The Onyx Dragon (3 page)

A coterie of younger Dragons swooped from the darkling skies, including Maylin’s feisty Red Emmaraz, the shy grass-green Arrabon who had paired with Yaethi, and flying more gingerly than the others as the result of a pasting recently handed out by a certain Pygmy Dragoness, Silver, he of resplendent scales worthy of a Star Dragon, spearing earthward like the flash of a gleaming blade. Pip willed her heart to stop flopping about like a river salmon feeling the sting of a fishing spear, but her innards refused to behave. Then again, judging by the spots of rose that blossomed in Kaiatha’s cheek as she spied Tazzaral swirling in to his landing on the balcony, perhaps she was not the only one. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jyoss’ forepaw creep over the back of Durithion’s couch to lay a possessive talon upon his right shoulder. Duri squeezed the digit appreciatively.

As the Dragons descended in a great kafuffle of wings and a blast of wind and dust, Pip spied Casitha and Mistress Mya’adara slipping into Master Kassik’s rapidly overcrowding office. Briefly, through the doorway, she marked her three Jeradian trees. Great. No escape.

Mya’adara tossed a key into Pip’s lap before finding her seat. “Yah can free yah friends–Ah use the term loosely–when they’ve laid down a meaningful stretch of humble-rug.”

Pip blinked at the Mistress’ phrasing.

Opposite, Kassik stood to greet Casitha, a pretty Fourth Year student who had recently become his Dragon Rider, only to have her boot him firmly in the right shin. “No burning my paintings when you’re in a mood, Dragon,” she greeted him acidly.

The Master’s eyes bulged as though he had been made to swallow his own fireball.

Pip smothered a chuckle behind her hand as his apology turned into a tender kiss. If ever there was rightness in the Island-World, their romance embodied it. Kassik had been so determined to maintain propriety. He was Master of the Academy. Consorting with a student could not have been further from his thoughts when he had been ambushed by a spate of oath-magic, which swept them both off the proverbial Island cliff. Now they soared together. Beautiful.

She wondered at Hualiama’s Gift, as the oldest scrolls called her magic–the magic which invited a Dragon and Rider to burn the heavens together. The Dragon-Rider oath was clearly made in the heart before ever a word trembled the air. How could this be? A meeting of destinies, of souls, even? A fate sealed by a form of words which released a power of magic unlike any other in the Island-World? This power which linked a draconic fire-soul to a Human soul so fundamentally, the bond gave a Rider the power to live decades longer than an ordinary Human life. Therefore, the oath was life-affirming, or even life-augmenting. This insight captivated Pip like the cool stillness of a forest pool.

Casitha slipped into the seat beside Pip. She tossed her honey-dark curls irately. “Dragons.”

Ay. Dragons. Pip grinned at Silver.
Thou.

The Silver Dragon’s muzzle whipped around so fast, he thumped Emblazon’s mighty flank and earned himself a nip on the neck by way of censure. An image of multiple overlapping rainbows flashed into her mind.
Thou … uh, girlfriend.

His mental stumble accompanied waterfalls of silver fire that swept across his eye-fires, a colour Pip had seen in no other Dragon. Mesmerising.

Kaiatha pricked Pip’s leg with her fingernail. “Pay attention.”

The Master waited for the Dragons, busy arranging themselves muzzle-to-muzzle while their enormous bodies fanned out upon the balcony. There was much shuffling and wriggling before every beast had his or her claws tucked in and wings not snagging upon each other, which was highly insulting in Dragon circles, Pip had learned. Lined up, the disparity in sizes amazed her. Tazzaral was massive, but Emblazon, the strongest of all Dragons, was one and a half times larger again–surpassing even his father, Blazon. Shimmerith made a svelte, gleaming contrast to her muscular mate, overshadowed but never outshone.

Without warning, the Dragons all settled in perfect concert. Mental command, Pip wondered? Their eye-fires blazed against the deepening night.

