The Onyx Dragon (37 page)

Setting an intercept course, the Pygmy Dragon blazed across the noon skies. Silent. Guileful. Draconic.

* * * *

Having miscalculated the relative distances and speeds, Pip found her course bending more and more to a direct westerly bearing as she stalked Yaethi’s Dragonwing, bringing her within ten leagues or so of the Academy volcano before bedlam erupted. Emblazon, visibly bellowing but inaudible from such a distance, rocketed over the rim with Shimmerith right on his tail and Chymasion upon his port flank. Pip had to hoot. Nak was still strapping in. He had his shirt tangled over his head and what looked like a boot dropped over the Sapphire Dragoness’ side as they powered into the sky, scanning every horizon. By contrast Oyda was neatly seated between Emblazon’s spine-spikes, apparently cool and unruffled, but Pip could smell her excitement from afar. Behind them Kassik the Brown lumbered aloft, and Cinti, a clear coppery gleam reflecting off her scales now.

Their bursting into the air electrified Yaethi’s thirty-strong Dragonwing, who drew together with body-language that suggested high levels of alarm. Fire leaked between their fangs. Suddenly experiencing a spine-spike tingling sensation, Pip flipped about in the air to check the western horizon. There was no Island looming behind her shoulder. What, then? Whirling again, she saw Chymasion’s paw clearly stabbing in her direction.

Oh, flying ralti sheep! Exposed. Clever Jade hatchling!

Part of her had secretly longed for a big fuss over her homecoming. Sensible Pip, who occasionally made an appearance, had settled upon the quiet approach. Now, with Dragonwings gathering from all points of the compass, she had no choice.

Pip dropped her optical shield.

The result was delight. Bellowing and bugling wildly, her friends broke into an all-out sprint, achieving speeds of up to forty leagues per hour. With Pip racing along as best she was able, the Dragons rushed toward each other at a combined velocity touching four hundred feet per second. But that was nothing compared to the speed of joy, which had leaped across the leagues faster than thought. Arrabon dropped out of his formation, belatedly chasing the others. Poor Nak was still trying to squirm into his shirt as the wind-rush made a mockery of his efforts.

Her long throat swelled.
PIP!

A touch of thunder made her challenge resound like a much larger Dragon’s battle-roar.

EMBLAZON! SHIMMERITH! CHYMASION!

KASSIK!
thundered the Master, by now more than two miles behind but closing fast.

Suddenly, all the Dragons remembered how fast they were flying. Pip flung out a braking shield, while Emblazon flared his massive wings in warning to the others. Chymasion, quite forgetting how to stop in his overexcited state, overshot everyone by a quarter mile. Arosia waved her arms like a madwoman and screamed exuberantly as they whizzed by. Shimmerith twirled about her with a wingtip touch, laughing and exclaiming in Island Standard and Dragonish simultaneously. Oyda did not hold back. Throwing off her saddle-straps, she had Emblazon toss her at Pip; suddenly she clutched Oyda close to her chest as the Yelegoyan sobbed with happiness. Even Nak’s shirt had a few suspiciously sodden patches once he managed to extract his head from its clutches.

After the obligatory several minutes of manic shouting in which nothing useful whatsoever was said but much was communicated, Emblazon managed to make himself heard over the others. “How did you escape, Pip?”

She made a swooping gesture with her right wing. “Under the Cloudlands, with Leandrial.”

“And Silver?” asked Shimmerith, once the amazed clamouring settled a little.

Pip hung her head. “He … he’s joined the Marshal.”

“Oh my petal!” cried Oyda, planting a kiss on Pip’s cheek. She spat to one side. “Unholy smoking Islands, you taste rank.”

Nak folded his arms, casting the horizon a surly glare. “Well, if that boy’s given you up, he has an earthworm’s brains and a monkey’s fine sense of judgement, Pip! I don’t believe it. Not for one–”

“It’s complicated,” said Pip.

“Complicated?” growled Nak. “Complicated is what I’ll do to his nostril hairs with the toe of my left boot!”

“No more chatter,” said Kassik. “We must return to the Academy, not least because I’m in deep trouble with Casitha for flying out here while injured.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Pip’s mouth. Ay, she was home. For how long, no-one could know.

* * * *

The Academy Dragonwings rapidly closed around Pip to whisk her away to the Academy volcano. Kassik flew heavily, favouring a large burn-hole in his right flank. As they angled for the rim, he briefed Pip:

“After you and Silver left, your companions flew rapidly to Sylakia. We ran into some trouble there with Rambastion and a large flight of Night-Reds, but the Sylakian Dragons caused them enough grief that we were able to escape–not without our wounds. I’m sorry to tell you, Pip, that Kaiatha and Durithion chose to stay in Sylakia with Master Balthion.”

