Song of the Storm Dragon

Shapeshifter Dragons Book 3

By Marc Secchia

Copyright © 2016 Marc Secchia

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

www.marcsecchia.com

Cover art copyright © 2016 Joemel Requeza and Marc Secchia

Map by Joshua Smolders

Copyright © 2016 Marc Secchia & Joshua Smolders

smojos@gmail.com

Cover font design copyright © 2016 Victorine Lieske

www.bluevalleyauthorservices.com

Author’s Note

If you haven’t read The Pygmy Dragon and The Onyx Dragon yet, please stop right here! Spoiler alert! You will enjoy Song of the Storm Dragon much more if you read those two books first.

Otherwise, let the Dragonride commence!

Map of the Island-World

Chapter 1: Oaths and Lessons

ARANYA SURFACED FROM the terrace lake, gasping and blowing like a beached trout. She strained to fill her burning lungs with the fragrant, dry air drifting down from Yorbik Island’s sprawling coniferous forests. Squeezed beneath Iridith’s lowering bulk and the western horizon, the suns blazed like twin golden cauldrons, casting a gleam that burnished the waters for miles about into a vast, luminous copper lake. The buoyant gleam reflected from the skies above, producing a dome of metallic blue so radiant that a Dragon’s wings must shiver in awe.

Instead, the Amethyst Dragoness champed her fangs in frustration.

She could not cross the lake; could not complete a training course on which Ardan and Zuziana succeeded repeatedly, honing their underwater flying skills in preparation for their assault on the Rift. Her eyes lit dimly upon the surrounding beauty. Her breath was shallow and pained, her body ravaged inside and out by Thoralian’s deliberately induced Shapeshifter pox.

Shame at her debility filled Aranya with dull, mordant rage that made her picture a Green readying her acid for battle. Battle there had been, aye, and the wondrous discovery of her Aunt and Uncle, Va’assia the Red Shapeshifter Dragoness and Ja’arrion, a Green-Orange of surpassing power, also a Shapeshifter. She gritted her fangs until her gums hurt. Victory had been soured by Thoralian’s escape from her paw. Her mother Izariela still lay in poisoned stasis upon Immadia Island, in a chill tomb. Yet she lived somehow, magically, suspended between life and death.

Unbidden, her right forepaw clenched. Thou, shell-mother of my soul. For thee, shall I rise anew!

The waters rippled about her as though a bell’s vibrations rippled through the lake. The Immadian’s eyes popped wide; for a fractured second, her belly-fires flared lambent, and the Island-World’s splendour flowered before her astonished gaze. Then, the shadowy veil descended once more. Partial blindness. She was healing, but with excruciating slowness.

Had eternity’s white-fires breath just trembled her world?

Aranya! Azure wings flashed over the lake.

Aranya! A huge, smoky shadow traced Princess Zuziana’s flight as Ardan raced in hot pursuit, the final snap of each completed wingbeat coming within inches of snagging in the water, yet he retained perfect balance. The Shadow Dragon was a masterful flier, an enigma, perhaps an unknowable danger to all Dragons …

And her beloved.

Could she allow that word? Could she allow a scarified Western Isles warrior, who was also the monstrous, superb Shadow Dragon, sway in her heart? Aranya laughed hollowly. Was not the proud Princess of Immadia more scarred than he, in truth; did the greatest mutilation not lie within her? And if honesty were allowed free reign, might she not question if love left her a whisker of wiggle-room? He was unlike any man she had ever imagined walking out with. He was more–in every sense of the world, more. Warrior. Dragon of Shadow. Powerful, yet tender and true. She longed to know him deeply; to twine her life in his, but Aranya feared she was at her life’s lowest ebb. These dreams were worthless, a foolish indulgence. She must abandon hope, crush her desires, and move on.

When she had first met Zuziana of Remoy in the Tower of Sylakia, how aloof she must have seemed, a true ice-maiden of the frozen North. So arrogant of beauty and heritage. As truly as dragonets laid eggs, she had fought like a demented rajal with the petite Remoyan and had discovered in her, the finest of friends.

These two Dragons winged toward her now, kicking up a trail of spray that caused rainbows to dance over the lake. With all her hearts, she longed to see every detail of those smears of colour on her damaged retinae. She yearned to marvel at the sweep of Dragon wings across burnished waters, and to launch herself into an aerial dance, but she lacked the strength to lift her wings, as if trapped in liquescent spiderweb. Pathetic. Aranya was a fledgling, less than half Ardan’s size. A burned-out Star Dragoness. She had never felt less ‘Sparky’, her father’s nickname for her.

Ardan called, Helping paw, Aranya?

Back-winging sharply, her best friend who had earned the fond moniker ‘Zip’ folded her forelimbs across her chest and scowled at the Amethyst Dragoness, allowing a quarrelsome curl of fire to escape between her fangs. Overdid it again, you silly ralti sheep!

Huh, said Ardan, flexing his mountainous shoulders, this one’ll see sense the day Dragons fly backward around the Mystic Moon. Shall I hold her whilst you wallop her backside?

It’s a deal, smirked Zip.

Her moss-green backside? sniffed the Shadow Dragon.

Oh. By the fires of Fra’anior! Thinking about Green Dragons had skewed her colour, that peculiar, chameleon-like ability that struck haphazardly. Aranya tried to pout, but in her Dragoness-form, that expression dribbled fire between her pursed lips. Ugh.

She said, I don’t want to beg … but I can’t lift even a wingtip.

The Shadow Dragon drew himself up. Immadia’s pride shall not beg. Behold!

With that, the water mounded beneath Aranya, propelling her irresistibly upward. Ardan? No, as boiling white torrents sluiced off a mountain of grey-green Dragonflesh, she realised that Leandrial had broached beneath her. The Land Dragoness’ chuckles generated three-foot waves that raced off in every direction. Roaring rajals! At a shade over a mile and a half in length, Leandrial’s sheer physical size still struck her like a Dragon’s punch to the sternum. A Lesser Dragon could fly down this herbivore’s throat with ease. Leandrial’s single eye, a white orb in the middle of her forehead, was as wide as Aranya’s wingspan. Yet even she swam with freedom in the mighty terrace lakes of Yorbik, the largest unbroken landmass North of the Rift. In places, the lakes touched on twelve miles wide, encircling the entire Island.

You’re back, Leandrial? Aranya asked.

I have fed well, boomed the Land Dragoness, before modulating her telepathic Dragonish. How fares your training, little one?

Aranya, all forty-three feet of her, exhaled moodily.

Evidently sensing this movement, even though Aranya lay plastered to the crown of Leandrial’s flat, spatulate cranium and thus evaded her direct line of sight, the Dragoness said, We must trigger your innate sense of Balance. That is the key. Did your shoulder heal well? What of your other wounds?

Aye, those are good. Not the pox-scars, though. Not those hideous … she mentally banished her thoughts past the Moons. Far too depressing.

You possess magic enough for a mighty oath, little one. I felt the Islands quake.

Ardan asked, That wasn’t my digestion?

In the days of Hualiama Dragonfriend, Leandrial held forth, the proverb was, ‘Thrice spoken, once ordained.’ Thus was made plain the trifold power of the Dragonfriend’s oaths. Of all the high-dwelling Dragonkind, it was she who understood Land Dragons best, and she who fought for us. The Dragonfriend taught us the power of oaths. I believe it was she who first set about codifying Shapeshifter lore. You promised to rise anew. This oath-magic holds extraordinary, destiny-shaping power, Aranya. You must speak it, and breathe its soul-shivering fires, with care and forethought.

Aranya’s wings made a sucking, slurping noise as she finally managed to wrestle them back to her sides. The shoulder Thoralian had injured with a bolt of ice twinged, but limited flight was possible.

The Amethyst Dragoness raised her nostrils to the wind, tasting hardwood pollens and grit, and scenting spicy pine and the smoky tang of lake trout sizzling over an open fire. She searched deeper, pressing outward with all seven of her Dragon senses as Va’assia had been teaching her, and with the magical awareness of Harmony, Leandrial’s speciality. Her scales prickled, not uneasily, but with a sensation she could only describe as restlessness.

Come, let us hove to the far shore, said the mighty Dragoness, quoting an obscure ballad she had sung for their group several nights before.

Leandrial swam for the terrace lake’s inner shore with powerful thrusts of her four paws, and an undulating swimming motion she had taught the Lesser Dragons–up and down, and side-to-side movements were essential for negotiating the crushing pressures and super-dense air of the lower reaches beneath the permanent cloud layer. The water pressed ahead of her with a low, sucking roar. Aranya noticed how strenuously Leandrial’s lungs had to work in the atmosphere the Land Dragoness disparaged as ‘gaspingly thin’, a full league above the deathly Cloudlands. Seen from above, the Cloudlands were an endlessly variegated carpet of clouds spanning the horizons, lapping about the skirts of the Islands which Fra’anior and his Ancient Dragon-kin had formed and shaped and breathed into life, but beneath, the Land Dragoness had described a vast wilderness as varied and rich in flora and fauna as the above-Cloudlands world familiar to Aranya, Ardan and Zip.

Squinting ahead, Aranya made out familiar figures on the beach–a sparkling expanse of inexplicably turquoise mineral composition, which made the sand resemble a strip of noon sky touching the backing coniferous and hardwood forests. There, the King of Immadia had apparently appointed himself chief cook, supervised by the geriatric yet always spritely Dragon Rider Nak.

“Mind your wash, Leandrial,” she said aloud.

“My wash? Have I not bathed in your place of wide, clear waters?”

“No, the waves caused by your travelling body,” rumbled Ardan. “Your–what was the term?”

“Pressure surge,” said Zip, with a sassy flip of her wings.

The Shadow Dragon grumbled, “All of my thoughts are rolled up in lessons and scrolls. I hunger for action. When will we depart, o jewel of Immadia?”

He often emphasized their difference in station. Aranya wished he would desist. Perhaps a Western Isles warrior thought himself unworthy of royalty, but she had been taught differently, and felt differently. She held that man on the beach responsible for her upbringing. Aye, King Beran had done a semi-respectable job with her considering he had a fiery, empire-crushing, criminal Shapeshifter Princess for a daughter.

“Soon,” she whispered, knowing it in her bones.

Ardan gave her his quirky, ‘you’re being mystical’ half-smile and rolled his fire-eyes inexpertly at her. “Aye, Aranya? May it be.”

As the wind shifted to bring the scent of shore more strongly to her nostrils, her stomach voiced a guttural howl of anticipation. Beran’s chargrilled, herb-basted trout smelled scrumptious. Great leaping Islands, she was eating like a starving hatchling these days. Human-Aranya was embarrassed beyond words at the quantities of meat and fish her Dragoness seemed capable of packing away. Dragon-Aranya? Not so much. Snout to the feeding trough, lizard!

Ugh. The older Shapeshifters seemed to find her antics amusing, even adorable. Aranya was not in the mood. So, she barely tolerated meat. How was that a problem for the carnivorous fanged beast she had transformed into not so many months ago?

As Leandrial slowed abruptly, her belly scraping the lake-bottom, the Amethyst Dragoness slid down the bridge of the Land Dragoness’ nine-hundred-and-ten-foot muzzle with the grace of a wet rag sliding down the side of a bathtub. Groaning, she spread her wings and used the momentum to heave herself through the air to shore, before staggering to a nearby copse where the ever-practical Oyda was lacing Human-Zip into a simple, grass-green Yorbik gown.

“Eat, petal,” Oyda ordered at once. “Sate your hunger on that buck. Then you can relax and enjoy your father’s cooking. Where’d a man learn to cook like your sire? One of your peculiar, monogamy-grounded Immadian traditions?”

Aranya laughed, “Oyda! Honestly, equality of genders is not the evil you would style it. Besides, did I see you sharing Nak with any other woman? I’m not about to marry thirteen husbands, unlike Zip here.”

Zuziana snorted, “You know very well that Remoy’s tradition is one husband to many–”

“Naked wives!” yelled Nak, who had a Dragon’s hearing when it suited. Sharpening of the senses was a boon Dragon Riders enjoyed, along with vastly elongated lifespans. Oyda was one hundred and seventy-seven summers of age, Nak her senior by the better part of a decade. However, due to the attrition of conflict and war, few Riders reached such august stations in life.

Oyda scowled at him over the undergrowth. “Mind on the job, husband.”

“Ooh, my mind is consumed with far more alluring prospects,” he sneered, whirling his canes for emphasis. The King of Immadia snaffled one of his staked-out trout before it landed in the fire. “I’ve a hunch I fancy your haunches, Remoy!”

“I’ll show you haunches, Dragon Rider,” growled Ardan.

Aranya glanced up. Oh, mercy! Ardan strode over to the fires clad only in a Western Isles loincloth. Between Western Isles culture and the general lack of nudity taboos in Remoy … she folded up laughing as the brawny warrior struck a ludicrously come-hither pose in front of Nak, flexing his pectorals and displaying his right thigh to its best advantage.

In high falsetto, Ardan declaimed, “Come, thou handsome son of the dawn, shall we to Island together?”

Nak’s strangled squeak sounded like a Crescent Islands wild pig.

A Dragon-blush heated Aranya’s entire body from the inside, but Oyda only chuckled, “He has the measure of my Nak, alright. Eat up, petal.”

Aranya could not keep from goggling at the spectacle of a dark, muscular Western Isles warrior making ardent lip-smacking noises, hounding Nak around the cooking fires as the old man fled a-totter upon his canes, crying, “Fie! Away with thee, vile apparition! Cease this–” Ardan pinched Nak’s backside, raising a bloodcurdling shriek “–fie! Back, thou fiend of the nethermost, sulphurous hells! Desist!”

Men. Inappropriate, but hilarious.

Aranya sliced into the buck with her fangs and tried her best to bolt the meat without tasting too much blood. Aye, this victory over the Sylakian Empire was sweet relief. Ardan’s comical behaviour, the unbending of Zip’s darling, the ex-monk Ri’arion, the emergence of over a hundred Shapeshifter Dragons from their enforced hibernation–so much had changed, the very Islands threatened to stand upon their heads. The Island-World practically crawled with Dragonkind beneath a new dawn of freedom from Sylakia’s tyranny, yet Aranya knew this must be a far cry from the heyday of Lesser Dragons–the era of the mighty Dragonfriend, or even the days of the Pygmy Dragon, one hundred and fifty years before.

Roll up the scaly sleeves, Immadia! Work beckoned.

Suddenly, mid-transformation, she startled. That Dragonfriend would be … Aunt Hualiama. Aunt? She had an aunt who had to be–skanky windrocs, her head throbbed trying to work out the timescale–six hundred years old? Seven hundred? How, by any coinage of the impossible, did that make a drop of sense?

Wobbling inelegantly into her Shapeshifter form, Aranya slipped into her undergarments–Fra’anior’s finest lacework–trying not to snag the delicate cloth on her rough scars, or to catalogue the grotesque lumps and pockmarks that covered her body. Every breath wheezed in and out of her blighted lungs. Coldly irate, she wound a headscarf around her face, shrouding herself from the neck to above her exposed left cheekbone, and then she arranged a cloth across her forehead as well, leaving only her amethyst eyes uncovered. So conservative? No self-pity allowed, Immadia. Aye, she could not join the celebrations, yet, but that day would come–oh please, let it come!

For thee, mother, shall I rise anew!

Ill-starred oaths.

* * * *

With a contented belch, Nak waved the well-chewed remains of his trout in King Beran’s general direction. “I had my doubts about you, boy, but I find you are an adequate cook, besides being a passable ruler.”

The tall Immadian King’s teeth flashed in the firelight. “I had my doubts about you, granddad, but I thank you for doing an acceptable job of taking my rebellious, runaway daughter in hand.”

“Granddad?” snorted Nak. “Why, you snotty-nosed urchin, you do a disservice to the multiplicity of generations my fertile loins have spawned–”

“Urchin?” snorted Beran. “By my greying whiskers, your eyes grow dim, you senile old rajal.”

Speak, Aranya.

Her hands jerked, spilling half a goblet of fruity Yorbik red over Sapphire’s tail. The dragonet hissed in annoyance and abandoned Aranya’s lap to bathe in the lake, as fastidious as any cat.

Aranya inquired, Leandrial?

The gleaming white slit of the Land Dragoness’ eye widened, casting its natural radiance over the group gathered by the fire. Nak and Oyda sat beside her upon a low, flat boulder. To their left, Aranya’s eyes lit upon Lyriela, her cousin, perched decorously upon Prince Ta’armion’s knee, and Ja’arrion and Va’assia, in their Human forms, a striking couple of indeterminable middle years, both tall and graceful in the Fra’aniorian manner. Ja’arrion’s trim beard was shot with white, but his long dark hair flowed to shoulder length, framing a face gaunt from privation. Those harsh lines softened by the day. His eyes were amber-green, startlingly rajal-like in their depths, and much inclined to blazing with apparently natural bellicosity–but Aranya had observed that his manner masked a tender interior, particularly when he gazed upon Va’assia, his raven-haired wife. For all her self-confidence and physical beauty, Va’assia had seemed bent from the start upon shoehorning a fledgling Star Dragoness into her rightful place. Protocol. Aranya was heartily sick of her Aunt’s pedantic lectures.

King Beran had chosen to sit on a large log on the opposite side of the fire, with his long-time friend Commander Darron, to his left. He had a genial smile for Aranya beneath his bristly white beard. The man who had once been Immadia’s arch-enemy, First War-Hammer Ignathion of Jeradia, hulked to Beran’s right; a seven-foot, Dragon-built man who held his honour as sacrosanct. His son Yolathion was still on the loose as a feral Dragon. Beside Ignathion sat another Blue Dragoness Shapeshifter Aranya did not know well, Tuzimi of Erigar, a short but powerful brunette, who spoke in an accent so clipped Aranya imagined her Dragoness’ talons slicing the fat off every word. Her mate Shangur was one of the few Dragons they had discovered who was not a Shapeshifter. His Brown bulk formed a gleaming backdrop to the group on the log, while his blunt muzzle curved around to rest against Tuzimi’s knee.

Aranya, Ardan and Zip–the youngsters–completed the circle, sitting cross-legged on the sand between Shangur and Ri’arion, who stood behind Nak’s left shoulder.

“Father,” Aranya said formally, “I fear I’m holding everyone back here at Yorbik. I propose we decamp to Gi’ishior–”

“We’ve discussed this,” Va’assia interrupted. “Many of the Dragon-Shifters cannot fly as yet.”

The fire flared in concert with the surging of Aranya’s emotions. “Aunt Va’assia, I’ve been working with Leandrial on trying to sense Balance, and I’ve a feeling–”

“A feeling?” snorted Va’assia.

“What kind of feeling?” growled Beran.

“We need to–”

The Red Shapeshifter snapped, “Your elders have settled the matter, Aranya. To question is pointless. The appropriate protocol is–” Thunder cracked across the lake, drowning out her words. Va’assia snapped, “Restrain your powers, child. As I was saying–”

King Beran said flatly, “Kindly allow me to speak to my daughter as I see fit, Va’assia.”

“Her Elders have decided.”

“Her self-appointed Elders? Who are deciding for whom, exactly?” asked the King of Immadia, drawing an inappropriate chuckle from Nak.

“She’s a Shapeshifter Dragoness!” Va’assia insisted. “A little support here, Ja’arrion!”

The Red Shifter leaped into the fray with, “Dragons demand respect, Beran! You may not be used to our ways–”

“She gave the ruddy scales off her back to save your necks and mine!” Beran blazed. “Or have you already forgotten? What is it about you Dragons that you have to be so hidebound? We’ve barely thrown off the Sylakian yoke and you, you …”

Aranya had seldom seen her father so riled. She half-rose, saying, “Father–”

Va’assia shouted, “Be silent, child!”

A curl of her Aunt’s Dragon magic slipped free, staggering Beran with an unseen blow.