“The most sulphurous blessings of the Great Dragon, Fra’anior, be upon you, my Dragon-kin, and all gathered here today,” said Kassik, suddenly formal. “Three hours ago, I received a coded missive sent by messenger hawk from our agents at Tyrodia Island.” His deep tones carried to everyone present. Rising, the Master began to pace up and down, explaining, “Marshal Re’akka’s Dragonwings have descended upon the Crescent Islands in force, quartering the Islands in a methodical search for what we conclude must be information about the Order of Onyx. Emblazon suggested he seeks Dragon lore that will allow him to hatch the First Egg he holds inside that Island. Should that day come, we believe Marshal Re’akka would be unstoppable.”

Wasn’t he unstoppable already? Pip said nothing, but the dismay displayed on the faces around her conveyed much.

Jerrion rumbled, “Pip. Tell us about your dream.”

Great. Just the medicine to cheer everyone up. Pensively, she related what she had seen, grateful for an encouraging mental touch from Silver, but it was not devoid of a hint of jealousy. Silver did not approve that she shared an oath-bond with Zardon the Red, even if she had not understood the implications of agreeing to become Zardon’s Rider. Pip understood the flight of his thoughts. Had the situation been reversed, she would have been spitting jealousy like a banded copper-viper.

Blazon growled, “Strength to your right paw, noble Onyx.”

Shimmerith added, “We will find a way to defeat this renegade Dragon, my kin. We must.”

“Ay,” agreed Blazon, underscoring his agreement with a curl of fire between his fangs. “Kassik, we must use the respite this action affords us to gather our far-flung refugees and fortify the Academy. I will arrange to secrete our treasures in a different location, in Fra’anior Cluster.”

He did not say so, but Pip assumed Blazon meant Gi’ishior. No doubt the Dragons had many secret treasuries at their ancient home.

Kassik said, “Meantime, we must scour the lore-libraries for a solution to this magic-ravaging Shadow Dragon. There must be a clue, perhaps events or lore rooted in the time the Ancient Dragons departed our Island-World.” Yaethi raised her hand. The Dragon Elder nodded, “Speak, little one.”

Even in his Human form, Kassik slipped into Dragonish ways of communicating, Pip noticed.

“How does the Marshal control the Shadow Dragon?” Yaethi asked. “From all reports, it seems able to negate or parasitize draconic magic. What say our Dragonkind to this?”

Yaethi paused in alarm at the rising growl of draconic belly-fires out on the balcony, but Blazon said,
At ease, my shell-brothers and sisters. To speak of evil is not to invite it to roost with us.
“Continue, Yaethi, Rider of Arrabon.”

“Well, it was just to say, I don’t believe that even the First Egg’s overwhelming force could create a diametrically different type of magic–an opposite, as oil and water, or shadow and light, mighty Dragons, so I speculated–” she gulped audibly, then blurted out, “–and this will sound crazy, and I’m sorry! Helyon Islanders have an ancient creation legend. To sum up, they say Dragons believe life is created of fire, a fire fundamental to every physical manifestation of life in our Island-World. These are spiritual or mystical fires, called
white-fires.
”

“The concept translates exactly into Island-Standard, my beautiful Rider,” Arrabon lisped. “You’d say white-fires, or pure-fires. The inner beauty of every material substance.”

“Why teach us our own legends?” Blazon puzzled aloud. “Every hatchling knows these things.”

“Her words are truth-in-song, my shell-father,” Emblazon rumbled. “Let her finish.” And the mightiest of the Dragons raised his paw. “Be not afraid, Yaethi of Helyon. As a Rider, by oath, bond and deed you are adopted into the family of Dragons. I know I am the least qualified to speak of such matters–” his gaze touched Pip regretfully “–but the truth is, these white-fires are the richest and deepest expression of life, and are common to all the great races of this Island-World–Humans, Lesser Dragons, Shapeshifters and the Ancient Dragons themselves.”