“He was killed?”

“No, but he was wounded, Pip. And it turns out the brave Master was hiding a secret from us all, one with which he did not wish to trouble his family.”

Arosia said, “Pip, my father has a cancer of the stomach and bowel area. He was in terrible pain, but hid it for our sakes. It will be fatal, if it hasn’t been already. The wounds he suffered … made it much worse.”

Her friend turned away, gazing over the volcano. Pip would dearly have loved to hold her. Her throat closed; her paws clenched painfully tight. Such a bottomless Cloudlands ocean of grief!

Gently, Master Kassik explained that the Sylakian Shapeshifters claimed to have a secret process by which they put Dragons into hibernation, but had found no substantive evidence or methodology to back up that claim. There was no proof the Nurguz would not feed on a hibernating Dragon, even if they were hidden in caverns far beneath Sylakia. That inquiry was a barren Island, yet another in their mission to defeat the Shadow beast. And for this knowledge, Balthion had fallen.

Having heard this, Pip turned to Arosia, stammering, “Your father was dear to me … the first to believe … Arosia, I’m so sorry. I would’ve wanted to say a proper farewell, but I can’t imagine how you must feel. Shimmerith, couldn’t you … help … Master Balthion?”

“I eased his pain, Pip,” said Shimmerith.
His bowels were raddled. There was little left to work with; it was a miracle he was even alive as the cancer had metastasized and spread. Even Dragon powers have their limitations.

Through tears, Arosia said, “He was proud, Pip. He hid it so long. Mother didn’t even know … but I caught him pretending to eat. And then he was wounded, and Chymasion saw … Duri’s also bad. He couldn’t be flown further. Kaia chose … it tore her up, Pip, but she chose to stay behind to nurse them both.”

Pip gasped, “Has someone told her not to transform? To hide? To–”

“Ay, we did,” said Nak.

“Maylin and Emmaraz?”

“Recovering,” said Kassik. “You may see them now, if you wish.”

“I do wish! And you, Master–”

“You can do me a favour, Pip. Distract Casitha from being too ungentle with me. She’s a tyrant, that girl. And while we’re on the subject, how by the five moons and five thousand Islands for that matter did Jerrion end up with a Pygmy consort? Master Adak has promised to slam your head into the nearest brick wall over his niece’s decision.”

Nak called over, “Well, Master Kassik. We might say one Dragon is accusing another of having wings on that score.”

The Brown snarled, “She’s half his size!”

“Casitha is one
eighth
of your age, mister ‘I just turned one hundred and sixty’ Shapeshifter,” Nak pointed out helpfully, drawing a massive fang-clashing snap from Kassik. “She doesn’t seem unhappy, however. You must be doing something right.”

“Rider Nak!” roared the Brown Dragon.

“You bellowed, o noble Master of the Academy?” Nak inquired mildly.

Slipping over the volcano’s rim, Pip was immediately struck by the appearance of a seething armed camp. Gone, most of the friendly Academy buildings, transformed into massively fortified, castle-like structures. Dragons, everywhere she looked. At least fifty Dragon-sentries stood on the rim-wall, never mind multiple draconic guards stationed atop the buildings and a plethora of catapult and crossbow emplacements, besides other weapons she did not recognise.

As they descended, drawing flame-eyed stares from every Dragon present, Pip asked Yaethi, “So, did the Mistress of Scrolls find any useful lore at Fra’anior Cluster?”

Yaethi threw Pip a bright, happy grin. “Couldn’t let you have all the adventure. While you were stretching your wings and basking in the suns, I’ve been to Fra’anior, Ya’arriol, Ha’athior’s secret library and the Natal Cave. I have one word for you.”

“Let me guess,” Pip interrupted. “
Nurguz?
”

“
What?
It took me weeks to find–and the headaches–you just saunter up from the acidic pits of death–Arrabon, will you swat her for me, please?”

“Swatting the fledglings is my job,” said Emblazon, joining Arrabon in swatting Pip’s shoulder from the other flank.

Pip noticed Emmaraz lying in the afternoon suns-shine beside the infirmary entrance, his wing and shoulder heavily bandaged. Beside him, Maylin snoozed in a comfortable chair, a thick green blanket tucked up to her chin. Casitha stood beside the pair, tapping her foot dangerously as she pinned Kassik with an angry gaze. But for the Onyx, she had only smiles. They landed on the field in a flurry of wings. The Dragons on the buildings, on the rim and in the air above, started such a chorus of joyous bugling that the volcano fairly rang with it. Would they be so happy when they heard her story, and learned of the Marshal’s power?