She saw crimson. BOOM! The fire exploded in concert with the anger that detonated in her head. Aranya was just beginning to scream a mighty Word, and the persons gathered around the fire to throw up their hands in self-defence, when Shadow whipped between them and dumped the entire conflagration into the lake, thirty feet away.

Ardan’s dark eyes fixed upon her. He and Ri’arion, who surfaced now from the water, must have acted as one–so quickly! Aranya lowered her hands slowly, shivering. If ever she needed proof of the volatility of her powers …

The dark warrior seemed undismayed. He drawled, “Just a suggestion. Why don’t we all listen to the Princess of Immadia?”

Aranya was too shocked to laugh. How did Ardan remain so cool under pressure? She really must snitch a few scrolls from his rack.

“Aye, before she blows us all up,” growled Nak. “Besides, if we are being so strict about protocol, I might just claim right of incipient fossilisation over this entire company.” Aiming his right cane at Leandrial’s eye, he said, “This living mountain claims right of physical power. My Oyda is foremost in wisdom. But I say, Aranya claims right–” the grizzled Dragon Rider paused dramatically “–right of heart.”

Nak. Beautiful Nak. She had no words.

Chapter 2: Farewell to Yorbik

ARANYA’S LILTING WORDS flowed over Ardan, but his attention was focussed inward. Fear. Choking fear clung to his heart like the linger-vines of his native Naphtha Cluster. He touched the ur-makka upon his wrist, mumbling the ancient formula of protection from evil spirits, and felt ashamed. He hated superstition. Now, he had transformed into a Shadow Dragon. Creature of night. Powers of Shadow. A Dragon who, in a fog of feral passion, had gaily trampled over every moral precious to him as he overpowered the young woman now addressing a council of her peers. She was not just any Dragon. Aye, he had dared to breathe soul-fires with a Star Dragoness.

His need had raged uncontrollable until exposed to the cold light of day; until riven in the crucible of regret. There had been an instant’s decision. Abdication. And now fate had torn the Princess of Immadia from him, and Ardan of Naphtha knew a new truth. His soul sang her song. His fires burned for one alone. Eternally.

Leandrial claimed the creature of old, the Nurguz which the ballads called the Shadow Dragon, and he, were not one and the same creature. Yet she had not seen the moment Ardan, consumed by the heat of battle and fear for his beloved, tore the living pith out of those Chameleon Shapeshifters. Ardan beseeched the heavens that what he had sensed was not the truth. Should any creature divide body from soul? That creature was he.

He was Shadow. No shadow deserved the love of starlight.

Inasmuch as they were physically dissimilar, his dark Western tones and stocky muscularity contrasting with a pale and slender, yet whipcord-strong Northern Princess; her artistic, passionate nature so unfamiliar to a man of his rough-hewn warrior sensibilities; her refined Immadian ethos at odds with the earthy, uncomplicated ways of the Western Isles; for him, the dichotomy went deeper. All that was dark and light of Dragon powers, applied to them both. Star and Shadow. Could he hope for complementarity of souls in light of this, the starkest of all contrasts?

And he accused her of mysticism? Ironic.

Did anyone suspect how gossamer-thin the margin had been between him containing the fire, and tearing into that vicious aunt of Aranya’s with claws of Shadow?

Quietly, but with conviction that wrapped her listeners in a subtle web of enchantment, Aranya laid out her intuition and the reasons they should proceed to Gi’ishior. She could continue to recuperate there. Ta’armion would secure the alliance of Fra’anior with the restored Dragonkind. Gaining access to Gi’ishior’s incomparable libraries of Dragon lore and history, they would inform and arm themselves regarding the First Egg and Thoralian’s powers, and research the esoteric and powerful branches of anti-toxin, filtering, healing and shielding capabilities they would require to survive the journey beneath the Cloudlands to the Rift, and beyond. She neatly summarised the benefits and historical significance of the Dragonkind resettling the Ancient Halls of the Dragons at Gi’ishior.

Beneath her elegant arguments, Ardan suspected guilt. Aranya believed her incapacity daily abetted Thoralian’s plans.

When Aranya indicated she had finished speaking, he said lightly, “In conclusion, Aranya and I are leaving Yorbik tomorrow at dawn, and if you disagree, you can all go talk–” he supplied a graphic Western Isles gesture “–with a windroc.”

So mild was his delivery, it took a very long breath for everyone to grasp the exact obscenity he had suggested. An act to make the leatheriest Sylakian soldier blush, Ardan congratulated himself.

Beneath her face-veil, Aranya’s jaw clearly dropped. An expression between shock, awe and respect–he hoped–brightened her magical eyes. The other Dragons’ reactions were more predictable. Va’assia acted outraged and Shangur snorted in amusement, while innocent Lyriela apparently mistook his meaning.

Darron laughed gruffly, “Kids, eh?”

“Kids,” echoed King Beran, eyeing Ardan with a flinty gaze that promised trouble.

“Immadian intricacies are enough to make a Land Dragon’s head hurt,” Ardan growled. “We Western Isles barbarians value brevity.”

Or, calculated provocation.

Nak said, “Well, that was anatomically infeasible, and as offensive as–”

“Nak!” snapped Oyda.

“–as a very fine allusion with which I shall not trouble young ears,” Nak ad-libbed smoothly, nodding in Zuziana’s direction.

Zip smiled sweetly, “I’ve two words for you, Nak. Polygamous libertarianism.”

Nak’s eyes misted over. “Ah, beauteous Remoy, thou art a tease most beguiling!” Then, he shook himself with the air of a wet, playful hound. “Very good. It’s a splendid idea, if done my way–to wit, I propose that Va’assia, Ri’arion and Prince Ta’armion appoint a mixed delegation to oversee matters at Fra’anior Cluster. Dragons, monks and Humans.”

“Monks are Human, too,” Ri’arion noted.

The old Dragon Rider just folded his arms, snorting, “Hmm.”

The day Nak succeeded in riling the Nameless Man was the day toads turned into princes, as they said–had once said–in Naphtha Cluster. Ardan rubbed his temples furiously. Before the Sylakians had exterminated his people.

Leandrial’s low rumble quaked the ground. “A short run beneath the Cloudlands would constitute an ideal test of the protective constructs we have designed. Pip’s ideas were excellent, but even she did not perfect the environmental factors. I’ve developed a number of theories which will help us to isolate the contamination’s exact nature.”

Theories, aye. Ardan valued Leandrial’s great learning, but her ability to pontificate for hours rubbed his scales the wrong way.

“I wish to bring one more matter before my respected elders,” Aranya said, managing to deliver her statement without resorting to sarcasm. Because only her eyes showed, the emotions, fires and passions that flashed in their extraordinary gemstone depths seemed accordingly magnified. “I don’t say this to build a personal platform. Unlike what you assume, I want you to grasp that I see Ardan and me playing a role in future governance, but not assuming overall leadership.”

Ardan’s eyebrows crawled as Shangur the Brown and Tuzimi, and Aranya’s Uncle and Aunt, all voiced dissenting growls. Dragons were all for power. He had observed the bickering, the settling of the pecking order, as those Dragons newly released from Thoralian’s thrall came to terms with their position and prospects, and the loss of mates, roosts and treasures. Aranya’s way was different. If he understood her in the smallest measure, Ardan knew that despite her apparent youth, the Amethyst Dragoness would wing her own flight across the Island-World and none of these would be able to stop her. His upper lip curled. They could try. They would, for they were Dragonkind; inclined to be the power, or to possess the power.

Thus, they were blind to a Star Dragoness’ purposes.

Aranya continued, “In this new order, we Shapeshifters, the so-called third race, have attained pre-eminence as a result of Sylakia’s depredations. Most Lesser Dragons remain lost–my regrets, noble Shangur. It is the Lesser Dragons who previously ruled Gi’ishior and boasted the great Elders of yore, Dragons such as Sapphurion the Blue, the Green Iridiana, and Kassik the Brown at the time of the Pygmy Dragon. One hundred and fifty years ago, we lost a huge proportion of the Lesser Dragons to the ravening beast, the Nurguz–a word which originates from a Dragonish dialect lost to memory.”

The shuffling of Va’assia’s feet clearly suggested impatience with a youngster recounting the histories. The Immadian Princess, however, seemed to have processed to another place, far from petty politicking. Was it this very transcendence which riled them most? Ardan made a mental scroll-mark. These Dragons must be handled well.

“If our mission to Herimor succeeds,” Aranya added, “there’s a distinct possibility that Lesser Dragons will return to Gi’ishior. We all know it’ll require a miracle. But for Balance to exist, I believe we require all three races to be present and accounted for, which includes Land Dragons. That is non-negotiable.”

“Aye,” Leandrial sighed, gusting hot, richly spiced air over the company.

Aranya pushed to her feet with evident discomfort. “Therefore, I declare my ancestry.”

This was a draconic tradition, one of Va’assia’s core teachings. She placed great emphasis on lineage, on the traits and powers that supposedly bred true through the generations.

Utter silence greeted the Immadian Princess as she firmed her spine laboriously. Here was another quality of the Immadian that snatched the breath from his lungs. She had strength of character like the roots of Islands, and an apparently inexhaustible well of that adamantine integrity so valued in Western Isles cultures. But even as these thoughts raced through his febrile mind, her gaze lit upon him and Ardan’s Dragon fires ignited in response. Oh! What unknowable intention stoked the fires of fate, raising his hackles–she was majestic! How did she command without word or gesture?

The slim girl declared, “I am Aranya of Immadia, Shapeshifter Princess, daughter of King Beran of Immadia and Queen Izariela of Ha’athior. King Beran is the son of King Torlan and Queen Ayana, of the line of the Immadian Kings of old. Izariela is the shell-sibling of Ja’arrion and Hualiama, and the shell-daughter of–” she paused as if seeking to gauge their reactions “–Istariela the Star Dragoness, by the Onyx Dragon, Fra’anior.”

Most of the Shapeshifters sprang to their feet, shouting furious accusations. Ja’arrion fainted outright. Oyda’s brilliant eyes danced for the girl who had crash-landed on her doorstep, while Nak cackled, “Strength to your arm, petal!”

“Blasphemy!” spluttered Va’assia.

Shangur bristled in a four-pawed battle-ready stance, his fires bubbling like an overheated furnace, but the Brown only regarded her belligerently, unspeaking.

Firming her chin, Aranya shouted, SILENCE!

Leandrial made a vast wheeze, but she was the only one capable of response to the sevenfold thunderclap that emerged from Aranya’s throat. What a roar! Thunder rolled over thunder, deeper and richer and more stirring than any storm he had ever heard. As she stood unbowed beneath a sky rent asunder by thousands of chains of branch lightning, her magnificent multi-coloured locks swirling about her slender frame with a life of their own, the thunder avalanched back over the group gathered at the lake shore, impossibly multiplied by the throats of a monumental presence from beyond:

SHE IS BORN! ARANYA, DAUGHTER OF STORM!

Now Aranya bent the knee, stiffly. Noble shell-sire. You honour us exceedingly.

THE HONOUR IS MINE, crashed the thunder. SPEAK THINE OATH ONCE MORE!

Ardan knew his life for but a mote compared to the fires of Fra’anior, but a curl of dark flame seemed to emanate from the stormy presence of the Ancient Dragon, to lodge in his breast. By shielded telepathy, the Great Dragon added, Thou too art mine, Sha’aldior, and mine fires regard thee as ardently as a father doth regard his shell-son. The whitest fires of mine hearts thrive in thy breast. Be strong, Sha’aldior! Be strong, for Aranya must lean upon thee.

Into the soft falling of his failing consciousness, Ardan heard Aranya cry:

For thee, shall I rise anew!

The heavens crashed down upon his head. All was white, and starlight.

* * * *

Nak rapped Ardan’s left forepaw with his cane. “Shrinking lily.”

“I do not faint often,” snarled the Shadow Dragon, looming over the old Dragon Rider.

Dragoness-Aranya elbowed his starboard flank. “Vacuous maiden.”

GRRRAAAAARRRGGH!!

Nak wriggled delightedly at Ardan’s throat-clearing exhibition, and then declaimed:

Arise in dark splendour, thou ancient Lord,

Brooding over thy Isles in majesty resplendent,

For dread foes hath arrayed themselves against thee …

“Anyways, ’tis a fine morning for poetry,” he broke off, giving Ardan another prod of his cane for good measure. “Touch of Annals of the Dragonfriend there, my lad. My Shimmerith had the sweetest voice you ever heard, but that Emblazon of Oyda’s–he was a fulminator like you, Ardan. Helps that I’m half deaf. Saves me from listening to your nonsensical babbling.”

As Nak blithely goaded the Shadow Dragon, Aranya flexed her major wing-joints and examined the leathery wing-membranes, particularly her still-tender left wing. Oyda had removed the rows of neat stitches two days before, leaving numerous long, puckered wound-scars to testify to how Thoralian had shredded the flight surface. Those scars should heal into near-invisibility, but the pox operated on a different level. Could a Shapeshifter’s spirit-form be scarred, she wondered? Leandrial seemed to think it both magically and existentially possible.

“Good, Zip and Ri’arion come at last,” said Ardan. “Seventy-one Dragons accompany them. Beran’s aboard Ja’arrion. I see fifty … no, fifty-four Dragonships cresting the horizon.”

Aranya appreciated his description. The mighty Dragonwing was a shifting blur of colours to her, and the Dragonship fleet a patch of brown fuzz against a pink-chased dawn sky. After her performance the previous evening, which had drawn an approving back-slap from Commander Darron, a quiet word of approval from her father, and the everlasting enmity of her dear aunt, they had hammered out a simple plan. Part of the Immadian Dragonship fleet would return north, taking the wounded soldiers home. A second group would fly directly for Remia, carrying the monks and soldiers of Fra’anior Cluster on a south-westerly run to their home Islands. A number of Dragons and monks elected to remain behind with the weaker Shapeshifters rescued from Thoralian’s caverns, to continue the hunt for the scattered fire-drakes of Herimor.

Meantime Leandrial, Aranya, Ardan and Zuziana would make an initial short foray along the under-Cloudlands ridge to Jendor Cluster, and there assess their progress before pushing South past Horness to Remia, Rolodia and finally, Fra’anior itself.

Simple. Potentially deadly, but simple.

Not half as soul-shivering as having the mighty Onyx Dragon smite the Islands with his thundering at her behest.

* * * *

The Azure Dragoness stiffened until she resembled a smallish, fixed-fin Dragonship in the air. Good for my personal growth, Ri’arion?

I spoke poorly, he replied.

What growth do you think I need, exactly? blazed Zuziana, hating how defensive she sounded.

Be not enraged with me, precious Remoy, he pleaded. Deserving I may be, but I will miss thee … this is a bitter yoke to bear. I sought only to clutch a green shoot of hope in my morass of despair. Truly–his mental voice cracked–I grieve …

Starchy monk, incapable of emotion? A pitiful misjudgement! And when was it that the rainbows of love had illuminated their lives? A curious sensation gripped Zuziana deep in the region of her third heart, as if a fiery paw kneaded her heart-muscle with gentle, ineffable talons. So this was why Dragons talked about the third heart being the seat of love.

Flexing her neck, she bent her gentlest gaze upon the monk seated above her shoulders. My anger blows but a brief squall. My grief mirrors yours.

Although, to taste such words on her tongue was to marvel at the fundamental distinction between her Dragon and Human selves, for her Human was rarely so formal, nor poetic. To her further surprise, all the fires of her draconic being bowed in an inexplicable direction–inward–in a reflection of the Shapeshifter transformation she was slowly becoming accustomed to. Zuziana focussed deeply. There, just at the very fringe of her awareness, she sensed … herself? What?

But this fleeting intuition evaporated as Ri’arion replied, “Good, they’re waiting for us. Leandrial’s enjoying her swim. Look, Zip.”

The Azure Dragoness furled her wings deftly, executing an elegant landing on the blue beach beside Ardan and Aranya. Finally, she was mastering a skill that other Dragons took for granted. She glanced at her best friend, who tilted her muzzle to hide the dreadful wound on her left cheek. The conflict with Sylakia had left them both scarred in body and spirit. Aranya had been the first to heal Zuziana at the Tower of Sylakia after Garthion’s brutal assault and torture; now, Zip had no gift to heal her friend. How, by any measure under moons or suns, could this be fair?

Privately, Aranya said, Hey, girlfriend. Nice to have you on board.

Girlfriend? That’s mighty Dragoness to you, peasant scum, Zip mock-snarled.

Why so melancholy, Zip? The Immadian’s insight seared past her subterfuge. Sorry. Zip-Zap, you’re the best friend I ever snaffled from beneath a tyrant’s nose. Don’t you ever forget–

Did you just read my mind?

I … don’t think so.

Zip grumbled, You’re a wonderful liar. Completely fooled me, there.

Aranya chuckled at this classic Immadian understatement. Your mental state was just very readable.

The nuances of your Dragonish betray you, fledgling, the Azure claimed, imitating Va’assia’s high-handed delivery with devastating accuracy. My cherished protocols demand that you shield your intent with context-indicators of the uttermost linguistic obfuscation.

To her delight, Aranya coughed up a small fireball of fiery mirth, bathing Zip’s flank in momentary heat.

“Ah, the sulphurous fires of friendship,” rumbled the Shadow Dragon.

Ri’arion said, “I see I can trust you to keep Zip hopping, Aranya?”

“A nibble of the wingtips here, a toasty fireball there–it’ll be my pleasure,” purred her so-called friend.

“Right then,” said the monk. “Let’s run over those shield-constructs one more time, girls. Pneumatic and olfactory elements, environment-sensitive responses …”

The Dragons groaned in concert. If only they could have taken the brilliant monk with them, but even Lesser Dragons survived the toxic Cloudlands only under duress; Humans far less so. They lacked the pathways of natural magical resistance and healing that made draconic physiques so resilient. Not for the first time, nor for less than the thousandth, Zip wondered if a magic-user as powerful and creative as the Nameless Man could perform such a feat.

Aranya was not the only one plucking thoughts out of minds, here. Her own ability stemmed from the mind-meld with Ri’arion which seemed over time to have drawn them into a deep understanding of each other’s thought-patterns. Twins sometimes completed each other’s sentences. She and her monk often completed thoughts and ideas. Therefore, she saw Ri’arion also harboured a deep-seated desire to essay exactly that risk. Perhaps after Fra’anior, she deciphered from the tenor of his thoughts, even though he tried to conceal his mental state from her so as not heighten her distress.

Sweet man. She could just nibble him for breakfast … ah, no. Not as a Dragoness, anyhow. Messy. But undoubtedly scrumptious …

“Say, Aranya,” Zip called, “what was that special Human shield we were working on?”

“Human shield?”

The Remoyan expounded, “The ‘anti forbidden monk-love’ shield, with additional ‘bash a prowling gentleman around the earhole’ refinements.”

“Aye,” said Aranya, with a snide peek at Ardan, “and I’ve perfected the ‘the bigger the rippling biceps, the harder they fall’ twist. Very effective. All flexing, posturing and broadly unspecified male swaggering generates an instant lightning bolt applied directly to the rump.”

Ardan and Ri’arion both made amused noises as Nak tripped over his canes laughing.

“I vote we work on the ‘lecherous old man attractor’,” Zip added, quietening Nak instantly.

The Dragonesses exchanged loaded glances.

“With a double infusion of Princess-petal power?” Aranya suggested. “Perfected that one months ago. Love at first growl. So beautiful, it makes grown Dragonesses weep through thousands of lines of melancholy poetry.”

“Oh, stop, stop!” Nak clutched his stomach. “Mercy, I beg of you!”

Crooking his fore-talon behind the Dragon Rider’s back, Ardan helped Nak sit up.

Nak wiped his eyes. “Now I know how you two beat the Sylakians.”

“Er … how?” chorused Zip and Aranya.

“Secrets,” he placed two fingers over his lips in the Jeradian fashion. “Feral Dragons could crush my bones–”

“I vote we work on the hallucinatory vision-modifier,” Zip proposed implacably.