All eyes turned to Yaethi as she said, “Thank you, noble Emblazon. Dragons speak of dark-fires, a darkening of the mind or draconic spirit similar to Human depression. And we know this for a complex malady of great power, with physical, emotional and spiritual symptoms. Yet I believe–I envisage–a deeper truth underlies the concept of dark-fires. A force, for want of a better word, which opposes these cosmic draconic white-fires. Brought together, the two annul each other. They are the ultimate foes. Perhaps dark-fires represent negation, annihilation, or chaos itself–I don’t know what exactly, but I sense the answers we need lie somewhere upon the Island of a philosophy of dark-fires.”

The silence that enveloped their gathering was indeed dark-fires, Pip thought. Every Dragon’s eye-fires darkened or turned toward crimson anger as they considered her words.

Shimmerith asked plaintively, “How can we fight an elemental force, Yaethi?”

“A creature born of dark-fires?” Silver whispered, shivering visibly. “Ay, my scales shudder with its truth; like Emblazon, my seventh sense …”

“Sings,” Emblazon supplied.

The Silver Shapeshifter said, “Thank you, shell-brother. My native Herimor is rife with creatures which parasitize magic. Rider Yaethi’s idea elevates the same concept to a greater plane of existence. This chills my belly-fires.”

Master Kassik tented his fingers again, staring at Yaethi with such a blaze of draconic calculation, the girl voiced an involuntary whimper and ducked her head. He said, “Yaethi and Arrabon, I must ask you to remain here whilst we fly on our mission to Sylakia and the Crescent. I would have you lead the scholarly investigation into–”

“
Lead?
” Yaethi yelped. “But Master–”

“Lead,” he repeated, in growl that booked no argument, “with the help of the Dragon Elders, and every resource at our disposal both in this Academy and Fra’anior Cluster. Masters Ga’am and Shambithion, and the Blue Dragoness Cressilida, shall be your overseers and mentors. Ay. And the Nameless Man, if we can recruit him. What say you, Dragon and Rider?”

Yaethi rose to perform a Helyon genuflection. “As you command, Master. I accept.”

“Bravo!” Arrabon bugled. “My Rider speaks for us both.”

Master Kassik said, “Nak and Emblazon, you shall lead our Dragonwing to Sylakia, where Master Balthion, Casitha and I propose to meet with certain friends in order to investigate a persistent, strong rumour that the Sylakian Shapeshifters have found a way to hide from the beast of Shadow. Meantime, the rest shall fly on to the Crescent. We’ll have many hours on the wing to discuss strategy, but I believe an incisive raid by a limited number of Dragons and Riders should offer the best chance of success.”

Or, it would limit the losses should their mission end in catastrophe. But Pip did not voice this concern. Failure was unthinkable. She could not, and would not, consider it.

“We must secure this knowledge hidden by the Order of Onyx before the Marshal does,” said Kassik. “Blazon will take charge of the Academy in my absence. We will use this evening to prepare, and fly as the first light of dawn illuminates our Island-World. May the fire of Ancient Dragons be our portion, and may we burn the heavens together, forever.”

Kassik gazed around his group, receiving a number of firm nods or affirmative rumbles in response to his passionate closing declaration. Pip’s thoughts, however, turned to Shimmerith.

Noble Shimmerith, what of your unhatched egg? Surely you cannot fly, yet? And will you not be required to nurse your hatchlings?

Dragons don’t nurse, little one.
Shimmerith’s Dragonish expressed nuances of laughter, motherly-brooding-love and concern.
Your interest is timely. Pip–

“Ay,” said Master Kassik. “Pip, go help Shimmerith hatch her egg. Snip snap, girl.”

“Me?” she squeaked, and lowered her voice, annoyed. “Me? Master, what do I know of Dragon eggs or hatchlings?”

“Enough backchat, you pintsized menace.” The Brown Shapeshifter smiled genially. “Pip, get out of my office before I thrash you with my Dragon’s paw. That is an order.”

She made quite certain her piping laughter had irritated him before she left.

S
nip snap was
the Master’s way of suggesting she should not waste a moment. Pip limped over to Shimmerith and Silver, who awaited her on the balcony.

Nak cried, “Pip, my favourite–
oof!
Let me go, you pile of draconic sublimity.”

