Dragonfriend (48 page)

“It must all be figurative,” Lia protested. “Plucking stars from the heavens just isn’t my style.”

“Good thing we cleared that up,” Ja’al quipped.

Lia smacked the monk’s knee. “Be quiet, brother Ja’al. What I find strange, is how Ra’aba even found the prophecy in the first instance. And why
he’s
so afraid of it. I wondered if Ianthine might have twisted his mind somehow … to function as her tool while she’s in exile?”

“May the Great Dragon forefend!” Master Jo’el exclaimed.

Ja’al hissed, “A good man twisted to evil? You think a man who sends soldiers to slaughter children is secretly misunderstood? You were there, Lia! You buried his victims!” Lia flushed at the depth of disgust in Ja’al’s voice. “Now he’s good? Mercy, how naïve and stupid can a girl be?”

Dragon and dragonet snarled at him, but Lia leaped in at once,
Grandion, Flicker … it’s alright.

Her fingers touched her pouch where she stored the child’s wooden Dragon. She said, “Ja’al has a right to his opinions. I haven’t forgotten. But I’m also aware of the power of
ruzal
. You haven’t met Ianthine. You and I both know that some Dragons have mind powers.” Powers enough to control a Human being? Of that she had no doubt, but she was not about to say so in front of Grandion. “You forget that the Nameless Man detected the mark of Ianthine’s claw upon my life, and that’s fifteen years after the fact. I’ll admit it’s unlikely, but we have to give Ra’aba a chance.”

The young monk looked unhappily around the circle. “Don’t you see Ianthine’s ploy? Asserting that Ra’aba is her father weakens Hualiama’s hand against him. Doubt has crept in.” He flinched at Lia’s low cry of distress, but added steadily, “I’m sorry if my words hurt you, Lia, but friends sometimes have to be prepared to voice the hard truths. Or they are no friends at all.”

When she raised her gaze to meet his, it was with moist eyes but a firm chin. “Thank you, Ja’al. The reason I am certain is founded on my dream of my mother, Azziala. I dreamed details that no imagination of mine could possibly have served up. She confirmed Ra’aba is my father. I know that Ianthine gave my mother at least part of the lore of
ruzal
, or something similar. She said, ‘mastering this will give you power over Dragons.’ Doesn’t that uncannily mirror what you told me of the war in the East, Grandion? That the Humans there demonstrate an inexplicable power over Dragons?”

Grandion lay utterly still. Hualiama could not read his emotions, for it was as if the windows of his soul were shuttered, even though his eyes were wide open and filled with dark fire.

Her instinct told her that the Tourmaline Dragon was fully primed to kill someone, or something. The wrong whisper would provoke an Island-shattering outburst of violence.

What had Ianthine aimed to achieve by gifting Azziala such a power against the Dragonkind? What kind of woman was Azziala, to use that power? Suddenly, Lia’s clothes seemed too hot. Mercy. The long dreamed-of prospect of knowing her parents grew less palatable by the hour! She began to growl like a Dragoness, caught an odd look from Flicker, and stopped.

Hualiama said, “I do doubt my dreams, in case you’re wondering. But they also seem to be frighteningly accurate–at least the vivid ones, the ones I remember.”

“Good,” said Master Jo’el, unexpectedly. “How many hours before the King’s Dragonship reaches us, Lia?”

“Ten to eleven,” she said.

“Even better!” Now he seemed cheerful, Lia thought, frowning at the Master. “There is time for more talk, but now, we must lay our plans and strategies. Grandion, will you entreat the Dragon Elders on our behalf?”

“Aye, but I can make no promises.”

Hualiama weighed his response, the aggression barely concealed beneath his calm demeanour. Something in their conversation had touched a raw nerve in the Dragon. Reaching out, she laid her palm flat against his muzzle. Her eyes crinkled into a smile. “Not even one, my Dragon?”

The stillness between them communicated much.

Stirring, the Tourmaline Dragon said, “Aye, precious Rider, there is one promise to be made, born in an oath of fire and magic.” Had Master Jo’el possessed hair on his head, Lia grinned inwardly, but also with a measure of fright, his eyebrows would have taken refuge in that thicket long before. Grandion continued, “Even if no other will fly to your aid, I will come. For the creatures which dwell in the Palace of Fra’anior are the mortal enemies of Dragonkind. I will smite them with tooth and claw until in a bleating panic, they flee into the very Cloudlands. And I will honour my word to you, Hualiama Dragonchild.”

Lia almost fainted. Dragonchild? Even her thoughts gibbered, ‘W-W-What?’