Catching on, Aranya clarified, “Aye, the devious psychic shield that makes the object of every lascivious glance of a particular Dragon Rider bring to mind a week-old, maggot-ridden windroc’s corpse?”

“Hey!” Nak bleated in alarm. “That’s outright murder, that is.”

“Confess?” growled Zip.

“I’ll admit everything,” he quavered, “because it’s clear to me that you two monkey-nuts just turned up one day, and decided to snark the Sylakians out of their empire!”

* * * *

Aranya chortled all the way across to the western edge of Yorbik Island, where a retaining wall two hundred and fifty feet thick and one thousand feet tall held back a vast body of water. Ri’arion claimed that no engineer could work out exactly how that volume and weight of water would not simply crack apart the walls of a terrace lake, especially given the constant volcanic activity beneath many Islands. ‘Integrity like a terrace-lake wall’, was a renowned proverb of Archion Island.

This ability to fuse rock so perfectly was a prime exemplar of Ancient Dragon magic, Leandrial claimed, with her most pompously draconic know-it-all air. Much could be pinned on Fra’anior, Aranya suspected, her grand-sire, alias fiery old gramps–who, according to the ballads, had to curl up to fit inside the diameter of the eighteen-league wide caldera of Fra’anior Cluster. He of seven heads mantled in eternal storm, who had engaged in minor creative projects such as raising Islands and populating them with the creatures and peoples of his design.

Did those seven heads gather in conference? What if one head started an argument with the others? Did different heads specialise in different forms of magic, knowledge or perception? Or have different personalities? And how could His Island-Dwarfing Magnificence produce offspring a number of degrees of magnitude smaller than he? She had so many questions, some less momentous than others.

Fit into his paw-prints? Right. That would be the day the Moons turned purple.

Aranya shook her length gently, trying to ease the stiffness in her muscles and joints, also a consequence of the pox. Dragons were supposed to be supple masters of the airy realms, fully at home in their native element, whereas a certain Immadian had to be thrown off a cliff by her erstwhile boyfriend, Yolathion, in order to discover her inner Dragoness. Reflecting upon that incident, Aranya acknowledged the germ of her later breakup with Yolathion. At the crucial moment, he had failed to summon the will and integrity to stand up for right, or more simply, for Aranya. His hands had dropped her over the edge of the Last Walk. Even if he had later declared his regret–how foolish was she to ever have imagined loving or trusting the man who had tried to murder her? She saw this clearly now.

Still, she hoped Jia-Llonya and Kylara would track him down soon.

Dawn painted a partially overcast sky with tints of rose. The Jade and Blue Moons stood off her starboard flank, simultaneously in their crescent phase, a semi-annual coincidence. A heavy cloudbank almost obscured the north-eastern quadrant, signalling a weather-front strong enough to concern a Dragonship pilot; however, the winds should aid the fleet on the southward leg. Aranya saw enough to make out soldiers and monks lining the gantries of the Dragonships. They goggled, as did she, at the spectacle of a Land Dragoness gripping the terrace lake wall with her forepaws, her grey-green forequarters towering fifty times the height of a Lesser Dragon into the air, conversing with King Beran as his Dragonships proudly flying the royal purple of Immadia passed overhead.

Aranya and Ardan alighted on the terrace lake wall while Zuziana winged to the Dragonship fleet, where Ri’arion would join Ta’armion, Beran, Ignathion and the Shapeshifters in further discussions. No moment of the journey would be wasted, if she knew her father.

Oh, Dad …

Time was short. Abruptly, she sprang for the sky, startling the Shadow Dragon into a wing-flare. He did not follow; rather, the coal-black, gleaming Dragon assumed his customary four-square stance upon the lake wall as he dipped his muzzle to drink briefly. Aranya flew to Beran. What did he make of a daughter-Dragon’s approach? In her mind’s eye she was transported to that reunion atop Izariela’s Tower, remembering his shock and joy … what would it be like to see her mother return to life? To stand with Izariela atop that tower? She tried to gulp back a huge, hot mass of draconic emotions, but they stuck in her throat like cooling lava.

May it be, Fra’anior. May we rescue–restore? Resurrect? Bring Balance, to your lost shell-daughter?

“Aranyi?” called her father, leaning dangerously over the safety railing.

She gasped, “Uh … Dad? Sorry.” She veered away from the Dragonship before realising she had put them in no danger. “Far away–”

“With your mother, Aranyi?”

Her father knew her this well? She nodded, unspeaking.

“Aye. I know,” he said. “Your Dragoness’ eyes have a special colour when you think about Izariela. I’ve just realised now.”

“W-W-What?” she stammered. Floored. Flummoxed. Almost knocked out of the sky.

“Easy, Sparky,” he soothed as Aranya sieved the air inelegantly.

She darted forward to grasp the gantry just beside his boots, flapping her wings fast and close to her body to preclude her additional tonnage from unbalancing the Dragonship. She curved her head up to address her father nose to nose. He did not flinch. Beran’s famously steely gaze met the torrents of fire coursing through her orbs steadily, before he dipped his head to rest his forehead lightly against her muzzle, right between her eyes.

“You scared, Sparky?”

Again–mercy! She growled, “Dad!”

“Your mother always accused me of deep intuition,” he quipped. “I call it being observant. Usually, I’m terrified before a battle. Aye, scared stiffer than dried rajal meat. Mark my words, Sparky, it’s a battle you’re heading into–first against the mighty elements of the Cloudlands abyss and the Rift, then Herimor’s unknowns, another bite of Thoralian–hopefully fatal–and finally, what these Dragons identify as the greatest magical power in the Island-World, the First Egg. Windrocs’ teeth, girl, you’d better be shaking-your-scales-off scared, or I’d call my own daughter stupid.”

“Dad! Honestly?”

“Honesty,” he corrected. “Now. Remember when we saw that invasion force cresting the horizon near our beloved Immadia, and feared doom’s hammer loomed over our Isle?”

“The first time or the second, old man?”

He placed a hand flat upon her muzzle; despite her scale-armour, the sensitive nerves conducted every nuance of his touch to her ultra-responsive awareness. “Both. I grow weary of war. In my lifetime, I’ve many times been confronted by ostensibly hopeless situations. That’s when I think upon those I love. I keep the images I most treasure here, in my mind. Love has always brought me to a place of true courage–I don’t mean bravado, or false hope. Perhaps courage is another face of desperation, but I’ve found that allowing love to strip away the non-essentials produces the kind of mettle I’ve seen you demonstrate on numerous occasions, Aranyi. One’s foundations must be built on what is real and noble, and just and beautiful. That type of courage cannot fail–such as when you saved your enemy, Ignathion. When you extended Yolathion undeserved grace. When you returned to the Tower of Sylakia to kidnap your best friend–these actions shape character and soul–ah, I didn’t mean to slip into kingly lecturing mode. What were we talking about?”

Aranya whispered, “All I’ve ever tried to do is to fit into your boots, Dad.”

He glanced at his feet, his eyes glistening suspiciously. “By the mountains of Immadia, at least I picked a good pair today. Don’t bother with the rest of my wardrobe.”

She laughed, “Izariela. We spoke of her.”

“White,” he said promptly. “A white so pure it is almost transparent, like the suns-shine glistening off spiderweb, so effulgent, it is like … like words fail this weary King.”

“Like starlight,” she whispered. “Like the white-fires of creation’s very heart, so untainted …”

“Aye,” he whispered back.

Aranya could not begin to capture the sensation that gripped her third heart then–similar to love, but this was the core of a roaring furnace. It was a vision an artist sees in the mind, but must labour and sweat and struggle to bring to life upon the canvas. As she said her farewells, it was as if another person spoke for her, and another power that flexed her wings to catch the breeze.

Then, the Amethyst Dragoness free-fell into the void, where the Shadow Dragon twirled on his wingtip to meet her.

Chapter 3: Deeper

LEANDRIAL SURGED SINUOUSLY over the terrace lake wall, mindful not to pierce the precious buttress with her mighty talons. Aranya thought the Lesser Dragons might pull ahead in uninhibited flight as they negotiated the increasingly steep gradient of Yorbik’s scrub-pocked slopes, especially where the final two miles dropped away in an eighty-three degree plunge into pristine cream clouds below. The Amethyst glided into formation with Ardan, taking advantage of his greater bulk for slipstreaming. Glancing back, she saw Leandrial briefly poised on the brink, teetering like a mountain perched on an impossibly tiny fulcrum. Then, the Land Dragoness poured onward in a mighty avalanche of Dragonflesh. As she began to run, Aranya gasped. Her weak eyes surely deceived her, for she’d wager Immadia’s crown jewels that nothing short of magic could pierce the basal rock with such ease. The great blades stabbed ninety feet deep as Leandrial ran on her talon-tips, giving the Dragoness-mountain the absurd air of a mincing dancer flutter-stepping across the largest stage in the Island-World; only, that stage tilted rapidly toward the vertical–and, mincing was what her talons did to solid rock.

Untold tonnes of Dragon power and presence poured downhill in pursuit. Given as her every running step spanned several thousand feet, the Land Dragoness had not the slightest trouble keeping up. Ardan and Zip immediately accelerated to maintain their lead, making her chuckle quietly. Dragons were not competitive, oh no. Never.

Dragon-Aranya shook the dust off her own wings.

Hardy brown cliff-goats roamed the upper slopes in huge numbers, while lower down, amidst the tough berry-bushes and tufty tan grasses, she spied several troops of miniature bright-bottom baboons, celebrated in many a ballad for the vibrant blue hues of their splendidly unattractive rear ends. Ardan blasted low over a vine-festooned outcropping, startling a black rajal into a mane-shaking rage.

Aranya’s Dragon-senses adjusted steadily to the increasing pressure as they descended several miles through the cool morning air, angling toward the southern fringe of the leagues-long shadow Yorbik Island cast over the Cloudlands. Her ear-canals creaked. Her secondarily eyelids, the transparent nictitating membranes, washed her eye-orbs several times to remove a sudden bespattering of airborne grit. A temperature inversion tingled her scales as she passed through a warmer layer that smelled of acrid pitch tinged with fresh windroc droppings, before they plunged unexpectedly into a chill airstream whipping around the Island’s base. Long, straggling strands of russet lowgrass fluttered and swayed just as a girl’s hair had once waved in the wind as she dropped off the Last Walk.

Her eyes squeezed shut at the visceral force of that memory. She recalled hearing her mother crying out, mid-fall, Freedom is flying, Aranyi! And the Black Dragon thundering, It is time!

Time for what? Could Fra’anior have known, from the impossible remoteness of his self-imposed exile, the fate of a girl tossed off a cliff? Could it be that the beacon of his magic had guided her from death to life? If so, she owed him everything.

But he was not Izariela.

Her flight was windsong over amethyst scales. Her heart, draconic in might. Her soul’s paean yearned for the farthest shores of her Island-World.

So Aranya plunged from the upper reaches to the undiscovered deeps, eyes shuttered, distantly heeding Ardan’s call to raise her shields as the Cloudlands rushed upward, enfolding a small Dragonwing of Lesser Dragons in its deathly embrace. Moisture and acidic particles washed into her nostrils. A faint rankness filtered through the particle shield, the awareness of environmental poisons present in the endless grey gloom her eyes opened upon. Ever descending. The madness of attempting the unthinkable. All history, all lore and wisdom, declared that this was death’s own realm, and to brave the abyss was an act of intentional suicide.

Yet Leandrial dwelled in these depths.

Softly smothering, the pressure crushed them inexorably to its bosom. Sounds became muted, carrying strangely through the dense air. Aranya coughed at an astringent whiff of sulphuric acid. Large bodies swished through the mist, investigating, but part of their shield-construct provided by the practical Tuzimi had been a magic dampening technique. Aranya had not been aware, but even Dragonflight left a discernible trail, the magical equivalent of a paw-print in the dust. Below-Cloudlands predators relied on smell, sight that employed sense-apparatuses foreign to her experience, and communication via techniques as esoteric as far-travelling waveform communications capable of traversing thousands of leagues, depending on ambient conditions. So much to keep straight in her head! How did Land Dragons produce all of the required shield-facets by instinct? According to Leandrial, the Pygmy Dragoness had possessed eidetic recall–lucky girl.

Aranya sighed at Ardan’s mental summons. Tormentor. Time to run through their checklist of all the disparate shield-elements.

After a further fifteen minutes of annoyance and adjustments, the Lesser Dragons broke through the four-mile thick permanent cloud layer and descended into the murky, swampy-like upper layers. Aranya peered about inquisitively, feeling as if she swam in a pot of tepid Jeradian tea, for the air was brown-tinged and torpid, so thick with contaminants, rotting plant matter and the excrement of the high-flying, lighter predators, that even Land Dragons shunned this region. Every movement felt languid, similar to their underwater training. Masses of grey Borers paddled past, long tubular creatures equipped with clumps of impractical, alary appendages on their midsections and either end of their bodies, and outward-pointing teeth that rotated at an infeasible speed to literally drill their way through bone and hide. They looked intrigued until they sensed Leandrial’s presence; then they jetted away at high speed.

Worse were the swarms of smaller predators, the wasps, mosquitoes and bats of this realm. They hunted in packs and shoals, in a variety of body shapes and motile systems sufficient to make the head spin.

Leandrial said drolly, Assume everything has teeth, suckers, harpoons, fang-grapnels or unfolding digestive parts, and hankers to eat you alive. Then you’ll understand the upper layers well enough, little ones.

Ardan sideslipped away from a Borer that was comfortably three times his length. These are the small ones?

Tiny, laughed the Land Dragoness. Watch this.

Her single eye brightened. Suddenly a brilliant white beam shot forth, hissing through the muck as it vaporised flesh and floating vegetable matter for a mile ahead and more. Aranya blinked. Not a predator in sight. They had hidden, camouflaged, fled. She began to wonder what could possibly threaten a creature the size of a Land Dragon, but then she recalled Leandrial’s description of the Theadurial, and shuddered. Magical parasites.

Leandrial explained, The eye-cannon is our primary offensive weapon. Properly attuned, Harmonic magic can be devastating. If you think my eye-cannon is powerful, you’ve seen nothing yet. The eye-cannons of the Shell-Clan are legendary, little ones. Provoke them at your peril.

Tell us about these Shell-Clan, Zip offered.

No request could have pleased Leandrial more. For the following hour, as they flew and ran down a long, boulder-strewn slope carpeted in luminous pink and violet fungal growths, she described the great class of Shell-Clan tribes, followed by the four-legged Runner Clan like her, who were divided into many subclasses–Mist-Runners, Welkin-Runners, Deep-Runners, Current-Runners and many more–and then the other major classes, called Stellates, Air-Breathers, Deep-Dwellers, Cognates, Living Springs, Drifters, Rock-Eaters and Fire-Sporters, and further rare classes and subclasses. These class and clan-names for Land Dragons were simplified designations which had developed to mask the complex dialectical differences between the Land Dragonish spoken in different parts of the Island-World. Furthermore, Leandrial explained, some types of Dragonkind were not a single organism, but organised themselves along the lines of hive-insects, many bodies sharing a single mind.

Meantime, the Lesser Dragons strained their wings to fly deeper beneath the Cloudlands, until at last the substrate’s character changed. Rock gave way to the disintegrated upper fringes of plant fronds and leaves, only these khaki leaves spanned distances of miles, and grew thousands of feet thick. After coursing over this softly rolling, spongy layer for a further half-hour, Leandrial picked a spot that seemed no different to any other, and began to quarry and tear her way through the dense organic matter into the middle layers below. Soon, her tail disappeared amongst geysers of ripped plant material.

The three Lesser Dragons sideslipped three hundred feet to evade the worst of the backwash and shared glances–follow immediately? Or wait?

After you, noble Gloom Dragon, said the Azure Dragoness, with an aerial bow in Ardan’s direction.

He chuckled indulgently. Says the little patch of summer skies?

Aranya’s fangs clacked near his tail. Oh! She burned as a clear tinge of green, the draconic colour of jealousy, washed over her gaze. To her surprise, however, the Shadow Dragon responded with a brightening of his eye-fires toward a brilliant yellow. He liked her jealousy! Now her belly-fires fulminated in confusion and further embarrassment, for she had betrayed desire for him whom she must deny. Groan. Flee! Yet a touch upon her wingtip stayed her.

Zip said firmly, I’d far rather this Aranya than the Queen of an ice-citadel. Hear me? Understood?

Thanks, Zip-Zip.

But all twenty of Ardan’s talons clenched at once. He trumpeted, I will not trifle with the Azure to gain your regard, Aranya! That is not the flight of my wings.

Aranya replied, No. You have never been a person of trifles, Ardan. Yet life pulses in your veins, and magic throughout your being. You are a man, a warrior and a mighty male Dragon. I refuse to constrain a Dragon who holds his integrity in such clear sight.

I am not without fault, he said.

Zip sniped, Fifty scrolls wouldn’t suffice to list your faults.

Are any faultless? Aranya knew the accelerated pulse of her hearts-beat must carry to the Shadow Dragon’s hearing. The very orientation of his body toward her bespoke fiery devotion.

Zuziana snorted, Private room for the Princess and his Lordship?

Then, a group of marauding Borers ambushed them out of the wash of Leandrial’s digging.

All the warning they had was a sudden change in pressure, because the visibility on that flank was so poor. Dozens of dull blue tentacles speared out of the murk, orienting on the companions. Tooth-edged suckers scraped and scrabbled against the pneumatic shields, finding no grip save upon the natural curvature of the ovoid, all-encompassing shield-constructs, but that was only a prelude to the real attack. With stunning speed, the piercing mouthparts followed, jabbing with shrieks of disruptive magic. Whee-drrr! Blam! Whee-drrr! The long, muscular tentacles laced around Ardan’s bubble in particular, before five or six purple mouth-orifices opened to expose the piercing–blades? Tongues? Aranya skittered away, while Zip spun into the path of a further trio of Borers.

Drrrr! Aranya shuddered as a rough drill-bit missed her right hind leg by the width of a Dragon’s scale. Roaring rajals, it had breached her shield so easily? Of course, she had forgotten–switching her shield to a repellent configuration, Aranya yelled, Change phase!

Ardan’s form flickered, swirling about in a maelstrom of half-seen flying talons, teeth and wings as he employed his Shadow powers to tear into the predators. Lightning crackled from Zuziana, but the Azure Dragoness yelped in pain as the shield turned her own lightning back on her. Aranya swooped at once, unleashing a volley of highly-charged blue fireballs. Pfft! Pfft–KAABOOM! The Dragons shook as the thick air conducted the concussion of her explosive attack to ears and bodies alike.

Thanks for cleaning up, Zip yelped, phasing her shield belatedly.

The Shadow Dragon corkscrewed past, dicing up tentacles with enraged swipes of his dark talons.

Aranya quipped, They’re very, very dead, Ardan.

GRR! His growl throbbed with aggravation. Who was hurt–freaking worms!

Suddenly, all was Dragon reactions and fighting as a further dozen of the beasts surrounded the companions, their drills screaming–Drrrr! Drrrr-rrr! Mouths agape, they hammered at the shields–bam! Bam! Bam-bam-bam! The Borers even fought each other, squealing and jostling to be the first to drill into Aranya’s tail or take a snap at Ardan’s flanks. She saw schools of sleek, shadowy shapes jetting toward them, clearly attracted by the green and gold blood drifting away from the conflict.

She had no intention of becoming a free snack.

Follow me! The Amethyst Dragoness cried, clearing the path with a barrage of fireballs. Oddly, the production of her power felt rough around the edges, as though the Shifter pox had affected even the operation of the magical pathways within her being. Lightning stuttered from her talons and throat. Not good. She darted down Leandrial’s burrow, aware of the Shadow Dragon in the background grimly sweeping Zuziana’s shield clear of tentacles which had wrapped entirely around her.

Drat those … they must fight smarter. Impervious shields were fine for beating back drills and boring mouthparts, but a liability if they could be snagged by tentacles. They needed something slippery, or malleable, more like soap …

Ardan charged up alongside Aranya on her starboard flank, nursing two holes the size of Aranya’s Dragon-fist in his upper left shoulder.

