Shadow Dragon (31 page)

“The monks can heal?” asked Zip.

“Some, but nothing close to what Aranya could achieve,” said Ri’arion, resting his head on the floor. “It will not be easy. Beran, Ignathion, talk strategy with Ta’armion. He knows many of our abilities–you must work out how to protect the Dragonships, and how you’ll penetrate the Dragons’ defences. We must fly quickly to rouse my brethren. I must go, for the Nameless Man’s word still holds weight around this volcano. A map, King Beran. I will show you where to send your Dragonships, even to the most secret monasteries.”

Ardan said, “I will take you at once, Ri’arion.”

“He’s
my
Rider!”

Lightning shot out of Zip’s mouth, crisping a strip of Ri’arion’s beard on its way to burning a neat hole in the starboard crysglass panel.

“Mercy,” said Zip.

“Good thing that wasn’t directed upward,” Ignathion added.

To Zip’s intense irritation, Ardan seemed to find her anger cute. He said, “Do all of the women around here either want to bite your head off or split your skull open?”

Zuziana deliberately turned her back to Ardan and her attention to Ri’arion. “You are going nowhere in your condition, you moons-mad monk.”

He also had a smile for her. Zuziana decided she was going to sink her fangs into one of those nice smiling faces in a moment. She bit back the urge to transform, telling her Dragoness to bide her time. Soon, she would be unleashed upon the hot volcanic winds.

Ri’arion said, “Thus said Hualiama to the Dragon Grandion, ‘I love thee not as a Human loves a Dragon, in all thy draconian majesty; nor for thy first heart, pulsing with nobility, nor for the courage of your second heart, which is as wide and deep as the Cloudlands themselves, but for thy third heart, which is pure love. And it is that love which has captured me, and set me upon a course more certain than that which the twin suns sail across the heavens. Thou canst deny it no longer, Zuziana. I am for thee, and thee alone.’ Hearing that, he transformed for her. He was the very first Shapeshifter to reveal his true nature. And she was called Dragonfriend.”

“Oh, how sweet,” said Ta’armion, wiping his eyes. “He said ‘Zuziana’ in place of Grandion. I’ve never heard anything so romantic in my entire life!”

“The perfect mistake,” said Zip.

“Then kiss me, my Azure Dragoness, and let us go stir up an army.”

“Aye, my very own Dragonfriend,” said Zip, glad to do as she was bid. “Will you tell me the tale of Hualiama and Grandion, soon?”

“Oh, forbidden love, it’s so poignant!” Prince Ta’armion burst into tears.

Lyriela startled as her husband pillowed his head on her shoulder. Rolling her eyes, she muttered,
By the Great Dragon, what do I do now?

Ardan exchanged equally startled glances with Zuziana. Mentally, he growled,
Lyriela, are you hiding a Dragon, too?

Aranya thinks so, and Nak and Oyda,
said the girl.
But I’ve never transformed. I’m Aranya’s cousin.

Oho,
said Ardan.
We need to talk.

Beran’s sharp eyes had not missed their swift-as-thought exchange, even though he would not have heard anything. He crooked a finger at Zuziana. “A word outside, if you would, Remoy.”

Half an hour later, Zip was flying south along the rim wall of the largest volcano in the Island-World, with a sick monk on her back and fresh hope singing in her heart.

D
irectly across the
caldera from Ha’athior Island, as they departed Ri’arion’s old home near Lyriela’s village, Zuziana spotted seven burly Red Dragons beating toward the northern end of the volcano. Dragons, heading for Fra’anior. Her perceptive gaze swept the caldera. Several Dragonships full of warrior monks should arrive at the main Island within an hour. Nine others were in various stages of progress from the south-eastern and southern Isles, four hours by Dragonship from Fra’anior–perhaps three with a helping breeze.

Their plan was about to come unstuck, unless the Reds intended to rest before throwing themselves into battle. She could imagine that. They had laboured the day long against a robust breeze sweeping in from several points north of west, the same breeze which buffeted her and Ri’arion, who was looking greyer the further they progressed. They had visited eleven monasteries in the seven hours since leaving Beran’s forces at Fra’anior city. Six to go before the race back to Fra’anior. Could Ardan hold off all seven Dragons until nightfall? Did nightfall matter for a Dragon attack?

Putting her head down, the Azure Dragon pushed on despite her fatigue. Just think of the next stop, no further. Every minute saved, might mean the life of another Fra’anior Islander.

“What’s the matter, Zuzi?” asked Ri’arion.

“I see Thoralian’s Dragons–two, maybe two and a half hours away,” she said. “We’ve run out of time, Ri’arion.”

He sighed, “I feel so useless. All my hope was fixed on finding Aranya here. I’m so angry with her–and what has she done wrong? The healers at Ya’arriol helped, but not enough. I can’t fight! I can’t, I just can’t, my sweet …”

Zuziana gazed at him over her shoulder, hating the hopeless note in his voice, yet loving him. “You carried me at first. Now, it’s my turn.”

“Literally,” he groaned.

“You’re killing yourself raising up an army of crazy magical monks to save your Island-Cluster from destruction, Ri’arion. That strikes me as a vaguely worthwhile pursuit.”