But she sensed a greater magic nearby. Ja’al! His eyes rolled back in his head. In a mighty voice not his own, he roared,
May the strength of the Ancient Dragons inhabit your paw! Alastior!

Magic thundered out of the young monk–neither seen nor physically felt, but a wash of the familiar white fire over Lia’s vision. She saw in dizzying array powers and thrones and fates and above it all, the blackest of thunderheads boiling over the horizon. Among the storm clouds loomed the multiple obsidian heads of the greatest Dragon of all, Fra’anior. Grandion groaned long and deep. The length of his body shuddered; a new fire entered his eyes, one Hualiama had never seen before–dark and light, intermingled, wreathed together in a complex helix pattern.

Ja’al screamed, and pitched forward.

Hualiama threw her legs beneath him without thinking. The monk’s head bounced on her thigh. Unseeing? Dead? The horror! Soft now, she bent over him, her hair sliding forward to whisper against his cheek.

“Ja’al? No, please don’t …” Nothing. No rise and fall of his chest. No pinch of colour in his cheek. “Spirits of the Ancient Dragons, have mercy!”

Master Jo’el stared at them. “No!”

Fires ancient and fateful immolated her soul. Lia’s little fists rose and pounded his chest with all of her strength. “You … can’t … die!”

He lay unmoving.

“No. Oh, Ja’al … n-n-no.” Weeping. Inconsolable. She bent over him as a tree would shade a still pond, searching for life. Mercy, oh please … just one sign.

As tenderly as the touch of dawn’s light, Lia brushed his cheek with her lips. “Ja’al, don’t leave us …”

A flicker beneath the skin of his neck caught her eye. His pulse!

Ja’al murmured, “Princess, I thought we agreed there would be no more kissing of monks?”

I
N HIS DREAM,
two days later, Flicker found himself peeling egg-head’s skull aside to get his nose into the tasty, nourishing brains. Ooh, that was the bit that he loved best. Brains. His talons curled with delight. Their sponginess was just so …

Flicker.

Oh no, not when he was having such a pleasant dream.

Flicker, wake up.

The dragonet mumbled,
You kissed that monk again. Shame on you.

Flicker, so help me I will tan your hide for boot leather!

He cracked an eye open.
Is it time?

Hualiama nodded. Time for their assault on the palace.

In the predawn darkness, she, Flicker and a fifty-strong team of monks skulked in the jiista-berry bushes not a hundred feet from an outer circle of purple-clad Royal Guards. Above them, the eastern side of the palace grounds sheared away in two hundred feet of black basalt cliffs into a tangled mess of brush and trees. Few knew that this area also concealed a secret entrance into the dungeons beneath the palace. Two days, Flicker thought. Just two days since they had landed at Ha’athior Island, and Master Jo’el had organised a full-scale assault on the palace–alias, Ra’aba’s stronghold. The Master was a smart man, as far as Humans went. But his Lia had dreamed up the tactical masterstroke. It served to show the benefits of a dragonet’s instruction.

He nibbled Lia’s earlobe contentedly.

Jo’el had already stripped the monasteries bare and had his monks infiltrate Fra’anior in preparation for an assault. Dragons had sacked two of the empty monasteries while the daring dragonet, the blue beast and his favourite fire-eyed Human girl, had baited Ianthine in her lair and sprung the King from his rock cage. Flicker had quickly labelled the King ‘hard-head’, because the only voice he listened to was his own. But that one called Elki, he had a dragonet’s keen sense of mischief.

Ra’aba had five hundred crack troops deployed around the palace building, as well as a further three thousand mercenaries from Yaya Loop stationed in the palace grounds. Cannibals. The dragonet shuddered. Fifteen Dragons–thirteen Greens and two Browns–formed part of Ra’aba’s personal guard. The numbers arrayed against them were less than encouraging, unless the King managed to rally his troops from the barracks just outside the city, and Grandion succeeded in whistling up substantial draconic support from a father who had, by all accounts, banished him from the Halls of the Dragons until he reformed his ways.

Lia grabbed Flicker’s muzzle and stared right into his eyes.
Have you forgotten your part?

By the First Egg, Lia’s eyes blazed! Flicker felt his snarky response evaporate.
No,
he said, and fluttered aloft.

