her eyes fixed on a tall man lying across the square from her. Yola
thion! He struggled to his feet, holding his head.

Aranya leaped a hundred feet in a single bound. Yolathion
half-turned to flee, but the Dragon’s paw caught his shoulder and smashed him to the ground. In a trice Aranya stood over him, snarling, “Traitor. I’m going to rip you in half!”

Yolathion writhed beneath her paw.
He coughed weakly, trying to draw breath, but the weight of a Dragon held him down. His eyes registered horror.

“
Aranya!
” screamed Zip, leaping to the ground.

“
Back. I’ll deal with this filth, Rider.”

“Aranya, stop it,” cried Zuziana, trying to dodge her paw
as Aranya batted her away. “Green flags, Aranya. They’re flying green flags.” Zip ducked, rolling beneath Aranya’s belly. “No!”

Aranya caught the Princess with her free
forepaw, panting hard as her rage began to abate, as sense reasserted itself in her mind. “Zip, it’s a trick,” she argued. “I saw the War-Hammer about to slay the King. Look to the tower, at the orange flag flying. That’s the danger flag–well, I’ve scattered these weak Humans like terrified, bleating sheep with the power of my roar, and saved all Immadia from this double-crossing Jeradian’s plot.”

Zip pushed ineffectually at Aranya’s claws, trying to loosen the iron grip on her ribcage.
“Aranya, listen to yourself. You’re talking like a crazy Dragon. Let up, Aranya. You’re hurting me.”

But as Zip spoke, Aranya’s eyes moved to her father, who gazed up at the battlement in genuine
perplexity. “What fool mixed up the flags?” he cried. He rushed across the square, his gaze softening as he approached her. When he stood right alongside Zuziana, King Beran said, “Dragon, you’ve proven your power upon us all. But now, can I speak to my daughter? Sparky? Are you in there?”

“Dad?”

“I’m sorry about the mix-up with the flags. It’s meant to be white.” Her father peered up at her, clearly trying to find a spark of compassion in the Dragon eyes above him. “I need you to know, Sparky, that Jeradia has offered Immadia an alliance, having recently mutinied against Sylakia. What say you? Shall we accept their offer? Or would you prefer to crush their commanding officer beneath your paw?”

Her rage vanished. Oh, Islands above and volcanoes below
. She had made a mistake. A terrible, damaging mistake. Aranya uncurled her paw sheepishly and patted Zip on the back. “Sorry, Zip, I’m an idiot. I should’ve listened. But when I saw Yolathion–”

The Princess of Remoy smiled. “
I’m an idiot, too. Say, how’s about letting the big Jeradian actually breathe?”

The Dragon lifted her paw a little reluctantly. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Yolathion said, although he was clearly lying.

The sight of tiny Zip trying to help the giant Jeradian rise brought a snort of laughter from Aranya and smiles from many about them. Aranya curled her paw beneath him. “Arise, Third War-Hammer, and accept my humble apologies for pouncing
upon you.”

“Ouch,” said Yolathion, but managed to gather his legs beneath him. “Aranya, are you always this deadly when riled?” He grinned wryly,
running his hand through his hair.

Zuziana interrupted the Dragon’s tongue-tied embarrassment by demanding, “Someone,
please explain before the Dragon explodes.”

Grimacing as he tested his side,
Yolathion said, “We Jeradians would rather die than serve Sylakia any longer. But we were divided among the Sylakian forces until Garthion made the mistake of placing the Jeradian Dragonships under my direct command. I’m sorry it’s a twenty-eighth hour surprise, Aranya–and King Beran–but there was no opportunity to warn you beforehand. Garthion is as paranoid as he is mad.”

Aranya hung her head.
“I also apologise to everyone who has a headache.”

“Or a burst eardrum,” said a voice from the soldiers who were slowly gathering around.

“Is this the same Dragon we chased down near Germodia Island, sir?” asked another soldier.

Yolathion nodded.

“Some power,” said the man. “She could sweep the Dragonships aside on her own.”

But she felt drained, Aranya realised. She would have to hold the storm
power in reserve or face falling out of the sky.

“
Storm powers, Aranya,” Ri’arion said softly, sliding down from his seat. “You’ve grown more powerful. You have to learn to control it.”

“It’s hard
to control feelings,” said Aranya. What could she say to Yolathion? Even now, she sensed his trepidation. Who would love a woman who had just threatened to eat him for a snack–and was capable of doing exactly that?

Dong! Dong! Dong!
The warning gong sounded.

“The Sylakian
fleet is closing in,” cried the watch on the castle walls.

“I need my armour and weapons,
” shouted Zuziana. “Meet you on Izariela’s Tower, Aranya.”