“Now you’re being positively Immadian,” he chuckled, but he held his left shoulder and arm very gingerly. “Zuziana, I can’t go to Sylakia with you.”

Again, that hint of a protective nature underlying his austere monk-face. She wished he’d smile more, sometimes, even if it made every smile the more precious. “I’m an ugly fire-breathing lizard, monk-love. I understand. Besides, I have to babysit that Western Isles monster. You know the type. He’ll smell out the thickest trouble and fly straight into it.”

“And through it, and keep right on going.”

With a throaty chuckle, she said, “Ri’arion, you said something about monks shielding themselves. Do you mean to imply they’re able to deflect crossbow bolts and Dragon fire?”

“Aye, possibly. Shields are a complex topic.”

“As a Blue colour, that might be a power I could learn. Do you think you could teach me? Or,” she grimaced, “I can’t believe I’m going to say this. Would you be willing to open your mind to me again so that I can experience it for myself?”

The man on her back gulped. He was silent for such a long time, the Azure Dragon began to wonder if her Rider had fallen unconscious–hopefully not–but she could not bring herself to meet his gaze. She had wounded him, last time, and had no desire to repeat the experience.

“Well, I asked you to trust me, before,” he said.

“I broke your trust.”

Ri’arion laughed hollowly. “And here I feared the Nameless Man taking over a Dragon’s powers, not the reverse. Nevertheless, you are forgiven, dear one.”

“I’m sorry, Ri’arion. If we mind-meld again, is there a way I can transfer some of my strength to you? Because, to be perfectly honest, you’re not allowed to die before I’ve had the chance to have my way with you for a hundred years, minimum.”

His tan Fra’aniorian complexion suddenly assumed a ruddier, more volcanic hue. “It’s like that, is it? I wouldn’t know how, Dragon-love, but I’ll think about it. First, let’s talk shields.”

* * * *

Three mornings after she had last seen Doctor Chikkan, a squad of four Sylakian Hammers appeared unannounced at Aranya’s cell door. They dragged her out over Jia-Llonya’s protests. One of them smashed the haft of his hammer into the Jeradian girl’s chest. “Shut it, wench.”

Jia-Llonya staggered backward, white-cheeked.

“I’ll be back,” Aranya called as they marched her though the narrow, Dragon-proof tunnels.

Upward they climbed once more. Aranya was stronger. This time, she made it halfway up the long stairwell before collapsing, panting like an asthmatic Dragon. Chikkan had been right. Her lungs had been scarred by the pox. The soldiers dragged her on until they reached the main level of the dungeons, where a chill, dank breeze ruffled her hair and brought a metallic tang to her nostrils. At least she was never cold, Aranya thought. Poor Jia. The stone-chill and damp had been unkind to her. Never cold? She puzzled over this idea. Wasn’t her magic dead? Collared and drugged into oblivion. Could it be less absent than she knew?

As the Hammers bundled her along a corridor lined with barred cells, Aranya suddenly caught sight of the doctor peering out of one. His head jerked back as soon as their eyes met. Aranya kept her gaze fixed ahead. What was Thoralian plotting now? Was he using Chikkan to manipulate her? Had the doctor come under suspicion, too?

Ducking through a short, connecting tunnel she had not noticed before, the Sylakian squad brought her into a new cave, a vast cathedral of hundred-foot stalactites, interspersed with spears and curtains of crystal formations. Moist heat filled her lungs, and a strong whiff of that cinnamon scent she had come to associate with Dragons. The cavern floor was flat and sandy, leading down to what appeared to be a bubbling underground lake of unknowable dimensions, for the far shore was lost in shadows.

A Brown Dragon awaited her there.

Sallow eyes, similar to Thoralian’s, examined her as she approached–or rather, as the soldiers lugged her unresponsive body toward him.

“I am Gurdurion the Brown,” he rumbled, “nephew of Thoralian.”

He stared expectantly at her. Aranya deliberately chose Dragonish for her response. The language was capable of so many more nuances.
Aranya of Immadia, Shapeshifter and Amethyst Dragon. I’m … pleased to meet you.

A polite lie, of course.

The sulphurous greetings of the Dragon-kind to you, daughter of Izariela,
he said, in neutral tones. “Give her to me.”

Grasping Aranya in his fisted paw, Gurdurion took off at once over the lake. She did not struggle. What would be the point? His forepaw enveloped her body from neck to knee. Had he wished, he could have ended her life with a twitch of his talons. Each was thicker than her torso.

After flying low over the lake for less than a minute, the Brown Dragon swept in to a landing on an islet made that much smaller by virtue of the three Dragons already crowded onto it–two Oranges, from what she could see in the darkness, and a Green. Some shuffling for space ensued, leaving Aranya as the centrepiece of attention between four Dragons’ muzzles. Great. She could be barbecued from every angle simultaneously.

So this was what Thoralian was hiding?
said the Green Dragon, thumping Aranya’s arm with a knuckle, talon sheathed, thankfully. A Dragoness, Aranya realised, appreciating that a bruise was far preferable to a Dragon’s claw speared through her limb.