Gripping Nak in her left forepaw, Shimmerith rolled her eye-fires at him. “Precious Rider, you cannot clap Pip on the shoulder. She’s wounded.”

“Thank the heavens for that,” said Oyda. “Uh, I meant–that you took your Rider in paw, so to speak, noble Shimmerith. Not you, Pip. Oh, why don’t you just do the talking, Dragoness?”

The Sapphire Dragoness unclenched her fist; Nak tottered out, rearranged his clothes and his dignity, and swooped to plant a kiss upon Oyda’s cheek. “May I further bemuse and befuddle thee, o most delectable of Dragon Riders?”

She shoved him playfully. “Later, you Cloudlands pirate. These are womanly matters.”

“But I like womanly matters.”

Pip blushed as Nak looked Oyda over with undisguised fervour.

Oyda, a petite Yelegoy Islander with fiery green eyes and madly curly brown hair, seemed quite in command of the situation. Swatting Nak so hard on the behind that he yelped and jumped three feet sideways, she bade Emblazon whisk the Dragon Rider away to their roost and the armoury, to pack for the mission. Nak’s parting words, floating back on the breeze as the massive Amber Dragon snaffled him away, had something to do with packing Oyda no shirts whatsoever.

With a soft whoop, Jyoss tipped off the balcony with Durithion seated on her shoulders, while inside Kassik’s office, the Jeradian trio scratched their beards over the manacles. No key seemed to fit. Pip waved cheekily at her friends’ scowls. Revenge had been unexpectedly sweet.

Emmaraz growled, “Off to the locksmith, my Rider. Arrabon?”

“Granted. Shall I have the armourers ready your saddle and Dragon Rider tack, noble shell-brother?”

“And two Dragon lances.” Emmaraz, ever the hothead, let fire leak between his fangs as Arrabon lifted Maylin and Yaethi onto the young Red Dragon’s back. “I’m going to hunt down that Shadow Dragon and rend it limb from limb. Ready, Riders?”

“Don’t you mean, captives?” Pip sniped.

Thundering his testiness to the heavens, Emmaraz launched out over the caldera. Now, at night, the lava flows down at ground level were clearly visible, snaking about like bloody claw-tracks scored through Dragon hide. Pip shook off the image. This was no time for trepidation. Nor for recalling how Re’akka’s cold fireball had reduced thousands of soldiers to crimson lumps of ice within their armour.

Silver nuzzled her back. “Hey, mischief.”

So fiery-warm. Pip leaned back against his nose, sighing, “So it’s off to war for us, Silver? Don’t you start thinking I’m as troublesome as everyone says.”

“No, you only crushed my ribs, trounced me in strategy and in battle, turned my every Island upside-down by ensnaring my heart, and today, clapped your friends in chains. No trouble at all.”

Shimmerith snorted an appreciative fireball, but Pip observed she ejected it from the side of her muzzle, bathing Blazon’s flank in blistering heat. The Dragon Elder did not even appear to notice, deep in conversation with Kassik and Mistress Mya’adara. Hands on hips, she tried to scowl at Silver. His eyes made a fiery lurch that perfectly matched the action of her heart. She could not help herself. A force greater than the daily coursing of the suns above the Island-World turned the corners of her mouth upward.

If you two hatchlings have quite finished making moon-eyes at each other, I’ve an egg I’m concerned about,
said Shimmerith.

Let’s go, Silver,
Pip ordered, wondering what under the five moons she was supposed to accomplish with a Dragon egg.

Scooping up the Pygmy girl, Shimmerith deposited her on Silver’s left shoulder, saying,
Chymasion refuses to hatch. He vexes my wingtips in this. Says the world is far too dangerous and he lacks protection–as if a Dragoness would not safeguard her own hatchling! I’ve never heard of such wing-shivering effrontery. And before you mention it, Pip, I’ve a mind to replace my missing fang with you. I think you’d fit the space quite nicely.

Oyda made the business of scaling her Dragon’s flank look rather easy, especially for someone who had broken both arms a few months before.