He scanned the scene. Atop the bluff, two sentries overlooked the brush area. A further dozen were strung out at the base of the cliff. A mile to the north, a huge cargo Dragonship drifted above a low hill. In half an hour it would lose control and come sweeping down upon the Palace … right. Flicker’s duty was to signal the attack. He made one aerial loop. A second. As the third came to its completion, the monks surged silently from the bushes. Arrows whispered into the semidarkness. Lia struck her target atop the bluff cleanly beneath the chin, the arrow spearing through his brain. Fourteen Royal Guards collapsed within a heartbeat of each other, struck down simultaneously. All was accomplished in complete silence.

Monks rushed toward the secret entrance. Just a crack in the rocks marked by a damp stain, it was a sewage outlet for the dungeons. A Human pyramid formed against the cliff as if by magic. Sprinting toward the pyramid, his Lia–the lightest by far–stepped nimbly into the linked hands of a pair of monks. They launched her to the top of the pyramid, where a second pair of monks repeated the manoeuvre. Up she soared, a further fifteen feet to the crack. With the accomplished wriggle of a dragonet disappearing into its warren, Hualiama slipped into the darkness.

Rope flew up. It drew taut. Inside, Lia would be tying it to the metal grating which prevented ingress.

A low birdcall sounded.

Thirty monks heaved on the rope in perfect concert. The old, rusty grating popped loose on the third attempt. Flicker caught his breath–and where was Lia? There, swinging aside on a one-handed hold to allow the grating past her body. Two monks on the pyramid caught it so that there would be no clash of metal against rock.

A stream of dark-clad monks began to swarm up their pyramid, leaping for the crack like a flurry of Human-sized bats, so rapidly that they almost landed on each other’s backs. Flicker chirruped his approbation. Respectable, for mere Humans. A pair of ropes snaked down. The last of the monks–Rallon and Hallon, the giants at the pyramid’s base, swarmed up to join their fellows.

Flicker scanned the clifftops. When he observed no sign that their intrusion had been detected, the dragonet flipped his wings to enter the narrow tunnel with far more grace than the monks had managed. Obviously, he refused to sully his paws in the sewage. He landed on Lia’s shoulder.

Perfect,
said the dragonet.

“Flicker says we’re in,” said Lia. “No Dragons so far.”

Their intelligence suggested that the majority of the Dragons slept atop the sprawling royal abode, with two or three of the Dragonkind guarding the chamber off the Great Hall which Ra’aba had made his own. Flicker reminded himself that this was only the first prong of a four-pronged attack.

Lia said, “Right, brother Ja’al. Time to foment a little long-overdue regime change.” His teeth gleamed briefly at the royal ward. “Flicker, check the dungeon entrance and report back. Hallon and first squad, secure the downstairs. Jammizon, second squad, this level. Ja’al and the rest, follow me. Keep the noise down to less than a Dragon’s battle-roar, alright?”

Garbed all in black, their hands, faces and heads blackened, the unarmoured but heavily armed monks filed up the stinking tunnel toward the dungeons proper. Flicker nipped ahead.

* * * *

Hualiama wished that adrenalin would wipe out the toxic cocktail of dread and dreams seething in her belly. So many qualms. Would her
Nuyallith
skills prove the ultimate weapon against Ra’aba? What kind of reception would Grandion receive at Gi’ishior? When she faced her father, would she feel wounded or vindicated? Could she hope to live up to the task with which an Ancient Dragon and the Nameless Man had entrusted her?

She issued orders. Led a team of monks. Even if her service was not acceptable to the King, she would serve her kingdom.

She secretly hoped that her friend Inniora would be held in the dungeons. Unlike most dungeons, she supposed, these were clean, dry and well ventilated, but also overrun by rats and hardly comfortable accommodation. The standard sleeping arrangement was a block of stone set along the left side of each cell, which were ten feet deep and just six feet wide. Tiny. Open metal gratings faced onto a substantial grid of long, torch-lit corridors, and while there were few guard patrols downstairs, a heavily fortified guardroom was located above the third level of the dungeons, which they would have to pass through in order to gain entrance to the lower servants’ levels of the palace.

There was also the charming affectation of the large torture-chambers just off the guardroom, which from all reports, Ra’aba had put to extensive use. Squeezing out of the sewer, the different groups of monks formed up and loped off to carry out their duties. Lia led her group to the stairs.

Ja’al whispered into her ear, “Is it always this crowded?”

“No.”

Her eyes flicked from side to side. Five, six to a cell. The acrid stench of sewage and unwashed Human bodies. Ra’aba had certainly been busy. There were whole families occupying cells, the children having to sleep stacked together like dragonets in a warren. A Dragoness’ fierce, aggrieved anger suffused her breast. This was wrong. The Roc’s tyranny knew no boundaries.