The Azure Dragoness fell into formation on her port side, grumbling, I lost a few scales and a good slice of pride. Do those hurt, Ardan?

Do you want the standard male answer, or the truth? He flexed the shoulder awkwardly. I’m a little sore.

Leandrial’s digging did not appear to have distinguished between flora and fauna. The vast, spatulate leaf-masses played host to a world of insects similar to those one might expect to find beneath a rotting log, only they were a hundred times larger–the bits left over, anyhow. Segments of worms and dismembered insect legs drifted past as they winged downward, taking care to avoid the predators which already teemed within this additional feast.

This would be the glorious ‘renewing of the layers’ Leandrial referred to? Zip chuckled, indicating the carnage with a wave of her right forepaw.

Land Dragons renew the layers by digging vital pathways, Aranya quoted.

I’ll bet you were the royal tutors’ favourite, Zip teased.

Ardan said, In all seriousness, you can see how this works. Without the ‘churn’, these plants grow wild and eventually consume all the resources in an area. The entire ecosystem is impacted. What we just flew through, that upper layer around Yorbik, is effectively a below-Cloudlands desert. Do you think this is a reason for the toxicity of the Cloudlands?

Based on the ancient Land Dragon migration, which left the North barren? Aranya puzzled aloud. Aye, this is all part of the grand, numinous Balance a Star Dragoness is supposed to breathe through her pores.

Zuziana shook her slim blue muzzle. I don’t know, Aranya. Leandrial theorises that the toxins originate in the Rift.

Leandrial’s tunnelling not only opened flows of air between the layers, but also exposed the innards of the tough leaves to the plant-eating hordes, which swarmed in vast numbers to gnaw at the frayed, trailing edges, or furiously dug new homes for their eggs. Within hours, the exposed surfaces would harden due to contact with the air, re-forming their natural protection. Already, Aranya felt a fresh current rushing upward as the higher-pressure air naturally flowed toward the areas of lower pressure. This current bore fresh scents and savours, a more mineral-rich tang and even pollens, she thought, which reminded her of the abundant scents of Ha’athior Island, her mother’s birthplace.

The ever-increasing pressure aided her impaired lungs, for admittedly, her semi-permeable shield was designed to supplement the ambient oxygen–Ardan’s excellent thinking.

Aranya looked ahead eagerly. Contrary to the dense, overarching layer of vegetation that separated the upper layer from the middle, the patch of glutinous air visible through Leandrial’s hole was a refreshingly bright blue, the by-product of bioluminescent bacteria present in the air. Poisonous bacteria, of course. But helpful.

Leandrial’s snout appeared upside-down before them, framed in blue. If you’ve finished fooling with the minnows up there, little ones, come visit the realm where the big Dragons play.

And with that, they emerged through the roof of a new world.

* * * *

Leandrial rumbled, “Welcome to the favoured realm of Land Dragons. We call this middle layer the air-ocean, although this place is shallows, a mere two miles depth constrained by the ridge upon which Yorbik, Jendor and Horness all stand.”

Zuziana looked around her with delight. Dragonets flipping somersaults! Ooh, and a little trepidation. The rich blue faded into the distance, as though they flew within the upper reaches of a great terrace lake. Now she appreciated Leandrial’s insistence on underwater training at Yorbik, because it was becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish between flying and swimming. Even Leandrial appeared remarkably buoyant at this level, even agile, which was rather akin to saying an Island danced like a butterfly.

Plant matter drifted through the thick, viscous air, mostly not rooted in place, similarly to her native Remoy’s air-plants, but these giants employed flotation bubbles scattered along their stems. Fine-leafed green, yellow and purple fronds hung in curtains thousands of feet long, sporting a wide variety of what must be fruit or berries, in a Leandrial-sized assortment. Her dizzy mind catalogued crimson fruit shaped like chilli-peppers, waxy, oval purple colossi, and clusters of berries as big as Dragonships. In the middle distance, she saw gigantic herbivores contentedly munching their way through life, sporting jaws or mandibles capable of shovelling entire villages into their ever-hungry maws.

She giggled charily. Floating mountains!

“Here on the ridge there are few animals and insects,” Leandrial lectured, drawing a huff of amazement from Aranya. “Most of your North is like this now, following the great migration, with the upper and middle layers separated by jergoleaf, the highly invasive plants we burrowed through. We’ll see a greater diversity as we proceed South. The sea down to Fra’anior is shallow and uninteresting, I regret to report, but just beyond your mother-familial Island Cluster, Aranya, we shall encounter first a proper middle-lower and lower layer; then, Jeradia Cluster lies upon the brink of an impossible deep, so close, indeed, that there’s an ancient joke amongst Land Dragons about Fra’anior’s sneeze being enough to tip Jeradia over the edge. That should be a fascinating, and of course, very dangerous crossing.”

Zip rolled her fire-eyes, trying to recall the vertical ordering of the below-Cloudlands layers, so essential to correctly distinguishing between the different types of life, currents and classes of carnivores.

“Leandrial,” she asked, “where do the deeps come in? And what’s the difference between an impossible deep and a bottomless rift?”

Ardan made a grinding noise with his fangs, which Leandrial majestically ignored, explaining, “The middle layers lie one to two leagues beneath the opaque, permanent cloud-layer, so inimical to your kind and to your sight. Of course, this does not bother a mighty Land Dragon in the slightest. As I taught your little Pygmy friend, the middle layers are the realm of behemoths. Here dwell the great plant eaters and the mighty carnivores that prey upon them. As Lesser Dragonkind you will be beneath their notice unless you’re accidently snapped up for the smallest of morsels.”

Ardan wing-slapped Aranya’s rump. “Snack time.”

She yelped and tried to swat him back. “Shut the fangs, you floating morsel.”

Leandrial said, “For example, behold the breathing spiracle of a fine specimen of uha-êk-hulak, the Lesser Twelve-Segmented Flayer, I believe you’d call it in your tongue.”

“Where is this beast?” asked the Amethyst Dragoness.

“Over there,” Zip pointed with her foreclaw, feeling dispirited. Her friend could not see it, could she?

Leandrial swept forward with imperious ease, making the sinuous wriggling motion she had taught them at Yorbik. “Let’s wake it up.”

“Erm …” Ardan coughed.

“You should try to breathe and drink less unfiltered air down here,” the Land Dragoness admonished. “Already, toxins infiltrate your system. No mind, we shall run through a cleansing cycle at Horness. Aranya, touch his wounds. Furthermore, there are many vectors of infection which I shall cover in detail later. And, the bites of certain predators can be necrotic or neurotoxic, especially in Herimor.”

“Herimor sounds perfectly charming,” Zuziana put in.

“As charming as the song of my eye-cannon,” Leandrial joked unexpectedly, opening fire.

She deliberately blasted an area not far from that innocuous-looking spiracle, but close enough, evidently, to tickle the Flayer into motion. Zip rather wished Leandrial had not, because the creature that exploded out of the innocuous-looking ball of plant matter was very large and decidedly peeved, and clearly possessed an armoury fit to make any sane creature think twice about eyeballing it save from a few Islands’ distance. No fewer than six slavering mouths screamed at them, each capable of swallowing a Sylakian Dragonship sideways and equipped with a thicket of mandibles, saws, grapnels and inward-sloping fangs. The Flayer charged. Grapnels shot forth, aimed at the Land Dragoness’ leg and Ardan’s head. A stream of what appeared to be gas-powered fire streamed out behind, shooting the Flayer’s not inconsiderable tonnage at its intended victims faster than the Azure had ever imagined such a behemoth could move.

Zip’s wings whisked her away instantly to take refuge behind Leandrial, who appeared to wait so that they could truly appreciate its size and ferocity before opening up with her eye-cannon.

The Flayer took a goodly dint of killing. Shot after shot pounded the long, serpentine body and knocked the heads about like beans in a shaker, but the thing kept champing away at them long after it was apparently dead and both Aranya and Ardan had run out of fireballs. Leandrial calmly cleared a few mandibles locked around her right foreleg and forepaw, and turned to peer at a certain Azure Dragoness.

Zip mooched toward her companions.

“So, even a Land Dragon’s strength may be tested,” said Leandrial, apparently not in the mood for ruffling her companion’s scales. “There are creatures with which even I do not willingly tangle. As for Flayers? They haven’t much stamina. They’re best left alone, or you might simply flee.”

“I’d vote for fleeing,” said Aranya, leaking smoke from the corners of her mouth.

The Shadow Dragon stretched luxuriously. “I love a little light exercise in the morning, don’t you?”

Leandrial took a lazy swipe at the male Dragon, who dodged smartly. She chuckled, “Courage, little ones! Below the middle layer, typically underpinned by a more variegated and fertile vegetable layer, come the middle-lower and lower layers, at depths of two to four leagues. Those are … like your forests, perhaps.” She considered the Lesser Dragons with a jaundiced air. “Only, our forests may measure five miles tall, rather dwarfing Dragons of your inconsiderable stature.”

“Humph,” said Ardan, affecting a heroic, muscles-popping pose. “Do I look bigger like this?”

Zip and Aranya fell about laughing, while Leandrial blinked in bemusement, evidently failing to understand that they were tugging her tail. The Land Dragon huffed, “Well, if you don’t want to know–”

“Tell us more,” Aranya pleaded.

“Please,” begged Zip, managing to stifle a treacherous giggle as Leandrial’s naturally overbearing nature won out.

Dogmatically, Leandrial rumbled, “The putative deeps lie between four to five leagues below the clouds, while the impossible deeps dive down to seven leagues. This is the realm of the true deep-dwellers. Most life-forms feed on microscopic plant and animal life present in the air, called phytoplankton in the old Dragonish tongue. A Land Dragon of the Runner Clans would travel no deeper than five leagues, for the pressures are prohibitive. The draconic, insectoid, tershine and maxiocillic classes of animal life, to name but a few, are all adapted for living under such enormous pressures.”

Zip shared a startled glance with Aranya. What?

But the Land Dragoness continued, “Below seven leagues’ depth, even the lowest-dwelling of the Land Dragons seldom venture, and the air is so thick it behaves like liquid. I myself have several times dived to a depth close to six leagues, but that was under the extraordinary duress of crossing the Rift. I almost killed myself in the doing. Your Pygmy friend had an excellent joke–”

Zip put in, “Leandrial, may I point out that you’re the only one among us who has actually met this amazing Pygmy Dragon?”

“She was much like you,” the Land Dragoness conceded.

“Like Aranya?”

“No. She was a few sackweight of mischief.” Zip did not dare look. She could hear her best Dragon-friend fulminating clearly enough. “Aranya is more … stately.”

“Stately?” wheezed Aranya.

“Like a portly Dragonship,” Zip teased. “Flagship of the fleet. I–ouch! You shocked me.”

“Sorry. Lightning-mad,” said Aranya, managing to look regretful.

“Bah, so I’m monkey-mischief and she gets to be stately?” Zip muttered. “Let me guess. If I envision Pip’s personality correctly, the joke goes something like this: ‘By the five moons, why are they called impossible deeps when crossing them is indeed possible, and why is a bottomless rift called bottomless when it clearly has a bottom?’ Right?”

Leandrial’s eye-fires brightened. “Perfect paws, little one! That was exactly her complaint. To which I replied, ‘Why do you high-dwellers have to take everything so literally?’ ”

Ardan laughed, “Us, literal? You’re the ones with names like Shell-Clan and Flayer, Borer and … all that. All literal names, I mean.”

“Huh, so they are,” snorted Leandrial, visibly taken aback.

Aranya advised, “Ignore those two jokers, Leandrial. I would like to get to the bottom of this teaching about bottomless rifts, and the S’gulzzi.”

“Her mental process has clearly bottomed out,” suggested the Shadow Dragon.

“Making Aranya the butt of the joke?” Zip chortled, shielding and dodging at the same time, just in case. The Immadian Princess folded her forelegs with a longsuffering air.

Oh, Aranya. Zip could jerk her hawser all day long and never tire of the sport.

Then, the Amethyst Dragoness revealed one hundred gleaming daggers in her jaw, and declaimed, “Hear my royal judgement, o Zuziana of Remoy. For your deserved punishment I shall repeatedly kick your scaly butt all the way to Fra’anior, by which time, you shall be the one who is bottomless!”

Chapter 4: Up for Breath

ARDAN WISHED HIS lungs could have turned into shadow. By the time the foursome reached Jendor’s roots, two days at Dragon-speed, he was coughing and hacking so violently that flecks of golden blood speckled his shield. Aranya’s touch eased his symptoms, but her healing magic seemed fragile, delivered from a place of great desire but little capacity. Her wordless frustration accompanied by that determined jut of her chin, moved him more than his pugilistic Western Isles heritage would claim was right for a warrior. Had this not been his experience since first he met the incomparable Princess of Immadia?

Grief. Furthermore, Aranya did not know the meaning of ‘give up.’ Nor did the girl appear to possess a shred of phlegmatic Western Isles common sense. She was a burglar, a convicted criminal under Sylakian law and apparently, her tears turned people into Shapeshifter Dragons. Pure Aranya.

She tilted her chin. Down went an empire. What under suns did he think he was doing with this kind of girl?

Endlessly falling.

Ardan gritted his teeth. So they had learned that the bottomless rifts lay between seven and ten leagues’ depth and the fiery realm of the S’gulzzi, beneath that level even, deep inside byzantine cracks that penetrated the very heart-fires of the Island-World. The Theadurial, members of the maxiocillic class of magic-reliant parasites, were apparently able to survive even beneath that awful compression. They had learned that their clever shields were not half as clever as they had assumed. He, Zip and Aranya had travelled a mere two days beneath the Cloudlands and poisoned themselves thoroughly. Success!

Leandrial theorised that the Pygmy Dragoness had possessed natural resistance to poisons. Fine for a jungle girl. Rather less useful for three Lesser Dragons who intended to cross the uncrossable Rift. Zip and Aranya were starting to show signs of bite-and-growl every time Leandrial mentioned Pip, which was often, and always in the most effusive terms.

He was above jealousy, of course. And lies. Aye. Far above any lies, too.

What he was jealous of was their histories, or more accurately, the fact that his companions remembered their pasts. Not all had been good. Ardan remembered fire, fleeing, flying; just recently he had begun to dream that he had once had a smiling wife. Children? He did not know. He did not know what kind of man he had been, only that he had taken some manner of savage revenge upon the Sylakians; his next memory was that of waking beneath a prekki-fruit tree at the westernmost edge of the world.

It was the not knowing that hurt most.

Leandrial led the upward surge, lecturing them about decompression. Dragon bodies handled changes in pressure exceptionally well. Their physiques were built for feats of physical resilience, recovery and self-healing. Still, there were complex techniques involved in removing gas bubbles from the circulatory systems, tissues and organs, before one’s innards exploded. Literally.

The wonder of being a Dragon still left him agog. Flight. Dragon-sharp battle instincts. Nostrils that could sniff out prey from twenty miles, given a favourable breeze. His fantastically pliant, nerve-rich wing membranes captured every nuance of the wind’s buffeting, transferring the sensation to a mind that thrilled at the delicate play of airstreams and sifted the world’s scents with staggering sensitivity. No warrior had ever boasted such an awareness of his surrounds. Not to mention the side-set eyes that afforded him vision around a full three hundred degrees, and other Dragon senses that he was just beginning to grasp. His reaction-speed seemed almost prescient. He found himself magnifying the detail of a butterfly’s wings merely to appreciate their form–the draconic power of Harmony, Aranya teased him, clearly pleased by this admission.

Now, the Amethyst slept inside the pocket of Leandrial’s cheek. He and Zip enjoyed no such luxury. They did not want luxury. What they yearned for was clear, cool air and a chance to detoxify.

Free to go, crowed Leandrial, smashing through the final barrier leading to the upper layer. Shall I clear the path? I am certainly irritable enough.

Zip’s cheerful, irksome laughter tinkled upon Ardan’s ear-canals. He did not mind cheer. Unstoppable, irrepressible cheer? Grr. Unjustified cheer like Sapphire’s carolling at the top of her lungs just before dawn, waking one hundred Shapeshifters with piping descants and chirruping? GRR!

Fire away, thou mighty heart of a star’s truest fires! cried the Azure Dragoness.

On cue, heat bloomed in his fire-stomach and Ardan saw crimson. He wobbled in the swampy, polluted atmosphere, firing his own echo to Leandrial’s massive, judiciously-spaced cannonade. Pleasingly, he neatly fricasseed both ends of an amber-coloured Borer which had been prowling two hundred feet above with the air of a con-man scouting a busy marketplace for potential victims. Then, the song of Aranya’s mind soared unexpectedly and she burst out of Leandrial’s mouth, gaining a dozen wing-lengths’ lead before Ardan and Zip belatedly kicked off in pursuit.

Rascally Amethyst-eyes!

Feed well, Leandrial, called Aranya as she accelerated away.

Leandrial would travel northwest of Jendor to the edge of a current that swept northward into Immadior’s Sea, washing the eastern fringe of the Western Isles all the way North to Yar’ola. She had fed, but there were specific nutrients she required for her own healing, the outcome of spending too much time in the thin, dry air above the Cloudlands.

Ardan stretched his wings as he chased the Amethyst Dragoness upward through decreasing pressures and air densities, maintaining a narrow over Zuziana. His body vibrated unexpectedly as he burst through thermal inversions and twice, through foul, stagnant patches of air that left a greasy aftertaste on his tongue. He could not catch Aranya. Weak as she was, the streamlined shape of the Amethyst Dragoness remained stubbornly ahead of the labouring Shadow Dragon. Her tidy wing-stroke was ideal, slowly broadening as they rose through the opaque auburn clouds into thinner air, taking advantage of the decreasing friction. His eyes narrowed. Surely, a larger Dragon should be the more powerful flier? Unless she was cheating?

There’s a difference between cheating and being smart, Ardan, Aranya broke in waspishly.

Fine, instruct the bumpkin, he growled back. Ugh. First the mind-reading, now an apology that rubbed his scales backward?

Before he could unstick a few more reasonable words from his craw, Aranya shot back, Fine. Keep wallowing back there, you insensitive granite-brained lump of Dragonflesh!

The glint of her scales pulled ahead with infeasible ease. Ardan’s jaw cracked open, dribbling fire. Unholy freaking windrocs! No way a fledgling could out-fly him like this–at least, according to conventional wisdom. His lips curled contemptuously. Aye, because Aranya always heeded the accepted wisdom of Va’assia and her ilk, didn’t she? Accepted wisdom would have led her to grow grey of hair as a political pawn in the Tower of Sylakia–

GNNAAA-OOAARRR! he bayed in shock as Zuziana whipped past!

Slow-slug, she sang out.

Ardan’s eyeballs almost popped with the effort as he launched out of the lapping Cloudlands like a dark, vengeful spear, but no volcano of anger or jealousy could make him fly like those two wretched, tantalising females. Amethyst and Azure rippled up the sheer grey-stone cliffs of one of Jendor’s many Islands. One mile. Two. He ate their dust, falling further back by the second, and … his flanks convulsed with laughter. Oh, they were sneaks and he was so going to wrestle this secret out of their sassy little hides!

Time to hunt.

The Dragon summoned his Shadow power.

* * * *

Aranya and Zuziana dug into the saddlebags which the Azure Dragoness had transported from Yorbik, toting weapons, supplies, spare clothing and basic foodstuffs. Leandrial had instructed them to Shift, surmising by some fantastically convoluted draconic logic that Shapeshifters healed better from poisoning when their second-soul ‘rested’ in whatever mystical plane of existence they disappeared to after transformation.

“Did you see Ardan’s face?” chortled Zip. “Lace up the back for me, would you?”

Aranya whistled at the daringly-cut gown. “Keep this one for Ri’arion, would you? I don’t want Ardan entertaining any Remoyan notions.”