As Silver spread his wings and dropped off the balcony, Pip said, “Silver, why didn’t Telisia’s poison affect you? I’ve this unhealed hole in my shoulder and a gash on my side. You–you’re fine.”

“It’s nothing sinister,” he protested. “And, I’m not fine. You fought dirty.”

“Jungle girl,” she smirked.

Over his shoulder, a silvery fire-eye rolled in evident exasperation. “You smug little excuse for a dragonet. Simply put, the nurseries being a hotbed of intrigue and assassination, we trained ourselves from a young age to build up our resistance to all manner of toxins and poisons–Shapeshifter poisons in particular. You had no such resistance. I believe one of the ingredients Telisia used was a necrotic poison, which kills living tissue. There’s no known antidote bar the time it takes for the body to recover–anyways, the medical Dragons cleaned and prepared your wounds according to my instructions. You must have patience, Pip.”

“I excel at patience,” she lied.

“I’m taking notes,” he fibbed in return, without blinking an eye.

Softly, she said, “How am I supposed to fight a war in this state, Silver?”

“Suppose I do the heavy lifting, and you nip in at the last second and steal all the glory?”

“Deal,” she smiled. Perhaps there was no answer. Perhaps she should just grit her teeth and walk under the Cloudlands to Sylakia, free every animal in the zoo and cage up the Marshal instead? Their plan to uncover the Order of Onyx’s secrets had about as much chance of succeeding.

“This business of the hatchling is odd,” said Silver. “I hope I didn’t do any permanent damage when I tried to turn him against you.”

Shimmerith and Silver swept over the luminous green lake at the base of Roost Mountain, before soaring up the slim volcanic cone to Shimmerith and Nak’s roost–a route Pip knew only too well, on foot. Thankfully, Nak appeared to have spruced up his more revolting personal habits. Perhaps that was Oyda’s gentle influence at work. Alighting on the ledge outside the Dragon roost guarded by a Red Dragoness, Shimmerith preceded them through the curving corridor into the main chamber. They heard chirrups of happiness from her hatchlings, the Blue Inzuriel and Amfyrion, a fourteen-foot copy of his amber-coloured shell-father, Emblazon.

Aunty Pip! Silver!
They expectorated little fireballs of pleasure.

Amfyrion chirped,
Where’s your Dragoness, Aunty Pip? We want to play and you’re too small.

Whipping over to Pip, Inzuriel held up her wingtips for tip-touching, a common greeting between Dragons. Pip patted them in turn with her hands.
You’re growing as beautiful as your shell-mother, little … ah, how do you say that in Dragonish?

We’d say ‘fire-sister’ in Herimor,
said Silver.

Wing-sister,
said Shimmerith.
The usage is particularly apt for a Dragon or Dragoness of similar age. Now, Pip, here’s Chymasion’s egg.

Pip whistled softly. The egg was beautiful, a mottled mineral brown that glistened in the lamplight inside Shimmerith’s roost–but it was humungous. Its width was at least the length of a Pygmy Dragon, she estimated, and though the egg lay on its side, it still stood three times her height. She turned to measure the Sapphire Dragoness with her eyes.

Shimmerith chuckled in evident realisation. “No, little one. Dragon eggs are not laid this large–it would be physically impossible. Chymasion appears to be more unique than anyone imagined.”

Silver shook his head in amazement. “A growing egg? I’ve never heard of such a phenomenon.”

Pip giggled as Inzuriel thrust her muzzle beneath her arm, demanding a scratch behind the skull-spikes. “Looks like we need to get him out before he outgrows the roost.”

Inzuriel purred,
More.

Go play with Silver, my flame-eyed beauties,
ordered Shimmerith.

Oyda and Pip laughed as Silver pretended to be bowled over by the enthusiastic hatchlings, letting them nip at his scales and fight mock-battles with his talons.

“Talk to the egg, Pip,” said Oyda.

“Um–what do I say?”