But Pip had eyes only for her friends, for Casitha running to her with her arms outspread, and for Maylin’s sleepy peek over her blanket, eyes widening as she realised who had landed, and here came Mistress Mya’adara, charging down the infirmary steps with a child cradled in one arm and a half-unrolled bandage dangling from her free hand, shouting:

“Yah! Mah Pip! Mah Pip come home, yah hear, everyone! Told yah so. Come here, yah filthy heart-breaking rapscallion, and give yah poor Mya’adara hug for all the worry yah caused!”

Ay, home was where people yelled at her.

E
ight THOUSAND HUMANS
and three thousand Dragons watched Human-Pip’s presentation as she told her stories–in part, at least–that evening, helped by Chymasion who projected her carefully selected memories onto the air beside the infirmary cave, using an area one thousand feet wide and five hundred tall. Kassik’s rationale was that they needed to see the enemy. Sight of the Island brought murmurs of awe. The numbers ranged against them made the Dragons gasp. Pip’s torture drew growls and fireballs of grief-rage from the Dragons and tears from many of the Humans present. The Shadow loomed over the congregation, vast and dark and soul-chilling. Then she swept them beneath the Cloudlands with Shurgal and Leandrial, through the layers and the deeps and the rift, to the final battle she remembered with the Hakkulid.

Kassik whispered in her mind,
Show them Fra’anior, Pip. Show them the power of Onyx. Give them hope.

Ay, that was what the silence needed. Not a pretty speech, not rage or sorrow or hollow declarations that the victory would be theirs. Everyone knew the odds. The Dragons were outnumbered three to one. Marshal Re’akka commanded armies of slaves, but would he even need them? He had the Shadow and the power of the First Egg behind him.

Drawing once more on Chymasion’s power, Pip’s amplified voice thundered over the congregation. “Two more things, my friends. I want to show you the source of the Marshal’s power, and I want you to meet the Dragon who stands shoulder-to-shoulder with us in the forthcoming battle.”

First, Pip showed them the First Egg, explaining what it was. Then she introduced Fra’anior. He could speak for himself–storm, seven-throated thundering and all. She was tired, too tired to think of ways to inspire all these people and Dragons. The number of watchers was awesome, fire-eyes thickly lining almost the entire circumference of the volcano and the Roost Mountain, and the field behind a sea of upturned Human faces. And all of these depended on her to come through for them. To stand and defy the Marshal, or doom every soul present.

Who could bear such a weight of expectation?

As Kassik took over, offering simple words of hope and strategy, Pip melted away into the darkness, shadowed by her old trio–Faranion, Barrion and Jerrion. Her three trees, her personal giants away from the jungle giants of her other home. Would she ever see them again–Elder No’otha, her father or precious little Tik? Would the Island-World see another dawn free of the threat of Dragon Assassins and certain death for the Dragonkind at the insatiable Shadow’s hand? That creature had hunted far and wide at first, roaming the Island-World apparently at will. Now it seemed tied to the Marshal’s wingtips. Why? Why had she not discovered the Marshal’s secret power over the Nurguz?

Did that power even exist?

She had failed. Maybe Yaethi had the answers they so desperately needed.

Perhaps Nak and Oyda might put up with her borrowing their roost for a night or two. She had nowhere else to go. No danger of sneaking off anywhere with her quisling boyfriend.

Suddenly, Oyda was beside her, talking softly with Emblazon in her developing Dragonish. Most Riders took time to become attuned enough to their Dragon to speak telepathically with them. Together with Nak and Shimmerith, they winged up to the roost and spent a convivial hour sharing a basic meal of sweetbread and fruits, and meat for the Dragons, and talking of better times.

Come morning, the talk would be of war.

Pip felt her eyelids growing sandy with exhaustion. Too many people, too many emotions.
Fra’anior, I must speak with you this night. Would you heed my call?

She curled up inside Shimmerith’s left forepaw, and tried to quiet her agitation.

* * * *

“Would you forgive me if I turned up instead of Fra’anior?”

Pip turned at the sound of a melodious voice. Star-girl! Well, not clad in her dazzling star-guise tonight, but … mercy, why were her thoughts dark-fires? “Hualiama, Princess of Fra’anior. Rider of Grandion.” She opted for a Pygmy salute, right fist clenched over her heart.