King Beran
bellowed, “Ready the defences. Full alert. Dragonships aloft.” He whirled to face Yolathion. “What of our alliance, War-Hammer?”

“
I’m a War-Hammer no longer,” said Yolathion, inclining his head as if to acknowledge a sorrow. “I am Yolathion of Jeradia. I lead these free men who chose to follow me. With your permission, King Beran, we will take the battle to the Sylakian horde at your shoulder.”

They clasped hands.

A flustered servant came running up to King Beran. “King, o King,” he cried. A hundred pairs of eyes fixed upon him. “We’ve run out of purple cloth for the Jeradian Dragonships.”

Evidently expecting a matter of consequence, Beran’s face broke into a wide grin. “Go to my cupboard and take my royal robes, and Queen Silha’s dresses if you can convince her to part with them. I’m sure you’ll find plenty
of purple. Use it all, for the Islands’ sake. ”

The courtyard cleared in a matter of moments, leaving Aranya
alone with Yolathion. The forty-foot Dragon shuffled her feet.

“You should go,” he said.

“I never meant to hurt you,” she replied.

Yolathion
spread his hands. He would tower over anyone else, but Aranya had to duck to meet his eyes. “I barely know you, Aranya of Immadia. I feel like you’re considering making breakfast of me right now, which I find just a little intimidating.”

“If it helps,” said Aranya, wishing she could take back those words, “I
deeply regret that I doubted you, Yolathion. And attacked you–”

“You were right to doubt me.” Yolathion lo
oked to his boots now, swallowing hard. “There were two paths of honour, Aranya. The easier path would have been to hide behind Garthion and take my victory over Immadia Island, earning the honours of Sylakia. I would have regretted it evermore. I think I’m a bit moons-touched, but I chose what I would like to believe is the higher path. Even if I am to die in this overwhelmingly uneven battle, it will be with an honour that does not sicken the soul, but uplifts it. All fine words, Aranya. But I found that the choice tore me apart. I hate myself for finding this so difficult. I’m not a good man. How can you ever trust me again?”

“Yet, here we are,” she said softly, drawing closer to him.

“I’ve done hateful things to you,” he said.

“And I to you, in thought and
in deed.”

Yolathion struck her as a man changed, one who had fought battles to come to terms with what
he wanted out of life. It seemed to Aranya that this lull just before a battle they could not hope to win, was designed especially for the two of them. Was it just an awareness of mortality that made the moment so bittersweet?

The past loomed as a mountain between them. Aranya
saw no way past it.

“Promise me one thing, Immadia,” said he.

“Anything,” said Aranya, before she could think the better of her reply. Her hearts pulsed powerfully, reminding her that she was also a woman; that she must dare to hope, for hope might turn to love.

“When we’ve defeated an enemy which outnumbers us
six to one in the air, may I ask your father for permission to court the daughter of the realm?” Aranya searched his eyes, finding only sincerity. Yolathion’s grin suddenly tweaked the corners of his mouth upward. He said, “That is, in a situation where we are not trying to kill each other, invade each other’s Islands, or rush into an imminent battle, all of which tend to put a damper on any romance?”

“
Like vomiting all over your boots?”

“I was avoiding that one,
” he quipped. “Politeness–it’s the bane of our family.”

“Or toss
ing me off the nearest cliff?”

He
had the grace to bow his head repentantly. “You’ve rather won that argument, wouldn’t you say, Dragon-lady?”

Aranya cocked her head to one side. “So, l
et me find this Island with you. You’re asking my permission to ask my father’s permission–”

“
To get to know you, Aranya of Immadia, if you would still consider a disgraced War-Hammer worth knowing,” he said, with his most engaging smile.

Even a Dragon’s knees could grow weak, Aranya discovered.

“Yolathion!” One of the Dragonships which Aranya had blown away over the city, approached the square. A Jeradian warrior shouted from above, “It’s urgent!”

Before she could reply,
Yolathion shrugged his shoulders, and fled.

* * * *

“He and I are just one unfinished conversation.” Aranya mooched on Izariela’s Tower, supposedly helping Zuziana prepare for battle, but in reality, just mooching.

Ri’arion helped Zuziana with her temporary saddle-straps–warriors’ belts
filched from the stores–and helped her settle three quivers of arrows around her seat and two sacks of meriatite chunks.

Aranya snaked her head back to take a look. “Are you planning to win the war on your own, Zip?”

“I might need to if my Dragon’s thoughts don’t return from the clouds,” Zip said, adding to the acid in her tone with a grim smile. “Thanks, Ri’arion.” Zuziana intended to drop a kiss on his cheek, but her helm thwacked him near the eye instead. She giggled, “Oops.”