Shimmerith said, “Pip, you know that Dragons mature much faster than Humans. I have spoken with Chymasion since the time he was in my egg-sac. He’s very curious about the world outside the egg–but not willing to venture into it. You speak to him. You’ve the power of … of
common-fires.
”

“Er–empathy?” said Oyda. “I’m not sure that’s quite the right translation.”

Pip sighed. Right. Speak to the egg. What exactly was that supposed to accomplish? Moving forward, she placed her left hand flat against the egg’s surface, finding the substance surprisingly warm and pliant. Oddly, she had learned that due to an innate magic, no Dragon egg could be opened from the outside, not even by a mother-Dragoness of the Blue spectrum of colours, the greatest magic-users amongst the Dragonkind.

Chymasion?
She projected her thoughts clearly.
I’m Pip, the Pygmy Dragoness, and I give you my most sulphurous greetings. Why don’t you come out and meet your family?

No, you can’t make me.

As the eggling groaned, powerful draconic feelings and stresses washed over Pip, making her stagger. But Oyda propped her up quickly. What was this–loss? Yearning? A knowledge of … incompleteness? Pip did not understand at all, and as her incomprehension grew, so did the Dragon eggling’s frustration. As she reached out, ideas began to spit into her mind like sparks. The need for protection. Direction. A strange magic Chymasion feared, not so much the power of the Dragon of Shadow, but something that stemmed from within him–a Dragon power which his shell-mother had been unable to identify. He knew he was unusual. He knew he faced a troubled destiny, and he wanted … what?

This protection you want, Chymasion, what does it feel like?
Pip asked.

How can I describe what I have never known?

I don’t understand why you’re so afraid. Shimmerith is here, and Emblazon–so many Dragons and Humans, who all wish you well and healthy
–

All I see is fires,
he interrupted.
Mesmerising Dragon fires swirl before me in this strange space that encompasses my fire-soul; this space which restricts my wings and limbs …

Shimmerith said,
He often speaks of those fires. I don’t understand. Suns-light should permeate a Dragon’s egg.

Great Islands! He’s blind!
Pip gasped.
Chymasion …

What do you mean, blind?
the Dragon chirped unhappily, causing the sadness of dark-fires to wash over Pip’s senses.
I see much. The past, present and future rush before me in never-ending cascades of white-fires. What are these un-magical images you keep pushing at me? That is not the real world. What’s real is fire; what’s fire is real. Every structure you suggest is but a function of limited perception, for you deny its inner image, the true image of what is.

Shimmerith’s wings vibrated in anguish.
Oh, Chymasion … thou, my darling fire-heart!

Distress!
cried the eggling.
See, I distress my shell-mother! I cannot emerge only to increase her sorrow.

Silver,
said Pip.
Come here.

Poor Shimmerith nuzzled her egg, coiling her body all around it, crooning her love, her concern; how precious Chymasion was to her, how he had always brightened her fires from the very first spark of his life.

What do you need, heartling?
Silver’s eye-fires, in contrast, appeared subdued.

Draw close to me, and help me show Chymasion what we are, together. Think upon our vows–

That’s it!

Her hatchling’s abrupt shriek frightened Shimmerith so severely, she leaped back against the crysglass panels of her roost’s main window, cracking two of the panels.

Chymasion cried,
That’s it, there–
and a pain smote Pip between the eyes, yet as quickly as he struck her, so Silver shielded her mind.

Silver thundered,
How dare you intrude in another mind? Chymasion!

I abase myself, noble Silver.
The hatchling cowered mentally.
It was not meant–I saw something. The one. In her mind is … one of your strange images, and I thought I felt a presence, the one I yearn for. I abase myself, noble Pip. I was overexcited.

Rouse your fires, noble wing-brother,
said Pip, her mind racing.
I am unhurt. Now, watch carefully …

One by one, she began to summon impressions of the people she knew, projecting them toward Chymasion as, to her perception, the hatchling trembled within his shell. On and on. Image after image served up by a Pygmy’s eidetic memory. Whom had she forgotten? Not Telisia, oh please, let it not be her! But Telisia was close–and then Pip laughed. Of course.