Pay attention,
said Gurdurion.
This is Aranya, daughter of the Star Dragon Thoralian hates so manifestly. Aranya, these are my grown-up hatchlings–Bexuria the Green, and my twin-yolk sons, Vathior and Yathior.

Aranya inclined her head politely.
My most sulphurous greetings to you all.

Suddenly, a talon ripped the skin at the nape of her neck as one of the Oranges snagged the collar, hoisting her off her feet.
She speaks despite the Lavanias collar? What power is this?

Gurdurion snarled,
Have a care, Vathior. Our Human forms are frail.

Aranya was too busy choking to hear much. The Orange Dragon dropped her again; on hands and knees, she coughed and rasped and eventually spat blood, massaging her bruised throat. The Dragons watched without lifting a digit to help.

This Shifter scum is not freshly woken like us, father,
said Bexuria.
What an ugly visage she has.

Why does Thoralian wake you now?
Aranya asked.

The green paw knocked her over. In a trice, a razor-sharp talon rested against her neck, pinning Aranya to the rocky ground.
We’ll ask the questions, ugly one. What does the Dragon killer want with you? Why does he hide you from us?

If she was careful, Aranya sensed, she might make allies of these Dragons. At least, they were not yet enemies. This was clearly a secret meeting, one to which Thoralian was not privy. Gurdurion and his kin wanted something from her. Could she reason with them? Drive a bargain?

Time for a few creative lies, Aranya decided. She said,
Thoralian asked for my help in impressing his recruits at Yorbik Island.

She has mind powers,
Vathior blurted out, sounding horrified.

But Gurdurion snapped his fangs half a foot from her face.
Do not lie to me, little one. I too have powers, and one of those is to smell untruth. Your words reek of lies.

Aranya gulped.
I apologise.

If you hoped to make allies of us, you just failed that test,
he added.
Speak truthfully, and we will consider your words.

So, fractured loyalties within Thoralian’s family? Aranya considered her next words carefully. Mercy–impressing his recruits? With his mind powers? Did that mean Thoralian was forcing Dragons to obey his commands by ‘impressing’ them, as some animals did their young? No wonder these Dragons hated him. Either he ate them, or he controlled them.

Thoralian poisoned my mother,
she said.
I harbour no love for him. In battle, I killed his son Garthion.

Gurdurion smoked at the nostrils as he thundered,
Thoralian ate my mate!
His clenched paw splintered the rock right next to her face.
I await the truth, little one, and I grow impatient.

He seeks the power of a First Egg.

She might as well have exploded a volcano beneath them. Suddenly, the cave echoed with the thunder of enraged Dragons. She clapped her hands over her ears. Aranya rolled over, seeking a chance to escape, futile as the gesture was–trapped underground by four Dragons on an island in the middle of a boiling lake. She must have ralti wool for brains.

Thoralian would destroy us all!
Vathior howled.

Bexuria
cried,
He chains Dragons to his bidding. By the First Egg–he’d rule unchallenged.

Be still, my kin,
Gurdurion snapped. His cunning eyes fixed on Aranya once more.
And he believes you have the power to help him, doesn’t he? A Star Dragon power.
The brown paw closed about her again, with deliberation designed to intimidate.
This changes things indeed.

Does that mean you’ll help me escape Thoralian’s clutches, o mighty Gurdurion?

Human-Aranya would never have asked the question so directly, but speaking in Dragonish had brought out a different side of her personality, she realised.

Gurdurion’s talon stroked her cheek with a pitiless, greedy touch.
Perhaps we could come to an agreement, my sweet Dragoness,
he said. Aranya shuddered as she grasped his meaning.
Yes, little one. You will be a boon to us. However, we need to choose the hour wisely. Thoralian’s dominion grows no weaker. You will not escape–I and my kin can guarantee that. But I will offer you certain knowledge in return. Perhaps it will comfort you in darker times to come.

Aranya gazed hopefully at the Brown Dragon.

Thoralian takes with him a new weapon, some fifty fire-drakes of Herimor,
said Gurdurion, his irises filling with fire before Aranya’s startled gaze.
But his goal is not Yorbik Island. He flies more … westerly.

She gasped,
No …

Ha ha, yes, little one!
This day shall be King Beran’s last upon the Island-World. And we Shapeshifters shall rule at last!

Aranya began to back up, but only as far as the Green Dragoness allowed her.

Gurdurion’s gnarled old claw returned to her cheek.
A girl as hideous as you should be grateful to be mine.

* * * *

Thoralian’s Red Dragonwing arrowed toward Fra’anior Island, boring steadily into the wind with the primal power of the ultimate predators of the Island-World. Nothing preyed upon Dragons. At least, Ardan had considered himself such a predator, until Nak had described the Shadow Dragon of old–his namesake, the true monster. That was his least favourite recent conversation, second only to Kylara’s sad realisation of his feelings for Aranya.

Ardan flexed his flight muscles anxiously. Those Red Dragons were in no hurry. He checked Zip’s position one more time. The Azure Dragoness shifted in and out of Fra’anior’s vapours, rising from the massively cracked, overheated caldera floor. She disappeared over the far rim wall. Could she not return already? He’d welcome the help.