Zuziana swished the skirts about to show the slits cut to mid-thigh. “Causing her man occasional eyeball-strain is a healthy pastime for a girl. It’s necessary and more fun than a warren full of dragonets have in a year. Oof. Not so tight, you beastly northern icicle. Reminds me of the time you kissed Jia-Llonya. Yolathion almost, almost combusted right there on the dance-floor.”

Aranya propped her hands on her hips, hissing, “She kissed me. And, you weren’t there.”

“You made her–your uncontrolled Storm magic did, anyways. Since Nak described the incident well enough–”

“He also wasn’t there!”

“Monogamy is so–” Zip affected a huge yawn. “Where’s your imagination, Immadia?”

To her intense exasperation, Aranya blushed up a storm worthy of the name. Dragon-fire-blast that scamp! Between her and Nak, they seemed bent on opening her eyes to cultural practices that Immadians regarded as licentious and wholly immoral, not to mention embarrassing her within an inch of her life. She yanked the dress-ties crossly, making her fiery Dragoness-friend yelp again. As for showing leg above the ankle … well, maybe she could learn a trick or two from Remoy.

Besides, Ardan was clearly not the sharing sort. Scrummy like sweetbread, if only … was that real thunder or just Fra’anior warming up three or four throats? She stilled her reflexive shiver crossly. Aranya said, “What’s the bet Ardan tries to scare us in his Shadow form?”

“Payback? Aye. Males are so predictable. That shaped aerodynamic shield was cleverer than a certain seven-headed ancient ancestor, Aranya.”

“Not my idea. The all-powerful Pip strikes afresh. Although, Leandrial did concede that the idea originated further back, apparently from Shapeshifter lore penned by my illustrious Aunt.”

“Va’assia? No way.”

“Another Aunt, on my mother’s side. Take a guess, Remoy.”

The Zippy one wrinkled her nose, and rattled, “Help you with your skin creams? Peace? Don’t beat up the diminutive Remoyan troublemaker?” Aranya gave her a huge hug. “Double-oof with Jeradian sweetmeat on top! Can you please try to remember how strong you are?”

“Sorry.”

“Aunty, aunty whatshername …” Her vivid blue eyes, agleam with magic, narrowed as Zip slathered herbal ointment on the open wounds on Aranya’s face, chest and back. Aranya hissed through the stinging. She said, “Izariela and Ja’arrion … now, there would be a third egg in the clutch… unholy smoking volcanoes, Aranya! No. You don’t mean Hualiama, do you? The Hualiama?”

“I believe so.”

“Don’t give me that diffident Princess you dust off on random occasions,” sniffed the Remoyan. “Impressive lineage there, girl! You sure your paws are quite big enough?”

Aranya laughed at Zip’s droll humour, then shuddered. Thunder, again? That old, familiar tightness between her temples? No. Calm down, stormy girl …

Zuziana added, “So, let’s get you decent before Mister Murky-Paws drops by to scare us. And then, shall we indulge in a spot of deadly dressmaking, or how’s about a session of indiscriminately violent hair-brushing?”

“Ah …”

“Now listen here, Amethyst-eyes, or I will–”

“Or what? You’ll endeavour to beat me with a stave?”

She might be a foot shorter than an Immadian tree, but her fellow-Princess gave no quarter whatsoever. “All over again? With pleasure.” The Zippy one laughed uproariously at her own joke, before adding, “You and I once vowed to start a new fashion trend. We said we’d burn all headscarves. What say you, Immadia? It used to be that head coverings were simply decorative, but Oyda holds that they’re a symbol of Sylakian oppression. I’m not overly political, mind–”

“But you are radical.”

“Oh aye, I’m a raving royal rabble-rouser.” Zip shook out her chestnut curls. “Seducing monks, slapping Sylakian Dragonships about with impertinent flicks of my tail–”

LADIES!! Ardan thundered.

He scared away every bird and beast for a mile about, but Zip just smiled at Aranya. “Did you hear a dragonet squeak?”

“Mosquito,” said Aranya, waving in the general direction of the smoking, fuming, muscles-flexing monster blocking out the suns-shine ten feet above her head. Then, she feigned surprise–hand fluttering to the throat, wide eyes, the whole ralti sheep. “Oh, Islands’ greetings, Ardan. Took you long enough to turn up. Did you bring us a snack? Good boy, just pop it over there.”

The girls split their sides laughing as Ardan woke the Island to his thundering rage.

* * * *

“Look at that Dragon, lazing in the heat,” said Aranya, eying Human-Ardan with a playful air. He rested on a patch of grass in the full glare of the suns-shine, his head pillowed on a half-empty leather saddlebag. “Do you think he’s sleeping?”

Ardan cracked open an eye with exaggerated laziness. “I’m contemplating the mysteries of the universe.”

Zuziana waved the hairbrush at him. “Just a hint, Ardan. Those little yellow spots on the backs of your eyelids are not mysteries.”

“I’m … detoxifying,” he drawled.

Aranya ribbed, “Does the snoring help or hinder the process?”

They had moved a couple of hundred paces over to the south-western edge of the Island, where they expected to meet Leandrial in the morning. Here, a narrow dell delved back into a modest hill crowned with hardwood trees, and a petite waterfall burbled cheerfully over five rock steps, marking the dell’s entire extent, a mere two dozen paces for Human-Ardan. Just before the stream tumbled over the cliff edge, a thoughtful person had built a small rock barrier to hinder the flow. The excellent fit of the rocks proclaimed a fine hand at stonewalling, a skill of Jendor and Horness Clusters which was seen all over the Islands, where low stone walls divided fields and homes were built of stone with no use of mortar, just moss for chinking. Beside this small, clear pool, Aranya sat upon a warm boulder also enjoying the suns-shine, while Zuziana toiled over brushing out the wealth of her many-coloured strands–returning the favour Aranya had accorded her earlier.

Suddenly, she realised that Ardan’s black eyes were unshuttered, regarding her openly. He said:

A warrior came strolling by, beside the stream that day,

Full contented should he be, yet restless his heart lay,

And presently a vision most wondrous, did reward his wandering feet,

Quoth he, “Oh arrest my heart, shouldst I behold,

A sight so truly sweet.”

Aranya ducked her head, wishing to hide the ruin of her face.

Zuziana said, “Wondrous and wandering? I would have chosen, ‘a sight most fair’.”

“Is this a game?” asked the Princess of Immadia.

“A Southern game, perhaps,” said Ardan. “Remoy seems to know it.”

“I know it, o poet,” said Zip. With a positively Fra’aniorian twirl of her hand, she declaimed:

A-singing by the rippling brook, the sable warrior did spy …

Ardan put in, “A maiden?”

“Two maidens, most verily,” said Aranya, only to have her friends both laugh and wave her into silence. “A hulking Land Dragon? A snappily dressed monk?”

“Amateur,” Zip disparaged, softening her teasing with a smile. “Listen.”

A maiden fair, of lustrous hair …

Ardan and Zip quickly fell to bickering over the merits of their contributions at this point. Eventually Aranya was forced to rescue her hair from an irked Shapeshifter’s vigorous efforts with the brush. She set about burying the tubers Ardan had thoughtfully dug up for her in the sand beside the pool, before laying a small mound of twigs and dry firewood on top. With a flick of her fingers, she set the twigs alight, and was soon warming her hands beside a crackling blaze.

“Great, can I cook these steaks now?” asked Ardan, holding up the cuts he’d taken before tossing an entire giant banded forest deer down his capacious Dragon-maw.

Aranya pulled a face.

He goaded her, “Perhaps you’d like to go graze upwind meantime?”

She punched him on the shoulder with more force than she had intended, summarily flattening him to the accompaniment of a crack of nearby thunder. Oh, mercy … but Ardan was only pretending upset, pouting like a four year-old boy who had just been deprived of a sweet.

“I think Aranya channels her Dragon power when she’s angry, or upset,” Zip said mildly. “That’s the reason for the storm she carried from the Western Isles to Jeradia and Fra’anior.”

“And for a woman with a punch like a Dragon,” said Ardan, ruefully accepting Aranya’s proffered hand. “That’s the last time I offer you steak, you lunatic vegetarian!”

* * * *

They spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening working through Leandrial’s detoxifying exercises and discussing the failings of their shields, a depressingly lengthy list. To Zuziana’s amusement, Ardan kept rubbing his shoulder and casting Aranya dark glances until the Immadian squirmed like Sapphire chasing her own tail. With the weather closing in, the Western Isles warrior quickly strung up a thin leather sheet for shelter, but the squall that bustled overhead was a meek and unconvincing affair altogether–definitely not an Aranya, Daughter of Storm special.

Two hours after darkness, Aranya curled up on the sand and drifted off. Her breathing rasped heavily. Zip carefully pulled an Immadian cloak over her friend’s shoulders, wrinkling her nose at the musty smell, thinking that if they were going to carry clothing and supplies required by their Human forms beneath the Cloudlands, they should package them in airtight Dragonship cloth.

She sat with Ardan, niggling at the filtering problem.

“You can smell the contaminants,” Zuziana pointed out. “That means there’s particulate matter seeping through, or gases. Aranya thinks some of the poisons may behave in ways that defy ordinary draconic science–she’s calling that vector magical osmosis, even if the idea itched Va’assia like a scale-mite infestation. ‘Stick to proven science,’ indeed!”

“No surprises there,” grunted Ardan. “No surprise, either, that we’ve barely scratched the surface of shield theory, or that the great Blue Dragons of the past preferred to keep their secrets to themselves, rather than scribing them for future generations.”

“Ja’arrion said we should have access to Gi’ishior’s libraries.”

The dark warrior growled, “Aye. Apparently the Blues had their own happy little council of secrets, apart from the other Dragon colours. Dragons just don’t know how to help themselves, do they?”

“I’m not sure they expected to be wiped out in the northern third of the Island-World.”

“Aye. Zip, most Island-nations don’t plan on suffering genocide, either.”

“Sorry, Ardan. I didn’t mean–”

“No mind.” His thick, blunt fingers made a curt gesture. “Curse those Sylakian murderers to a Cloudlands hell!”

They both glanced over their shoulders at Aranya as she groaned in her sleep. She turned over restively. “She’s dreaming,” Zip said unnecessarily. She rose to adjust the cloak. A light shone beneath her friend’s closed eyelids, affirming that her magic was clearly alive even though she slept. When Aranya whimpered something about Garthion, she smoothed her friend’s hair back from her brow. Mercy, her skin was scalding! “It’s alright, Aranya. You’re safe here.”

Aranya mumbled a troubled, unintelligible phrase or two before settling again.

Returning to where Ardan sat on a flat boulder protruding above a mile’s drop, with the carelessness of a man who knew his Dragon form was available on command, she said, “Burning up. Aranya used to do that when we were captives in the Tower. She’d set the hangings or the bedclothes on fire when she was particularly distraught. Or Garthion. She burned him.”

“Good riddance,” Ardan said flatly. “He’s the one–”

“Aye,” said Zip, not wishing to remember.

“And they call Western Islanders barbaric?” He flicked a stone into the darkness.

Zip glanced toward the shelter once more. Sleeping. Good. She hoped Aranya knew the Remoyan would move Islands for her; some gifts were beyond words, and her gratitude daily burdened Zip’s heart. She pressed back against the warm rock, imbibing its warmth into her soul. If only she could have beaten Garthion herself. But she had unable to rise due to a broken wing. And now, in a nightmarish twist of fate, Aranya had been laid low by Garthion’s father, the once-Supreme Commander of Sylakia. In the darkness, she gathered her right hand into a painfully tight fist. She wanted to spit. What had Ri’arion once said?

I say, curse the hand that writ such a tale of woe upon your flesh! I say, spirits of the Ancient Dragons, be roused against this evil and may the hand of the afflicter be forever afflicted!

Her body shook. Her eyes blazed so brightly, smoke curled off the surface of Ardan’s leather jerkin.

A bane upon the hand that scarred thee, Aranya of Immadia!

Her voice was small and private, but no less terrible than Ri’arion’s the day the Nameless Man beheld the mutilation Garthion had wrought upon her torso. The craggy, discoloured wilderness of scar tissue. Never able to nurse a babe again. As the oath-magic jolted Ardan to his feet, crying out, it seemed to Zuziana that for the first time, her oh-so-draconic lust for revenge had transmuted into its nobler brother, justice. Catharsis. Clarity that ran as a clear river through her mind. Oyda’s teachings about justice and honour; about the thorny, sometimes abstruse complications that accompanied the simple desire to do right …

“What did you just do?” Ardan hissed.

Unable to speak, Zuziana pushed the memory at him; the warrior’s breath seized in his throat. Tears welled. Salty wetness ran over the harshly scarified planes of his cheeks, bespeaking his anguish. As he loomed over her, Ardan’s tears dripped upon her chest, her neck, her face. He let them fall. She watched them fly and land, each droplet sizzling upon her skin as fire met inner fire, and Zuziana saw motes swimming dreamily in those drops, like Dragons swirling in battle, sucked away suddenly by a Command into a place of … rest.

Ardan said, I join my fire-life to this oath. For Aranya’s sake, let it be. Let it be! His fist punched the heavens. LET IT BE!

Even Thoralian must hear, and cower in whatever shabby burrow marked his resting-place this night, for such dread words had been spoken as would make the very stars pause in their eternal courses, and weep. Even he must sense the talon of death poised to terminate his contemptible existence.

Rising, Zuziana wound her fingers around Ardan’s strong right arm, and rested her head beside the knot of his bicep as they stood together, facing south. Strange, how Shadow could exhibit such strength, substance and soul.

No more words need be spoken.

* * * *

In the dead of night when spirits roamed abroad, Ardan jerked awake, his ribcage wracked with the pains of raw terror. What had he been dreaming? Such a roaring and belling of monstrous draconic voices, such a crackle of–his eyes shifted beyond their shelter. Fire? Fire in the clouds? But it was not yet dawn, his sleepy mind insisted. Out over the Cloudlands, it was raining fire!

What?

Aranya shot to her feet, bellowing in a voice that froze his marrow. “Fra’anior!”

He chased her. A girl could run off a cliff … shouting incoherently, her voice rousing the storm, her arms conducting those sulphurous fires of destruction raining from the burning clouds … he sprinted up the hill behind their small camp, chasing glints of amethyst magic in the darkness.

“Aranya! Aranya!”

Catching her upon the hill’s barren brow, he grabbed her arm, spinning her about.

“She betrayed me!”

“Uh …” Her wildfires swept over his world, her hair shooting a bonfire’s sparks into the night, golden and red, blue and white, silver and violet and lime-green.

Aranya’s left fist knotted in his clothing. The flexion of her biceps lifted him a foot off the ground; Ardan’s legs dangled as incredulously as his jaw. Her mouth opened in a crashing thunderclap: SHE BETRAYED ME!

“Who?” he blurted out. “Who betrayed–Aranya!”

Her knees crumpled. Too much power. Too much grief. Ardan, twisting to avoid landing atop the toppling girl, crumpled awkwardly upon his already bruised shoulder. He had eyes only for her; but Aranya’s head lolled. She was unconscious.

Rising, Ardan carefully scooped the girl up into his powerful arms. Sometimes she seemed so terribly frail, as though the next breath of wind would sweep her away. Then, she jerked a full-grown warrior off the ground with the strength of her arm, and he was no eight-sackweight stripling.

She was a Shapeshifter Dragoness. Enigma, ablaze. And, if he was not mistaken, the voice of the Great Onyx himself.

Who had betrayed whom?

Chapter 5: Mighty Mites

COME MORNING, THREE Dragons waited. Fretted. Sharpened their talons. Grumbled–well, some males grumbled like a Dragon with the worst infestation of scale-mites in history while Zip idly sharpened her talons on a handy granite boulder. So tough were a Dragon’s talons, she had already worn a substantial groove in the top of the boulder.

Aranya eyed Ardan, amused. “Ho, mighty Dragon of Shadow?”

Arrrrrrggghhh, was his irascible reply.

“Ho, you rock-gargling, throat-mangling excuse for a Brown Dragon–”

“I’m not Brown!”

“Sounded like a Brown playing tunnels and rocky hideouts,” she pointed out. Ardan’s quarter-smile implied he was listening. “Why do I seem to recall wrestling with you last night?”

In a reedy Nak-voice, the Shadow Dragon sneered, “Oh, peerless Immadia, would that I could wrestle at the pillow-rolls with thee!” Zip’s smoky snort only encouraged him; Dragoness-Aranya favoured this with a ferocious scowl. Thanks. And no small truth in that sally, either. He added, “In all seriousness, Aranya …”

Her teasing turned to puzzlement as Ardan described fire and brimstone raining from the heavens, and that strange declaration, ‘She betrayed me.’

Finally, Aranya managed, “Islands’ sakes, Ardan, I … I channelled Fra’anior’s presence? Literally burned the heavens? And then ran up a hill in my sleep, shouting–oh. Mercy!”

Ardan rolled his fire-eyes at the heavens, the Island, the far horizons.

A Dragon’s thoughts could clearly produce smoke, because Zip started ostentatiously clearing the air with sweeps of her wings, muttering, “Faugh! Where do you hail from, o Princess of Reeking Halitosis?”

Friends. Aranya didn’t know whether to wing-slap them or hug them. She settled for neither. “Sorry, but I just remembered something important. I know I clam up like Yorbik shell-snail when my brain’s working–”

“Allegedly.”

This time, Aranya did take a playful snap toward Zuziana’s nose. The Remoyan dodged smartly. “Working more than yours, Miss Purple Forked-Tongue. So, hear this. I was asking about my celebrated aunt–we had a bad connection, I guess you could say. Fra’anior kept fading into and out of existence, and I understood that six heads were fighting a battle while the seventh talked to me. Anyways, amidst his usual storm, lightning and general Lord-of-the-Universe awesomeness, the Great Dragon claimed that my Aunt Hualiama betrayed him. Then he vanished, came back for half a sentence about still loving his dancing hatchling … then I think I grabbed you, Ardan. Do I remember rightly?”

“Bruised my sensitive skin.” He rubbed his chest, pretending to pout.

Given that Ardan’s Dragon form was a hulking Black bruiser topping twenty-four feet at the shoulder, if he did not crouch upon his belly, Zip and Aranya developed instant attacks of the fiery hiccoughs that ended with the Amethyst Dragoness literally falling off the cliff. She drifted around in a lazy half-circle, fighting return attacks of burbling laughter.

Zip, peering a little anxiously over the edge, called, Hualiama betrayed the Onyx? How?

Haven’t a clue.

Don’t sound so ruddy cheerful, sniped Ardan, returned to inability to wait.

Alright, you explain how your ur-makka remains with you between transformations, and I’ll explain the mysteries of my crazy family, Aranya smiled back unconsciously, before remembering her disfigurement and dropping her head. I was hoping he’d be available for a session of question-the-Ancient-Dragon. Failing that …

The Azure groaned, No. Don’t make me, Aranya. You can’t make me!

Aye, Zippety-Zapper. I hereby sentence thee to a lifetime raiding Gi’ishior’s library.

They passed the hours until noon cleansing, working with Aranya’s healing powers to try to identify additional steps or techniques they could use to recover more quickly from the Cloudlands poisons, and indulging in an impromptu competition to hunt rock-hares blind. At noon they perceived Leandrial’s call from afar, and at once, launched themselves into the void.

From Jendor’s wilderness to Horness Cluster was a mere day and a half’s dip beneath the Cloudlands, which took them from overgrown, tumbling cliffs and ravines of foliage crowning cracked, uninhabitable peaks, to the broad pasturelands of a Cluster where, it was said, cattle outnumbered people a thousand to one. Needless to say, Ardan licked his chops and drooled his way across the Islands in search of a quiet place to settle, while more than a few herdsmen looked to the sky and blanched. Alarm gongs rang across the closely spaced Islands.

“Huh, they didn’t do this when my father turned up with his army,” Aranya complained.

“Must be Ardan,” Zip suggested.