The girl sat upon the head of a Dragon who rivalled Shimmerith for beauty, the legendary Tourmaline Grandion, who appeared to be sleeping, but was no less stunning for his posture of repose. He was a living, breathing jewel. Radiant. Powerful. Every inch as majestic as the ballads painted him, and more. And she was beautiful. Large eyes of the deepest blue. Masses of blonde hair with a hint of the untamed about it. An elfin chin. Although, she was not quite the Island-strider one of Nak’s ballads styled her–Hualiama was petite, just about Oyda’s size. Oddly, this made Pip envisage a kindred spirit.

“I am Hualiama. Blue-star, if you’d prefer,” said the girl. “Forgive me, but for today’s formalities I’ll add the title Star Dragoness. I really don’t have much patience with titles. I’ve been saddled with more titles than the average Green Dragon would care to spit at. Uh … and I’m pleased you’re here. Delighted.”

Star-girl was nervous? And delighted? Make that two of them. Before she could consider how one was supposed to talk to legends who were rather more alive than they ought to be, and surprisingly young to boot, Pip wrinkled her nose at Hualiama. “Ay? I’m confused–I mean, pleased … pinch my wings, I’m really talking to you, aren’t I? Really?”

“Really, really. Don’t worry about the existential implications. Quite puzzling.”

And with a smile and a matching wrinkle of her nose, Hualiama leaped lithely down from her Dragon’s head and enveloped Pip in a heartfelt hug.

“Oof. You’re stronger than you look,” said Pip.

“Dancer,” said Hualiama. “But I never enjoyed your Onyx power. That’s quite the heritage you have there, Pip.”

“But strength of paw will not defeat the Shadow Dragon, will it?”

The blonde head shook slightly. “Far be it from me to read Fra’anior’s mind, but I doubt that was his purpose when he adopted you, Pip. I think of this Shapeshifter spiritual inheritance in terms of adoption, because my familial heritage was a complex one; for many years, all I knew was my adopted family. You know, lucky girl gets the Fra’aniorian royals for parents. The truth was worse. Traumatically worse in ways that … started wars and upset Islands, killed my parents, downed empires …”

“I’m really sorry, Hualiama.”

For a horrid second, Pip thought the girl would scorn her response. But the deep blue gaze considered her, and in a mischievous wink of starlight, the moment passed. “Your spirit is so generous, Pip. It’s one of your most endearing qualities. I grew up an abused royal. You grew up in a zoo. I could not imagine that. How did you survive?”

“By eating grubs,” Pip said bluntly, then felt awful as Hualiama’s eyes filled with tears. “Sorry, I … look, I survived, and I wasn’t lonely because I had Hunagu. He’s now … windrocs take it, I’m leaking too …”

“Left behind,” said Hualiama.

In that quietness of shared sorrows, Pip felt a deep sense of connectedness. This girl was not about frivolous laughter. She had given solemn advice, the key to her small victory over the Marshal. But laughter would not dispel the Nurguz.

“I’ve a task which falls to me and little time in which to discharge this responsibility,” said Hualiama, with an apologetic frown. “Pip, by now you will have realised that you are the third member of a select group of Dragons. The first was Istariela, the mate of Fra’anior. The second is
Hualiama
, as Leandrial correctly deduced. The third is an Onyx Dragoness. Each has a unique set of attributes and qualities, but together we share a common goal.”

Pip waggled an eyebrow, then performed a droll bow.

The so-blue eyes twinkled merrily. “Oh no, not even the smallest Dragons get to wriggle out of this one. You are a Star Dragoness, Pip. Take it from me, this mantle is neither asked for, nor easy, nor optional.”

“It’s about Balance, isn’t it?”

“See, you’ve already stepped into the paws of a Star Dragon,” said Hualiama, with a genuflection of profound respect. “I’m delighted to call you kin, Pip, and honoured to accept you as the third member of this unique family. I am looking forward to knowing you well. Now, I must give you what is mine to give at this time. I’m like a spiritual mentor, I suppose, but I’d rather just be a friend. Otherwise I’ll sound five hundred years old.”

“Five hundred, yet lacking a single crease or wrinkle?” Pip grinned. “O crone most ancient–”

“Thanks. Now, sweet dreams, Star Dragoness.”

“What?”

* * * *

“What?”

Silver sat up on his sleeping pallet, patting himself down to check everything was as it should be. What a peculiar dream. Pip had been talking to a star. A
star?