Ardan’s grin displayed a great array of polished ivory-whites. “Watch this.”

He swooped!

“Ardan!” Aranya yelled crossly.

He was far too quick. Shadowing completely, he landed just in front of a fine specimen of four-horn suttock, a bovine which supplied the famously soft, tan leather of Horness.

Ardan unshadowed, muzzle low, eyeball to eyeball with the quadruped. “Boo!”

The suttock did not make so much as a low or a cry. It merely fell over sideways, dead before it struck the long, lush blue-green grass.

“Oh,” said the Shadow Dragon.

“Oh, you didn’t mean for this to happen?” Aranya cried, waving a wing toward herder, standing in stupefaction a hundred paces off as his herd stampeded to all points of the compass. “Oh, I’m ravenous and that’s incredibly convenient? Oh, I’m going to pay that poor cattle-herder for his loss?”

“Could you imagine a cleaner kill?” asked Ardan, not even slightly repentant. On the contrary, he preened like the worst of court flunkies. “My majestic Dragon-smile flummoxed that stupid ox–”

Aranya rolled her eyes. “Dragons. Come on, Zip.”

“Uh … maybe in your Human form?”

She was not sure which was more frightening, the Amethyst Dragoness or a tall Shapeshifter, clad in a simple Immadian dress, her unbound hair waving in a brisk breeze as she approached the herder.

He wrung his fur hat in both hands, his uncertain smile exposing far more gum than the few yellowing teeth he had left in his mouth. “Great lady?”

Aranya said, “I apologise for my companion’s actions. Can we offer redress for the animal?”

“Whass redress?” he mumbled.

“Payment.”

“Gold?” his dull eyes brightened slightly.

Catching a potent whiff of alcohol, Aranya coughed politely. Mercy, she was surprised he could stand upright. “Gold. Five Immadian drals,” she said.

Fairly soon, she learned that the beast was a favourite family pet, that the man had eleven children dressed in rags and they never had enough to eat. She learned of generational misfortune which had afflicted his ancestors since the first dawn brightened the Island-World … and as the story stretched even the bounds of the most brazen balladeer’s abilities in storytelling embroidery, she concluded he was as greedy as he was drunk.

Grr!

Ardan, could you be a little more shameless up there? she thought to him.

Shameless? No linguistic nuances were needed to communicate the immediate spike of his ire.

Of course, he read insult into her words. Aranya tried again. Could I request a properly revolting show of draconic gluttony? It would help me negotiate.

Ardan’s answering laughter was an exercise in arrogance. Aye! Aranya’s eyes widened as the Shadow Dragon set about his guzzling with a most amazing range of lip-smacking, gurgling and growling noises, liberally interspersed with exclamations of carnivorous satisfaction. “Oh, the intestines,” he warbled, slurping down a twenty-foot portion with pursed lips. Holding his meal aloft with one paw, he champed down and ripped off an entire haunch with a powerful flexion of his neck. “This meat is so rich–” grunt, slobber, slurp “–so tangy, so delicately set off by the flavour of this firm yet yielding haunch.” And then he produced a belch so prodigious, it knocked him five feet backward. “Oh, yes!” he thundered.

“Dragons don’t like parting with their gold,” Aranya advised, not quite stifling a giggle as Zip peered over her shoulder, purring like an overgrown rajal.

“No gold?” asked the fellow, sweating freely now.

“He might decide to devour your entire herd if you try to cheat him,” she suggested.

“Uh …”

“Dragons are stomachs on legs,” Zuziana said, eyeing the nearest animals while blowing overlapping smoke-rings from her nostrils. “I’m sooooo starved! I could eat–well, anything …”

The herder’s complexion had progressed to the colour of swamp-scum, suggesting that his recent binge disagreed violently with his current situation.

Aranya said, “How’s about two animals, three gold each? I’m sure I could convince these Dragons.”

With the gold having crossed his palm, she decided she had never seen a sot run so fast and so ably. Aranya laughed quietly in chorus with Zip. Right.

Ardan, I bought you two just in case one didn’t fill that Dragonship cargo-hold you call a stomach.

Only two?

Ugh. He had a large flap of hide stuck between his upper fangs. She said, Aye, only two, or I shall have to dub thee Mister Wobbles.

The Shadow Dragon launched skyward, performed an aerial backflip and landed perfectly atop a hapless suttock, crushing it with a devastating blow of his hind foot. Call me Mister Flattens, he said, and bugled until the meadows rang for his triumphant mirth.

Aranya sighed. “I guess I’ll leave money for another. Enjoy scraping up your pancake, Ardan.”

Zuziana fell over, hiccoughing fireballs of helpless merriment.

* * * *

Dragoness-Zuziana led the short flight to meet Leandrial south of Horness Cluster, after the Land Dragon had wasted a further two days searching for the precise blend of phosphates and metal sulphites she required to supplement her diet. She might find something at Fra’anior Cluster, she said, but Zip soon observed Leandrial was behaving in unfamiliar ways, appearing tired and snappish.

Having negotiated the world of upper-layer predators with relative ease, courtesy of improved unidirectional opacity-constructs and magic-dampening shielding, they joined the Land Dragon as she forced her way through a tougher, more substantial layer of decaying olive-green plant matter to arrive once more in the middle layer–the barrens, Leandrial called this area. So scarce was life in these parts, Zuziana imagined they swam through a vast, stagnant aquarium.

Leandrial said, “There’s a minor counter-current that runs from near Horness down between Rolodia and the Spits, almost duplicating the route we’d expect the Dragonships to take. We’ll use its force to help us travel, even if the detritus it carries will be … less than savoury, as you high-dwellers might style it.”

Less than savoury? A lead-coloured, sluggish flow greeted them, cutting a shallow channel along the base of a featureless, unvarying plain of greyish fungal matter. The footing was grey and sludgy. The air was greyish and only marginally less sludgy. Visibility was a mere thousand feet. And the air current was a morass of fungal and plant matter, with a few mouldering carcasses thrown in to enhance the general savour. Zip and Aranya chuckled over allusions to flying through pots of rancid Jeradian meat soup, and spent the days labouring on the mental and magical exercises Leandrial set them in order to improve their shielding and healing stamina. She, Ardan and Aranya tinkered constantly with the shields, making incremental but not Island-shattering improvements. None of them were natural scientists, but Aranya had her creative flair, Ardan the brutal practicality to test and discard or approve their experiments, and Zip, a double-dose of renowned Remoyan stubbornness. The Immadian suggested this was overcompensation for diminutive stature. The Remoyan countered that height was no guarantor of lofty thoughts.

Their bickering exasperated Leandrial, who was set upon beating the Dragonships to Fra’anior Cluster. She declared it a matter of draconic pride.

Four days later, it was abundantly clear to the Lesser Dragons that Leandrial was tiring badly. This was rather less clear to the Land Dragoness. Aranya pressed her on the matter until she and the Land Dragoness had their first flaming row. The Amethyst Dragoness stitched Leandrial’s flank with an injudicious fireball. Leandrial’s flame-wreathed right forepaw paw swatted Aranya like a fly, sending her tumbling–her shield-protection rang like a gong, but saved her from worse injury than a very sore head. Aranya roared back in, blasting away, only for Ardan to leap between the two.

Enough! he bellowed. He blinked in shock as an Aranya-special signature blue fireball engulfed his muzzle. Shadow! He slipped away from the conflagration, reappearing with a head-shaking snort of discontent. Right. We’re friends, remember?

Uh … serves you right for getting in my way, Aranya said stiffly.

Zip began, Aranya, honestly–

No, growled Leandrial. She’s right. I lack strength. I–I … curse this fate! I need rest. Between old age and mouldering away here in the North, a hundred and fifty years apart from my kindred …

To Zip’s astonishment, Aranya alighted on the flat bridge of Leandrial’s muzzle, directly in the firing-line of her eye-cannon. Eyeballing the Land Dragon with fierce and uncompromising mien, the Amethyst nevertheless said gently, Leandrial, you remind me of a particularly independent-minded Immadian Princess I happen to know. I had not pegged you for the type of crusty old bottom-dweller who would refuse help. You yourself related how the Pygmy Dragoness aided you, how you merged shields and drew upon her strength. I know we three are a poor substitute for the wondrous, all-capable Pip, but we are willing to try. I have healing power. Ardan has strength and Zuziana has experience with the mind-meld, besides being party to the Nameless Man’s teachings. Are we too small and incompetent to pass your muster, Leandrial?

The huge orb blinked once, very slowly. She said, I’ve wronged thee–

Not wronged so much as ignored, Zip corrected, then bit her lip. Oh …

Leandrial’s monstrous guffaws tossed Aranya right off her nose. You little ones! Oh, how you fill even the deathliest realm with life and chatter and energy. I wish I could show you my thought-memories of the Pygmy Dragon, but my mental wards have grown crusty and recalcitrant with age. Come. Aranya has the rights of it. We must join our strength, for thereby, even an old Dragoness might learn a trick or three.

Aranya swam gamely back to her flank. Since my magic seems useless to heal my own ailments, I’d rather chew upon a bigger morsel.

This time, Leandrial was wise to the Amethyst Dragoness’ goading. She said, Oh? Are you suggesting you’d like to meet a few of my scale-mites, Aranya? They’re about your size.

* * * *

Swimming down an opaque current while traversing an under-Cloudlands desert made Aranya feel less at a loss regarding her vision. No Dragon could see even halfway down Leandrial’s body in this murk. Even predators avoided the gloopy flow, which skirted Rolodia’s base, south of Noxia, and squeezed through the relatively narrow straits between Rolodia and the Spits in an ever-rumbling stream, before eventually swinging away a few points south of east toward Sylakia, where it petered out.

Ha. Did that make Sylakia the garbage-trap of the Island-World?

She should not be so mean as to feel vindicated.

Aranya worked for hour upon hour with Leandrial as they approached Rolodia. Although the Land Dragon was no healer, she had a keen sense of the inner workings of her body and a host of unfamiliar skills to teach. Aranya learned to trace the magical pathways of the Dragoness’ being at both the macroscopic and microscopic levels. Although she developed a pounding headache, she found the microscopic examination easier than understanding the myriad factors and organ functions that comprised a Dragon’s overall health. She could spend a lifetime on such study! To her delight, Zip and Ardan worked with her, discussing the calcification of arteries, the ossification of bone joints and the magical equivalent, simply called ‘encrustation’. Leandrial was not in good shape. Years of poor nutrition, ageing and isolation had contributed to a poor outlook, overall. She was even mentally fragile, she said, due to her solitary confinement.

“I don’t understand the metaphysical issues you were trying to explain, Leandrial,” Ardan said at one point, half a day short of Rolodia. They were looking forward to a break from swimming the low-dwelling equivalent of a sewage channel. “What’s the point of communal singing?”

“To share histories, lore and teachings,” said Leandrial.

Aranya glared at the Shadow Dragon as he scratched his scaly behind vigorously. Males.

Flying along fifty feet forward and starboard of the Dragoness’ eye, Ardan waved a talon in negation. “No, no. That’s the practical bit you and I love. What was the other part–balancing out imbalances? Shifting burdens?”

From the port flank, the Azure Dragoness said, “The Dragonish term was, ‘community-constructive-consecration’,” before she laughed, “I’m sure Leandrial was speaking a language I’m supposed to understand. But I don’t. The nuances–way, way beyond this little brain.”

Ardan said, “I understand building up a community. Many cultures do the same–sharing stories, moral tales and lore … but she’s saying it’s a spiritual exercise.”

Together, even the mightiest Dragons become more, Leandrial quoted.

“I wish our high-dwelling Dragonkind would take a leaf out of that scroll,” Zuziana groaned. “They’re so individualistic and grasping.”

“Ardan has a point,” said Aranya. “Leandrial, what if we became your community? Stop scratching your–Ardan! Sordid beast!”

“Scale-mites,” said Ardan, taking a parting dig beneath the base of his tail.

“Ugh. Go find a volcano and chargrill your rump,” she shot back. “Right. Indulge my fancies a moment. Leandrial, what might we do for you that would achieve the constructive-consideration?”

Community-constructive-consecration, Leandrial corrected. We’d sing the sagas together, little one. We’d join our magic and life–is this not community? The state of being-together?

“We sing?” Ardan said doubtfully. “I’m tone-deaf.”

“Your Dragon isn’t,” Zip pointed out.

One hundred feet of Shadow Dragon opened his mouth, fished for delicacies in the filthy airstream, and clicked his jaw shut again.

So Leandrial taught them the first hatchling-songs she remembered, and they sang their way to Rolodia Island in Land Dragon dialect–one of the more surreal experiences of Aranya’s life. Yet in the haunting harmonies and thrilling descants of Dragonsong, was there not something … more, which her avowedly non-mystical Shadow had touched upon?

If he scratched those mites again, she was so going to belt him. Ugh!

* * * *

Rolodia’s famously beautiful terrace lakes had once gleamed like great brass mirrors in the glorious light of a partially eclipsed suns-set. No longer. Only a partial half-moon of one lake had survived Sylakia’s depredations. Nevertheless, Zuziana’s hearts fluttered as if filled with swarms of butterflies. Dragonships. She saw Immadian and Jeradian Dragonships, captured Sylakian vessels flying the flags of Fra’anior and Immadia, and a tall, bearded monk standing on the gantry of King Beran’s flagship, dancing a very excitable, un-monk-like dance. Ri’arion!

She roared up beneath the Dragonship, crying, To me, my beloved!

Casting his not inconsiderable dignity to the winds, the monk hurled himself overboard. The beauty of his trust fired her hearts. Twenty Shapeshifter Dragons shepherding the Dragonship fleet immediately sprang toward him, but azure seared the early evening skies like a flash of lightning. Zuziana would not be beaten. She swooped for her man as he plunged toward the lake. His gaze locked with hers. Their minds touched and embraced. Furling her left wing, the Azure spiralled into a sublime catch that whipped him away a mere half-foot above the surface.

Lovely man. She dropped a Dragoness-kiss lightly on his lips.

He laughed, Serendipitous timing, o Zuziana. However, I must inform you that while I am over the five moons to see you safe and hale, you stink to the very heavens.

Then we shall bathe.

Whaaa–suns-warmed water crashed over them as the Azure Dragoness, shielding the monk from the impact with her cupped paws, slammed into the lake and disappeared beneath the surface. A school of lake trout shot away as they came to a sudden rest within a cosy bubble of air. He laughed, Crazy woman. Those eyes, as deep a blue as the bottom of the lake, made her belly-fires dance madly. I love thee so very dearly. Can we not fly to Remoy, beloved, and do business with thy father?

It’s my mothers you need to convince, she returned pertly.

You’ll have to teach me how to charm your … uh, mothers. I’ll have you know, waiting stinks worse than your under-Cloudlands reek.

Zip whirled her eye-fires in an expression she hoped communicated coquettish desire. Is waiting for permission so very hard, Ri’arion?

I thought I was the hidebound one, he admitted, colouring to the very top of his shaven head. I’m afraid for you, precious girl. Impatient, aye, and I fear that distance shall grow between our hearts even as the far horizons separate our beings. I’ve changed my mind. Upon pain of unspecified but undeniably terrible punishments, I hereby, summarily and forthwith, do forbid you from travelling to Herimor without me.

With a sad laugh, she touched his cheek with her knuckle, and lied, I shall obey your every command, Ri’arion, all the days we share beneath the suns.

* * * *

Ardan and Aranya walked arm-in-arm along a soft, white-sand beach by the effulgent glow of waxing Iridith and a full Blue Moon. Her father had flown Dragonback to Rolodia’s main town to negotiate with the leaders there. Ardan gazed at the woman who linked her elbow through his. Not so standoffish, was she, this complex woman? Not when pushed and shamed … he knew his blunt Western Isles ways hurt her. But how else could he express that he wished to be with her for the long haul, over all the Islands of the world?

So desperately hard for a woman to feel degraded and unlovely.

As a warrior, he had never contemplated the night’s splendour, as she did. What might an artist see? Perhaps she listened to the near-inaudible susurrus of waters rippling upon the beach, or did she consider how, just a stone’s throw to their left hand, the second layer of terrace-lake wall overshadowed the lake, squeezing this strip of beach and its fringing foliage into a narrow gap? His warrior-mind relentlessly catalogued the deployment of Dragonships half a mile away, some moored over the water for safety. He checked for the Dragon patrols above, all but invisible to the Human eye. He scanned their surrounds for–what? Rolodia had no snakes, no rajals, no marauding feral windrocs. Nothing nasty whatsoever. Just … the illusion of beauty, here in this miraculously untouched corner of the Isle. Aranya must drink in the beauty of moonlight upon–

“About your scale-mite infestation, Ardan,” she said.

He doubled up with laughter.

Those amethyst eyes flashed with anger as she pulled apart from him. “What? What did I say?”

“Nay, my backside does not itch in my Human form.”

“I’ll have a truthful answer, Ardan!”

“It was truthful,” he protested. “Mostly, my laughter stemmed from the minor discrepancy between me wondering how your creative soul sees the night, and you thinking about my … itches.”

He was quite certain she was smiling under that mouth-veil as she took his arm again with more than a hint of draconic possessiveness. “Are you quite certain you’re a tough, commanding Western Isles warrior, Sha’aldior? Tonight’s romantic walk is taken in the company of a dark, shadowy mystic, the mighty Shapeshifter Ardan?”

He pointed down the beach with his chin. “Chaperoned by your smoking-at-the-jowls Aunt and Uncle, in Human form?”

“Great. I didn’t spot them in this light.”

“Ardan, can I ask you a question?” Suddenly, she was turning over his right wrist, her slim fingers touching the ur-makka strapped there beneath a worn leather thong. The pox had even touched her knuckles, he observed, making them as gnarled as an arthritic old woman’s hands. “Remember how we talked about the ur-makka, how it survives your transformations? Kylara said that the ur-makka was an extension of the spirit-world, and that name-runes like these are given by the Ancient Dragons. Tell me, did all of your people wear the ur-makka?”

He said, “All, aye. But few would have a Dragonish rune in place of their name.”

“And how would that have come to be?”

“Usually, secret or spirit-names are given by the tribal shaman. The shaman in our culture is like a bard, a magician and a prophet rolled into one.”

“Good?”

He shook his head. “Not necessarily. The naming is a secret process. I could not tell you exactly, but the spirits are consulted, auguries spoken and the parents petition the gods for favourable attributes–strength, spirit, power and so on. The shaman creates the name-chip and secretes it inside the ur-makka, which is given to the child one lunar cycle after birth in a naming ceremony.”

She pondered this, her head bowed to show Ardan how she used a slim circlet of metal atop her head, almost a crown, to secure her face-veil, leaving her marvellous hair free to tumble down her back, covering her shoulders and back as she bent. He raised his left hand, playing with the still-magical link between them. No sparks erupted this time, but from a distance of twelve inches, her hair clearly yearned toward his hand, reflecting their oath-connection.

“Don’t,” she said, gathering her hair self-consciously to her side. The strands immediately swept toward him once more, making Ardan laugh softly.

He said, “Command the winds of fate, Immadia. I dare you.”

“Don’t tempt me. Ardan, do you think the archives of Gi’shior would tell us if there has ever been another Dragon like you?”

What connection could she possibly be contemplating between scale-mites and an ur-makka? Testily, he said, “Your relatives approach. Well is it said, we can choose our enemies but not our family.”

“Ardan!”

Now she admonished him? He did not understand this woman in the slightest.

“Islands’ greetings,” Va’assia and Ja’arrion chorused.

Aranya bowed formally, apparently a Fra’aniorian performance her etiquette classes had covered. Ardan bowed much more simply, just a nod of the head. He liked Ja’arrion, but Va’assia’s attitude … he could not respect her.

Straightaway, Aranya said, “Aunt, Uncle, do we have Dragon scientists among the Dragonwing capable of identifying the possible sources of a precise blend of phosphates and metal sulphites? I’m trying to heal Leandrial. Or would you know if this information is readily available at Gi’ishior?”

Ja’arrion shared a startled glance with his wife. “Beran did warn us you never stopped, niece.”

Aranya’s hand quivered in his, but she said evenly, “Surprised I’m looking to others’ needs rather than my own, Uncle?”

“You misjudge us, Aranya,” he replied, his gaze unwavering.

“I’m not sure I do,” she replied bitterly. “What have I done that you mistreat me so? Thoralian did not pause to ask the polite form of address before putting entire Islands to the sword! Nor did he care for hatchlings or Dragon Elders. Or is this some ill-concealed draconic jealousy? The mighty mite has too much power, therefore she must be suppressed?”

“Aranya,” Ja’arrion placated. Va’assia’s expression was a study in indignation.

Ardan’s ears registered nearby thunder once more. There. The unmistakable voice of Aranya’s turbulent emotions–but he focussed on the altercation.

She stormed, “You can barely wait for me to leave so that you can start building your precious new empire! If I have to return to take care of matters here, Uncle–if I have to return, know I will fight injustice, avarice and evil, no matter what form it takes!”

Va’assia exploded, “Are you threatening us? You dare–”

SILENCE!

Ja’arrion’s battle-roar washed over them, silencing even Ardan’s equally explosive rejoinder.

“I am sorry, but I must speak,” said her Uncle. “Aranya, there’s something you do not know. Something which you will find incredibly painful to hear. I hesitate …”

Her fingers tightened so forcefully on his hand that Ardan felt his bones grind together. But her grip suddenly eased, and Aranya’s poise shocked him as she replied, “I am overly forthright. Understand that I am distraught by this poison between us. I apologise. Whatever you have to say, Uncle, let the truth not remain hidden. I am ready.”

The Red Shapeshifter tried one more time. “Ja’arrion, we agreed …”

Her voice trailed off beneath the force of his gaze. For the first time, Ardan saw Va’assia yield the floor to another. Her quickening heartbeat carried easily to ears sharpened by Dragon insight. The older Shapeshifter was afraid!

Tightly, mind to mind, the Immadian said, Help me, Ardan …

I shall. His fingers tensed, as if by that tiny action he could suffuse her frame with strength.

Ja’arrion said, “Over these last days we have been approached by many of the Shapeshifters you rescued from the chambers beneath Yorbik, Aranya. With minor variations, they tell the same tale. One and all, they tell us they were betrayed by Izariela–as were we.”

The Amethyst Shapeshifter tore away.

Chapter 6: Volcanic Colours

ARANYA’S DESOLATE CRY rolled across the waters like thunder. Her uncontrolled Storm-eruption whipped tonnes of water hundreds of feet into the sky, where titanic bolts of amethyst forked lightning blasted the spray into steam. Momentarily, rainbows wreathed the play of lights over the lake.

When she turned, Ardan perceived how the dark-fires of grief ravaged her gaze.

He started toward her.

Addressing the air, Aranya whispered, “I will not stand idly by while these accusations are levelled against my mother.”

Her countenance was so terrible, Ardan’s legs decided, against the urging of his brain, to halt him in his tracks. Thunder voiced its ire nearby; her hair whipped violently about her slender frame.

Va’assia hissed aside to her husband, “This is why, Ja’arrion. Her power is raw and untutored–”

“So much the better!” he rapped.

“Better?” Aranya’s control took Ardan’s breath away. All that was Dragon within him screamed to transform, to shield, to fly into battle, but she mastered the inner storms with an evident, physical wrenching. “You mean, Uncle, that this truth is better?”

He bowed curtly. “I mean, trust is better than subterfuge. If I am any judge, then you are a woman rare enough to hear–”

“–wisdom that flies against the united decision of all the other Dragons,” Va’assia blurted out, suddenly fierce and proud. “Oh Ja’arrion, I have never loved you more!”

They kissed passionately.

Ardan heard Aranya’s teeth grinding; in four huge strides, he reached her side. What the volcanic hells, Aranya?

I believe my Aunt’s had an epiphany, she murmured.

How?

She shook her head, the tides of magic receding. Sullen drumrolls of thunder faded into the distance. To their further amazement, Va’assia broke away from her husband and tottered toward Aranya, arms outstretched, murmuring, “Petal, will you ever forgive me?”

With that, she forced the taller girl into what had to be the stiffest, most uncomfortable embrace in history.

* * * *

Lyriela, Aranya and Zuziana lay abed that evening in a warm, sandy hollow by the lakeside. Dragoness advantages, Aranya decided with a thin smile–no need to be cold when a curl of magic could heat the air around them. And no better place to sleep than between her cousin and her best friend, while the men disappeared to have a manly ‘conference’ with Beran, Ignathion, Ta’armion and Commander Darron. It seemed probable that a certain amount of Rolodian wine or ale, which had survived the destruction in underground vats and cellars, might lubricate their deep, philosophical discussions.

Lyriela said, I can’t believe my mother, Aranyi. To try to haze a hatchling into some kind of confession–it’s beyond stupidity. Did they imagine you’d betray your mother? Would you belie the battles and sacrifices you and Zuziana fought to win our freedom, and transform thereafter into some world-dominating evil genius with a mad plan to enslave all Shapeshifters and Lesser Dragons? It’s … I can’t grasp such foolishness. I can’t! My mother, lacking the courage of her own convictions–an apology, aye, that was more than owed you. But where was her integrity in all this? Her backbone?

Aranya sighed. I think she feels sorry for me.

It’s a perfect crockpot of draconic illogic, snorted Zip. Talk about misreading a situation!

Potential explanations abound, Lyriela growled, her telepathic communication seething and sparking like a bonfire.

Aranya reached out to touch her cousin’s arm. Peace. Don’t fret so. I don’t hate your mother, but I’m also not so blockheaded as to deny I’m not hurt.

Lyriela said, Chameleon Shapeshifters being the obvious candidate–only, they don’t believe those creatures ever existed! Not that they’d say so to your face, of course. Wouldn’t lie to a Star Dragoness, oh no. Poor Lyriela. She was more than steamed; she was humiliated. Or, they claim it was some Herimor glamour-trickery, which was a new idea at least. What more do you have to do to win their regard, Aranyi?

Do less, I suspect. Be less powerful. Less … starry.

The words you’re looking for are ‘less irritatingly unconventional,’ Zip interjected, which happens to be exactly why we love you so much. Burgled any impregnable towers lately? Assaulted any random Princes and forced them to go kidnap and marry their beloved in the middle of a war, dear Dragon-petal?

Lyriela blushed as she ventured, My kidnapping apparently satisfied the most rabid Fra’aniorian traditionalists.

An accolade that a certain headscarf-burning, tyrant-trashing Immadian reprobate is unlikely ever to earn, Zip teased. Buck up, Lyri. How is Ta’armion coping without you this evening?

The nuances of her Dragonish made the Fra’aniorian gasp. Zuziana!

I blame that wasp’s tongue on having seventeen siblings, Aranya said. Oh, is that a bat?

Sapphire, said Zip.

In a moment, the dragonet curled up against Aranya’s ribs. Ari sweetness, purred Sapphire, earning herself a scratch behind the spine-spikes. She burped a decidedly fishy gust of air. Yum. Trout tasty.

Images of a wild chase, of flying swiftly underwater in pursuit of the perfect dinner, cascaded through Aranya’s mind. Roaring rajals, the dragonet’s projection of her thoughts was crystal-clear. If only they could borrow Leandrial’s memories in that way, maybe they’d be able to trace what had happened to Pip and an entire Academy of Dragon Riders. Yet every Dragon appeared to possess at least some level of innate magical protection, which Leandrial referred to as ‘wards’, that safeguarded the mind from casual inspection or control. Still, a beast of Thoralian’s power could override or circumvent the mental strength of an adult Blue Dragon.

Interesting. Might this magical warding explain why she and Ardan struggled to duplicate the mind-meld which Zip and Ri’arion entered so readily?

The following morning at dawn, the Dragonship fleet upped anchor and beat southward toward Fra’anior. Obeying Leandrial’s call, Zip, Aranya and Ardan followed her down into the current once more, and with languid wingbeats, caught up with the undulating Land Dragon.

By way of greeting, Leandrial inquired, So, Aranya, what did you blow up this time?

* * * *

The current, reinvigorated and forceful, swept them from Rolodia past the dark legs of the Spits, a veritable forest of rock columns planted by the Ancient Dragons for purposes unknown. The terrain changed rapidly, growing craggier as the viscous winds dipped and swirled, knocking the Lesser Dragons about with increasing ebullience. Its song was a roar that varied with the terrain, like a boulder-tossed river, and a low whistling and hissing that grated on the ear. The foursome took to drowning out this noise with a commotion of their own, as they belted out Leandrial’s songs and learned new lore-sagas and historical ballads. The Dragoness always declared she felt better after a sing-song–drawing a predictable snigger from Zip–but Aranya’s internal, magic-enhanced examination soon convinced her of measurable improvements in Leandrial’s general functioning.

Zuziana blessed this prognosis by bellowing ‘funky monkey’ right in Aranya’s ear, following which they had to endure an hour-long digression on the peculiarities of Southern culture in order to satisfy their huge companion’s curiosity.

Soon, cracks began to appear in the black, igneous rock formations, but they were only a precursor to the majestic volcanic presence of Fra’anior Cluster, Leandrial told them. She pushed the quartet of Dragons hard. Training. Always training. She spoke little of what they might expect in the Rift, perhaps out of fear, the three Lesser Dragons speculated privately, but she waxed wistful regarding the nature of Herimor, with its peculiar migratory Island-Clusters, airborne Islands and many Clans of roving Land Dragons. If they imagined the Island-World as a great circle, she taught them, the Rift was a band which divided the northern third from a greater demesne to the South, a vast, ever-shifting wilderness of Islands. The Rift bowed southward and thinned slightly in the East, according to Land Dragon lore, which was where Aranya assumed Thoralian planned to make his crossing–although exactly how the Yellow-White Dragon planned to achieve the theoretically impossible was matter of debate. Logically, they concluded that there must be limited commerce with Herimor, for how else had Chameleon Shapeshifters come to cross the Rift?

Ardan and Zip bickered cheerfully over the wisdom of his destroying the Chameleons before they could be interrogated.

Aranya, thinking upon how upset Sapphire had been at her departure that morning, caught the Shadow Dragon scratching near his tail once more. Right. That was quite enough.

Islands’ sakes, Dragon! Can we stop with the mites? Scratching only makes it worse.

He made a face. I can’t tell you how bad this is.

Let me take a look.

There? Big as he was, the Shadow Dragon tucked in his tail with a woebegone look. It’s … not in the nicest place. I think I’m allergic–

Shy, Ardan?

He veered away skittishly, dodging a shred of floating emerald-coloured leaf that was longer than ten of him laid end to end. Stop. Paws off.

Paws off his backside? tittered Zip.

Aranya smiled, allowing fire to curl between her fangs. Shall I just burn them off for you, Ardan? Be a good boy and lift your tail.

Yiee! Ardan Shadowed, flickering away from the visible spectrum, before reappearing two hundred feet away with a distinctly sheepish air. Aranya, stop! Go away, you bad, bad Dragoness!

What fun! Aranya had never known Ardan to be panicky about anything. She chased him playfully this way and that before they came to a standoff over Leandrial’s back. She feinted. Ardan twitched violently. Fighting was a strange dance at this high pressure, each movement slower and dreamier than expected. Was there a pressure at which fireballs were no longer viable? Was that why Land Dragons fought with flaming talons? Aranya made another feint, watching the Shadow Dragon as narrowly as he watched her. She could catch him, being smaller and nimbler, but he would likely just Shadow his way out of trouble. Cheat!

Coyly, Aranya said, Perhaps I should examine you, Ardan–she unsheathed the three forward-pointing talons of her right forepaw with a purposeful air–with these!

Flexing her wings, she pursued the mightily muzzle-out-of-joint Dragon, aware of Zuziana almost folding herself in half, she was laughing so hard. The Amethyst was on the verge of firing a mischievous fireball with the intent of warming those unsavoury scale-mites, when an out-of-the-Cloudlands idea struck her with the force of one of Thoralian’s psychic blasts.

Mites Shifted! They travelled with a Shapeshifter.

Aranya stopped so sharply, she tangled up her wings and had to extricate herself, by which time Ardan was a quarter-mile downstream, just a dark blob at the extreme edge of her limited vision. Gathering her wits about her, Aranya hitched a ride in Leandrial’s slipstream. On second thoughts …

Leandrial, where can I find one of your scale-mites?

Finished playing, little one? the Land Dragoness said, sounding weary. What brain-knotting idea did you have now?

Would you call Zip and Ardan–oh, here they come.

Zuziana was clearly giving Ardan the sharp end of her tongue as her friends hovered against the current, waiting for Aranya to catch up.

Quickly, she rallied her troops. Refusing to explain, she bade them hunt. Leandrial’s scales were roughly triangular in shape, being smaller at the anchoring end, while overlapping longitudinally to provide optimal streamlining. The scales varied in size toward her eyes or armpits, but those on her back were up to thirty feet wide and three times that length. The armour was smooth and dense, yet lighter and more flexible than any of the Lesser Dragons had expected, while the overlap and fit was so perfect, Aranya could not insert so much as a talon-tip into the cracks between them. They had to rely on wedging open the end closest to Leandrial’s tail. Despite all the close fitting, when they found a mite, Zuziana recoiled.

Ardan, probably wishing to re-establish his maligned masculinity, reached in and snaffled the eight-foot monstrosity into his paw. It was flat and whitish all over, the same colour and consistency as a maggot, but furnished with the fat, stubby legs of a tick and a flat, disagreeable bulb for a head. Apparently, it did not much fancy being rousted from its warm, comfortable abode. It squealed and waved its legs ineffectually.

Charming critter, said Zip. Toss it, Ardan.

No, bring it up to the business end of this magnificent Land Dragon, Aranya ordered. Her friends’ expressions told her they were indulging another mad whim; playing along to see what breath of Island-World pollen moved her now.

“Right. Ardan, present mite.”

Leandrial found herself gazing at the scale-mite from a distance of a hundred feet, give or take. The Amethyst Dragoness drew herself up with a pompous air. “Behold, students, the common draconic scale-mite.”

“Glad that isn’t one of mine,” Ardan put in.

“Aye, imagine that monster crawling up your–”

“Zip, you vile guttersnipe,” Aranya snapped. “Concentrate, will you? Right. Scale-mites are a common parasite, afflicting all types of Dragons. Many scale-mites specialise in particular types of Dragons, or in particular regions of a Dragon’s body.” She leered at Ardan. “Don’t they?”

He squirmed.

“So, class. Who can explain to me why scale-mites are not cast off during a Shapeshifter’s transformation? This fine specimen of a darkly handsome Dragon being a case in point. Why, after Shifting, bathing and living in Human form, does he still display every evidence of a nasty infestation of the nether regions?”

Zip said, “Because he has the same problem in Human form? Just … smaller?”

Poor Ardan. His belly-fires howled the exact note of his mortification as he thundered, ZUZIANA OF REMOY!

Leandrial said, “Ah. How cunning you are, Aranya. The mites shift with the Shifter. Therefore, there is a link, either physical or magical. No, you argue that the link is magical. A mite is a parasite of Dragon magic. Correct so far?”

Aranya bowed. “Carry on, student.” To Zuziana, she added aside, “I’ve waited so long to say that to Leandrial.”

The Azure Dragoness clearly decided that laughing directly at an eye-cannon was ill-advised.

“Now, we ask ourselves, what does this have to do with Land Dragons?” The mighty Dragoness warmed to her task. “Aranya theorises that scale-mites parasitize the innate magic of Dragons. She says, ‘what is their diet?’ It was always assumed that mites lived on ambient nutrients or those lubricants secreted by a Dragon’s living hide for protection, repair and nutrition. However, by this we conclude only environment-related symbiosis.”

The Amethyst shook her head. “I think the relationship is parasitic, not symbiotic. Could you, without destroying Ardan’s paw, examine this mite’s physical makeup and tell me what you find?”

With a hum that indicated lively inquisitiveness, Leandrial bent to her analysis. Her eye brightened, beaming out so powerfully that Aranya began to see the outlines of Ardan’s bones within the talons clasping the wriggling scale-mite. For several long minutes, the Land Dragon cogitated away, muttering, Hmm, interesting. No. Trace metals, aye. What does the little one seek? AHA!

Her bellow shook them all.

Zip complained, “Alright, I’m deaf. Any Dragon who feels like enlightening us …”

Leandrial’s mouth curled in a massive Dragon-smile, showing her sharp triple row of incisors, and even a few premolars, which were great blocks of draconic tooth-matter ninety feet long and fifty wide. They grew constantly throughout a Land Dragon’s lifetime, for to lose the teeth would be to starve.

The behemoth said, “I find many trace metals and elements essential to good draconic health–antimony, magnesium, vanadium, thallium and silicon, to name but a few. Most importantly, I find my missing and very rare metal sulphites and phosphates in the very forms essential to my wellbeing. Aranya, this is an incredible discovery. A paw-stroke of genius.”

“A lucky guess, triggered by sniffing around her boyfriend’s backside,” Zip tittered.

“I’m sure Dragon scientists worked out this relationship aeons ago,” Aranya demurred, thumping Zip with a kick that would have flattened her friend’s Human form, but only made an Azure Dragoness giggle. “You do know what I’m going to suggest next, don’t you?”

Leandrial’s entire body stiffened. “I am exclusively vegetarian!”

“I know. But better a healthy, occasional meat-eater than a dead vegetarian, right?”

* * * *

From the south-westernmost corner of the Spits, the four Dragons cut across a deeply riven, rocky landscape, habitat for whole new classes of crawling and flying organisms, drawn to the warm vents of the plenteous underground volcanic activity. Yellowish smoke and poisonous gases drifted languidly around grey basaltic columns and across fractured, sooty black lava flats traversed by multi-jointed crustaceans, similar in body form to the freshwater crabs they had enjoyed at Yorbik, only, these creatures had pincers and mandibles fit to make a meal of a Dragon rather than the reverse. Even the Shadow Dragon flew respectfully around the larger denizens of this realm. Leandrial enjoyed a brief scrap with an aggressive giant lobster large enough–and foolish enough–to grasp her body in its pincers. The Dragoness flexed her neck and blasted away with her eye-cannon before indulging in a disrespectful dance on the twitching fragments of orange carapace that remained. Immediately, the under-Cloudlands equivalent of windrocs gathered; the long-legged spider-like scavengers and aggressive carnivores skittering and hopping across the rocks, leaping in vast, fixed-wing-assisted bounds, or flying with a rapid click-clicking of their bony wing appendages.

Leandrial showed them how life thrived around the smoking fumaroles, from the smallest bacteria to the myriad chains of creatures that depended or even thrived on the aerobic and anaerobic forms of life drifting up from the hellish volcanic activity below ground. She did not grumble at the diet the Lesser Dragons regularly foraged for from beneath her scales, but laughed uproariously when Zuziana and Aranya engaged in a full-blown battle with a scale-mite larger than either of them, extracted from the region of her right armpit. Tonnes of scale-mites disappeared down that cavernous maw. The Land Dragoness’ magic swelled enormously.

So did her lectures. A four-hour lecture on magical osmosis, the process by which she deduced scale-mites extracted essential nutrients from their hosts, brought the Dragons to the foot of Fra’anior’s mighty rampart, the greatest active volcano North of the Rift.

Here, the atmosphere was so dark as to be almost impenetrable. Leandrial’s eye-beam regularly speared through the particle-laden gloom to show the way; dank smears of soot ran down their pressure-shields, forcing the Lesser Dragons to learn to cycle their shaped aerodynamic constructs so that the dirt sloughed off to the rear. Flying became a chore rather than a joy. Pumice and whole boulders tumbled from above, knocking even shielded Dragons about like male cliff-goats playing at head-butting during mating season.