Maybe he did have real oath-connection. In which case, should he report to his esteemed shell-father that Pip was whole in wing and scale and plotting his inevitable demise? With a despicable chuckle, Silver rose to his feet, standing on the thin rush mattress to gaze out of the crysglass window of his roost just beneath the summit of the highest peak of Eridoon Island. Re’akka owned the topmost room, of course, as befitted his station.

Tomorrow, they would raise sight of Jeradia. His shell-father would lower their shields at dawn, giving the Academy the benefit of a full day to allow panic and terror to set in. Then, at midnight, he planned to attack.

The White Moon was amazingly bright at this early hour, perhaps three hours before dawn. His already pale flesh seemed ghostly in that light, less substantial than the moonlight itself. Impulsively, Silver unlatched the wide window and cracked it open, letting the cool night air flood in, exposing himself to the soft croaking of Herimor night-toads in the formal gardens outside, and the mysterious, cinnamon-draconic scents of the night.

Stepping over the low windowsill, Silver scented the air deeply. Glorious.

Then he looked down, and saw the shadow of a Dragon move across the centre of his chest. Then another head. Then … seven heads, writhing across his chest as though intent on supping upon his pectoral muscles and abdominals.

He cried out, gazing at the White Moon.

Nothing. Yet when he looked down again, the Dragon’s shadow was present. A monumental presence filled his mind.
Silver.

He fell backward, bruising his tailbone, whispering,
No. No …
Why had he not believed? Even having seen the very face of Fra’anior himself, he had not believed–what? That the Ancient One would choose to speak only to Pip? That it had been a vision, a mass hallucination?

SILVER.

I’m not worthy,
he babbled
. Don’t touch me. Go away, please … I am but a worm …

Shadows flitted around the room, heads and fangs and skull-spikes. Silver knew the icy breath of mortal terror keening through his soul, and shuddered.

No, Silver. You shall be my strong right paw, the Dragon for whom I have reserved a special task. I am calling you. Go now, and touch the First Egg. I will speak to you there.

As if trapped in a dream, Silver rose and left his room.

* * * *

The alarmed bugling of the watch-Dragons woke the Academy to the reality of Eridoon Island sailing in stark majesty along the northern shore of Jeradia. No Dragon moved in the sky above. That stillness, Pip decided, as she and a thousand other pairs of eyeballs and eye-fires peeked over the Academy volcano’s rim, communicated far more than ten thousand Dragonkind darkening the sky. Re’akka had begun the war without firing a single fireball.

A beautiful suns-rise outlined that dark Island.

The Marshal’s invisible paw lay heavy upon the Academy all that morning as people bustled about, Dragons growled and snapped, and the caverns beneath the buildings and the rim-wall itself filled with wailing children and tetchy hatchlings. Soldiers rushed about checking last-minute details–baskets of metal fragments or heavy shot for the catapults, the disposition of troops and patrols, reports and distribution of armour and weapons to the students. Master Kassik’s office could no longer handle the constant toing and froing of Dragons. He decamped to the field, a hulking Brown Dragon at the centre of a whirlwind of wings and orders.

Eridoon drifted almost imperceptibly closer along the mountainous northern shoreline, just three leagues off Jeradia’s famously rugged granite cliffs, backed by a trackless, ravine-scored wilderness frequented by rajals and windrocs.

Pip, returned to Human form, and Yaethi swapped notes on the Nurguz near Master Kassik’s field office while Shimmerith, Arrabon and Chymasion looked on.

Even before she finished, the reserved Helyon Islander seemed ready to burst with excitement. “It fits! It matches–everything that Leandrial told you, including your Pygmy belief in demons.”

“Demons?”

Shimmerith blinked at Pip over Yaethi’s shoulder. “Indeed, little one. Tell her.”

Chymasion chimed in, “Ay, what did you find in the old libraries? I heard the Elders whispering about dark legends …”

Deep in the fires of times before memory, Yaethi related in dense chunks of discourse, unimaginable wars had been waged between the forces that shaped the galaxies, stars and worlds. This was told in scrolls so archaic, the best Dragon scholars had been unable to decipher much of the proto-draconic language in which they were couched. Some sources called these warring forces or entities good and evil, others light and dark, or angels and demons, she said. This world-spanning war was waged on many levels–between fundamentally opposed substances or matter, or beings, or even dimensions. At length, these great enemies came to understand that these forces were not only opposed but intertwined, even interdependent, and that if the conflict continued, the very fabric of the Universe would be annihilated. True nothingness would reign. Even life and death would cease to exist. A truce had been declared, a truce–