Ardan cleared Aranya’s back of a clinging grey rock-Borer. She returned the favour when he flew headlong into a school of bulbous brown creatures that resembled Dragonships, which had long, trailing tentacles that delivered a powerful electrical discharge. Eventually, five brawling, battling hours later, they broached the Cloudlands.

Leandrial pointed upward with one gigantic talon. “Fra’anior lies yonder. You will treat with the King?”

Aranya craned her neck, but could not clearly see the top of the volcanic rim, five miles above her head at this point. By the angle of the suns, she judged the time to be seven hours after noon. Perfect. She might catch the King at dinner.

“I hope to–how did you put it? I hope to buzz in his ear-canal before the others arrive.”

“Aye? Then buzz off, as your Zuziana likes to say,” returned the Land Dragon, with a smile that reminded Aranya of how she could swallow an entire village in a single bite. “I shall bathe in the caldera. If you need me, sing my name before the suns dip beneath the horizon tomorrow evening. Otherwise, I plan to head West for a day’s running to find a feeding ground which has served me well in decades past.”

Sometimes, she forgot how extraordinarily venerable Leandrial was–a mere matter of Aranya’s seventeen summers, plus four hundred and one more! Even Nak had gasped, and acted most put out. He rather enjoyed the privileges of age, which he took to mean ogling pretty girls, whacking anyone younger than him with his canes–bar Oyda, whom he still feared and doted upon after nigh one and a half centuries of marriage–and invariably demanding the most comfortable seat.

Aranya said, “I may need you to meet the King.”

“You may want Leandrial to intimidate him?” Zip clarified at once, with her cheekiest grin.

“No–oh, Zip. Aye, I wind up like a war-catapult at your slightest teasing. Ardan, maybe you should find a handy lava-flow as well? Just a suggestion.”

“A suggestion with bite,” he riposted. “See you around the Islands later, pretty-scales.”

Stinging! Aranya made a bland response and tried not to flee.

They were a further mile up-Island, beyond the level to which the fantastic tropical foliage of Fra’anior descended, when Zip burst out, “Sometimes he is just a stinking barbarian!”

“Zip, no. Don’t go there.”

“Sorry. Slipped out,” muttered the Remoyan, clearly seething. “I meant, in the way of men who are trying to be cheerful and funny, and just end up being insensitive.” When Aranya did not reply, she hissed, “Thanks for agreeing with me, best friend. Islands’ sakes!”

Enwrapped in a brittle silence, they winged upward. Aranya tried not to dwell upon Zuziana’s accusation as she took in, as best she could, the wondrous colours of her mother’s home Cluster, the volcano whereon, the balladeers claimed, ‘lived a clutch of volcano-grubbing madmen’–a notable comedic effort introduced to her by the exceptionally fine voice of none other than Prince Ta’armion. She had to admit, more than a grain of truth lurked therein. Give her the solidity of mountainous Immadia over twenty-seven Islands quivering three and a half to nine miles above an active volcano, any day.

Undeniably, Fra’anior had excelled himself in sculpting the Cluster which bore his name. The cliffs were sheer, unrelieved majesty, the masterstrokes of mighty talons. The verdant Islands, even in the dry season heat, shimmered like precious emeralds far above the simmering caldera. As they gazed past the northernmost point of Fra’anior Island, Aranya’s poor vision identified at least five active secondary volcanoes. As quickly as Dragons flew, they soon surmounted the visible layers of volcanic gases and broke abruptly into a realm of heady scents and birdsong. Pollen hung so thickly in the air, it shivered like golden veils as their wings stirred the fragrant grains. The wash of their passage stirred waterfalls of trailing flower-vines, hundreds of feet long, with their bell-shaped blossoms expressed in subtle purples and vibrant, joyous pastels; birds darted into hiding, trilling with alarm, and a quintet of dragonets flashed out of the dense foliage to gawk at the newcomers.

Big, big so big! chuckled a pretty yellow dragonet.

Why you a mommy dragonet? chirped another.

Zuziana had a three-foot blue dragonet turning somersault after somersault around her head. She’s like me. She’s me! Whee!

Choking up in the face of this overwhelming feast for the senses, Aranya voiced a cry that began as a laugh and broke off as a sob. She had not laughed in so long. She feared to unleash a maelstrom of grief.

The dragonets fled at her forlorn bugle.

Zip’s left wing caressed her flank briefly. I know, girlfriend.

She saw little as they flew down the length of Fra’anior Island to the elegant boulevards of the capital city, hearing distantly that Zuziana had spotted the incoming Dragonship fleet perhaps four hours offshore; her friend noted dryly that she had witnessed Ardan warming his rump in a handy caldera-level lava flow, contorting his face as if he were working on a difficult problem.

Aranya groaned. “Zip, you can’t possibly see that from up here.”

“Every nuance of his posture communicates a severe case of constipation,” Zip added, pulling various faces as she pretended to strain. “Ooh, it’s a bad one.”

“Zip!”

“Can you imagine Leandrial? Wow, like oooooh, I’m trying to pass an Island here!”

“Zuziana of Remoy–”

“Wooo-eeee … blam!” she yelled, making a shrill whistling sound before smacking her left fist into her right forepaw. “And you thought those were earthquakes. Silly girl.”

Aranya’s wingbeat hitched as laughter attacked her belly with claws. Oh, Zip! A few minutes later, she quietly apologised for being angry with her friend earlier.

The two Dragonesses winged rapidly over the central wilderness of Fra’anior, angling for the city near the southern tip. They raced over an uninhabited region of tangled forests and deeply scored ravines, miles and miles of rajal country before cresting one last brace of fang-toothed purple peaks. The city of Fra’anior spread out before them.

Repair works were in full swing. The scorch-marks of Dragon fire were still clearly visible on the ground and on several buildings, including the Palace itself, but the fallen bodies and Dragonships had been cleared away.

“Well, we’ve been spotted now,” said Zip, pointing at a couple of Dragonships patrolling above the city, before her paw suddenly curled. “What was that? Did you feel–”

“Aye. I can’t … can you see anything, Zip? A Dragon?”

The Azure Dragoness scanned the Island alertly. “Do you mean Yolathion? Grief, there’s a million places he could be hiding around here. Nothing. Did you–”

“Almost certainly. Leandrial described this Dragon-sense as a kind of itching in the mind–actually, she said, ‘like the nostrils of your mind’. You scent a presence, your sixth sense makes the connection to a harmonic convergence of memory, scents, impressions and magical signatures, and–”

Zip said, “Oof. It’s all muddy Land Dragon-ese to me. Say, we could ask the local dragonets if they’ve seen a large, feral Brown Dragon–what do you think?”

“Great idea.” Aranya tried to scan the Islands as well. “I wonder where Jia-Llonya and Kylara might be? I’m sure Her Warrior-Chiefliness still wants to trim a few of my scales with her scimitar. And what was Kaiatha’s Dragon’s name? I don’t sense him.”

“Yedior the Brown–it makes sense. You knew Yolathion much better than Yedior,” the Azure pointed out. “So, where are we landing?”

“The Receiving Balcony on the Palace roof, of course,” said Aranya, waggling a brow-ridge at her friend. “Knowing how Remoyans love to make an entrance.”

“Remoyan Dragonesses,” came the jaunty reply.

A tilt of the wings, and two Dragonesses came screaming down onto the Palace roof, startling the living pith out of the blue-robed Royal Guards stationed there. Aranya grinned. Sweating, panicking guardsmen? Sometimes, being a Dragoness was far too much fun. Extending her four paws, she landed lightly on the talon-scored granite flagstone surface, absorbing the momentum of an Immadian Princess’ tonnage with her coiled thighs. Half a breath later, Her Fiery Lizard-Ship, the Princess of Remoy, alighted beside her and, being Zip, smiled–one hundred fangs and a mischievous puff of bluish, sulphurous smoke between those gleaming daggers–at the soldiers.

“Hi, boys!” Zip said brightly.

Some of the soldiers had their swords half-drawn, most were trying to decide if refuge behind their ceremonial shields bespoke cowardice. Or perhaps, a hasty retreat might be in order?

Identifying the Guard Captain by his highly embellished shield-boss, Aranya turned to him and said, “Captain, we would like to transform. Do you mind ordering your men to turn around?”

“Turn?” he barked.

“Around,” said Aranya, making a small circle with her fore-talon. “We’re Shapeshifters. Girls. Princesses, actually.”

“Turn our backs upon Dragons?” The Captain seemed to have one mode of communication, the parade-ground bark. “Are you mad, lady … uh, Dragon? Dragoness?”

“I might be if you insult me again,” Aranya cooed.

“You’re totally awesome and splendid, noble Dragoness,” spluttered another soldier, evidently cognizant of the value of his hide. What a nice young man!

“Observe, Aranya. This is how it’s done,” said Zip. Whirling toward her friend’s starboard flank, she transformed.

Aranya caught the saddlebags with a reflexive snap of her paws. “Zuziana!”

The highborn Princess of Remoy jiggled her trim derriere in the Captain’s general direction. “Now would you turn around, Captain?”

“About face!” he howled, spinning on his boot-heel with alacrity.

A second later, the girl and her Dragoness were surrounded by the backs of tall Fra’aniorian Royal Guards, not one of whom, despite their tan skin-tone, had necks and ears that were not burning red. Aranya stared about her with a degree of consternation. Well. Effective.

Remoyan exhibitionist, she snorted.

“Come on, slow-slug,” said Zip, unbuckling one of the bags. “The King’s waiting.”

“The King is at dinner, lady,” said the Captain, in a strangled whine.

“Good. Send a man to inform him–”

“–to request his good pleasure,” Aranya interrupted, transforming. To a man, the soldiers flinched at the whoosh of air that accompanied her radical change in size.

“Anyways, just do what she said.” Zip prodded Aranya in the ribs, making her yelp. “I am Zuziana, Princess of Remoy and my very under-dressed companion is Aranya, Princess of Immadia. We visited not long ago to battle with Thoralian, and furthermore, Aranya is the cousin of Prince Ta’armion’s new bride, Lyriela of Ha’athior. Do you have all that straight, you charming man? I do love men in uniform. So very … leopard.”

“Shameless,” Aranya hissed.

“Aye, my Lady!” rapped the Captain, dispatching one of his men immediately. Aranya noticed the man snuck a glance as she tugged an under-shift over her head. She failed to ignore his hiss of shock.

Rapidly, the Princesses adjusted outfits and Aranya fitted her veil. Then, the stiff-backed Captain conducted them inside the Palace to meet King Cha’arlla.

Softly, en route through the gorgeous, art-decorated corridors of Fra’anior’s Palace, reputed to be the richest Court in the Island-World, Zip said to Aranya, “What are you scheming at, rushing here before your Dad arrives? He’ll have your hide for usurping the negotiations. In case you hadn’t noticed in any of your seventeen ill-behaved years, your Dad does like to be the one doing the upstaging. Rebels alike, the two of you. Shameful behaviour for a royal family.”

Aranya said, “Immadians may be regarded as traditionalists, but you’ll soon discover that wilfulness as thick as the Island-World is wide runs in our makeup.”

“Ooh, can I have that on a scroll, signed with the royal seal?”

She winked at Zuziana. “Only if you play along.”

“Aranya, what–I don’t like that gleam in your eye. Petal–”

“I’ve never been less a petal,” said the tall Immadian, marching into the royal banqueting hall with her head held high.

Time to show the King her most volcanic colours.

Chapter 7: O Fra’anior!

THE HERALD SANG out a formal announcement as Remoy and Immadia processed into the sumptuous dining hall. Five steps along a plush rug led to the green marble expanse of the floor and a round jalkwood dining table, hand-carved from a monolithic piece of gorgeous, deep-toned wood. They swept into the best, most formal Fra’aniorian bows they knew, including fourteen genuflections of the head, hand-twirls, a pirouette of respect and a range of dance-steps. Keeping a perfectly straight face, Zuziana linked arms with Aranya and did a little toe-tapping Remoyan jig to finish up.

Aranya resolved to spank the Dragoness for that later.

One servant per chair helped the royals and the Councillors rise from their seats without raising so much as a squeak of wood upon the polished floor. Then, it was formal greetings and exchanges of thanks and congratulations for winning the war; expressions of gratitude for liberating Fra’anior from the Sylakian yoke answered by Aranya’s thanks for troops, Dragonships and warrior-monks; congratulations on the royal wedding and felicitations for the future balanced with the King’s thanks for Aranya intervening on his son’s behalf … so it went on for ten or fifteen minutes, with the Queen and the King’s seven violet-robed Councillors looking on, evidently wondering beneath their beards what two Shapeshifter Dragonesses meant by their impromptu visit.

All the while, Aranya watched King Cha’arlla’s eyes. Friendly, aye, but there was a cloudy guardedness to those violet depths. Good. He would do well to watch his step around a woman he’d had drugged, kidnapped and presented to his son for purchase!

Finally, the King said, “And how may Fra’anior serve Immadia and Remoy this day?”

In court-speak, that meant, ‘state your business’. Most courtiers would now launch into a flattering, veiled dance around to the topic of their choice.

Aranya drew a deep breath. “O King, without disrespect to the long association between Immadia and Fra’anior and our kinship, I wish to speak frankly to you, your gracious Queen and your Council, before the balance of our delegation arrives on Fra’aniorian shores.”

He bowed floridly. “Frankness is a breath of refreshing perfume in this Court.”

Hearing the implied, ‘You’re young and naïve and I can’t wait to dance verbal rings around you’, Aranya swallowed back a draconic surge of ire. Mercy! She snuffed out a fiery whirlwind beneath the table before anyone noticed it. Were her powers growing uncontrollable again? What did this presage?

“O King, my family and I intend to re-establish the dwelling-place of Dragons at the Halls of the Dragons at Gi’ishior,” Aranya stated flatly. “To that end, seventy-two Shapeshifter Dragons fly to your shores and will arrive within three to four hours.”

Several of the Councillors gasped. The King’s shoulders stiffened. But he nodded. “Continue.”

“I request that you and your Councillors work out how Fra’anior Cluster will become a lawfully free zone for Humans, Dragons and Shapeshifters alike, given the historical interrelationship of Human and Dragon rule of certain of these Islands–although not for the last one hundred and fifty years, I’ll grant. There will be fairness and full co-operation in use of the airspace, local resources and so on. I suggest that you demand return payment in the form of protection of your shores by the Dragons, access to and use of draconic mining techniques and sciences–I’m sure you can think of many advantageous and profitable avenues. I can certainly think of some less advantageous avenues should we not be able to reach agreement on these matters. We are family, after all.”

Above the rising murmuring of his Councillors, the King growled, “Princess of Immadia, you are asking me to give up how many Islands, exactly?”

“I’ve not finished yet.” Aranya locked eyes with him. “You will outlaw the hunting of dragonets.”

He waved his hand. “Trivial.”

She countered, “Essential. Dragonets are intelligent, speaking members of the Dragonish race and deserve to be treated as such. Further, you will declare the monasteries following the Path of the Dragon Warrior legal and therefore, you will take steps to integrate them into Fra’aniorian life–given as they saved this city and helped liberate us all from the Sylakian Empire.”

King Cha’arlla quietened his livid Councillors with a stiffly upraised hand. All pretence of politeness tossed into the nearest volcano, he snarled, “Anything more, Immadia?”

Aranya wondered if she had overstepped her reach, but the inner storm-pressure drove her on. Perhaps landing a massive Dragonwing, suggesting the King summarily divide his Island-Cluster and reminding the Council of their status as a conquered territory all at once, had not been the most diplomatic approach. Then again, she was a Dragoness. They had better remember it, her stony expression suggested.

Softly but clearly, Zip said, “I’m not sure King Cha’arlla asked for or deserved quite that brand of frankness, my friend.”

The fires were too strong in her; storm-winds of magic, soughing through her being. Aranya swallowed again. “O King, finally, I ask that you devote Fra’anior to the cause of advancing the return of the Dragon and Shapeshifter races to the Island-World North of the Rift, so that the balance of magic may be restored, to the benefit of all.”

At once, the man she knew as Ma’arkon, the Chief Councillor, exploded, “The hells I’m listening to some chit of a girl standing in our own banqueting hall, threatening us! King Cha’arlla–”

“Aye!” shouted another Councillor. “Or what, girl? Or what? These are preposterous demands. Preposterous, I tell you!”

She could have said many things. She was a Star Dragoness, descendent of the Great Onyx himself. She had right of conquest, even of Fra’anior Cluster. As Lyriela’s cousin, there were family ties. She had to protect her kind …

Aranya forced all of that away. She growled, “I speak with the fire that is within me. Now let cooler heads intervene, before my rash tongue burns us all. Zu–”

“I agree with everything Aranya said,” Zuziana said, in a voice like rough-cut granite. “As one who knows Aranya of Immadia and all she stands for, o King, I declare that no-one has achieved more, or suffered more, in the service of your freedom and mine. If only for the sake of her sufferings, we should give ear to her words.”

The silence that greeted Zip’s statement seemed formed of the peerless blades of Immadian forked daggers. Aranya’s heart fluttered in her throat. Zuziana! By sheer presence, she arrested them. By the force of her anguish, she commanded their respect. Never had she imagined the diminutive Princess could be the proverbial Dragoness in the room, but here she stood, eclipsing Kings and seasoned rulers.

Zip said, “My appeal is simple. O King and Queen, and honoured Councillors, I believe that Aranya’s vision, which lies within your grasp, represents an opportunity to rise up and shape the future of our Island-World. This is not a once-in-a-generation opportunity. Not even once in a lifetime. This is a seminal moment in the history of the three great races. I beseech you to listen not only to the fire of her words, but to the song of her heart. Aranya is a Dragoness, as am I. Dragonesses nurture and protect with a fierce and fiery love. They are creatures as proud and wise and noble as all of you gathered here.”

“Fra’anior has always been the luminary in Human-Dragon relations,” the Remoyan added. “Having been brought low, the Dragonkind have now returned and a critical choice is now thrust upon you. I appeal to you to act wisely, with future generations in mind. We are not here to threaten, but I must point out that we are both Shapeshifter Dragonesses. I therefore advise–”

“King, o King Cha’arlla!” the herald burst back into the hall, ashen-faced. “There’s a monster in the caldera!”

The King raised an eyebrow. “What? Gather your wits, man!”

“It’s a Dragon, sire! A Dragon the size of an Island! And it’s coming–”

“Silence!” King Cha’arlla whirled upon Aranya and Zip. “What treachery is this, you adder-tongued–” He pulled up with an effort. “Now the fire is mine. Speak.”

Aranya raised her hands, sighing, “Mercy. Perfect timing. Well, I suppose if we’d really wanted to threaten you, we’d have started differently. O King, that so-called monster in the caldera is our friend Leandrial, a venerable Dragoness who is helping us track down Thoralian, the former Supreme Commander of Sylakia.”

The Fra’aniorians just stared at her.

“Shall we take a Dragonship and go meet Leandrial?” Aranya suggested. “She’s a Land Dragoness of the illustrious Welkin-Runner Clan, who measures about a mile and a half long, and is possibly the oldest living creature in the Island-World.”

More blank stares.

Zip clapped her hands sharply, making everyone jump. “Snip-snap! Listen, Land Dragons are real, the Shapeshifters are coming, and the future governance of this Island-World will be decided here on this Island. Can we shake our boots, people?” She paused to eye up the table. “Actually, belay that. I’m hungry. Permission to grab a bite, o King?”

Just when everyone glanced at each other and started to relax, she deadpanned, “Pun intended, of course.”

* * * *

Sitting alone on her balcony, Aranya moodily stroked Sapphire’s neck as she gazed over the caldera, unable to sleep. From where she sat on her west-facing balcony, she enjoyed a panoramic view over the city’s slate rooftops to the ruddy canyon of half-light beyond, the radiance of the great volcano. Even at night, birdsong played over the city. Ardan had just left her to rejoin the negotiations, which, despite her worst efforts at dunking them repeatedly in an exploding volcano, were reportedly proceeding well. Zip was also in attendance, accompanying Ri’arion as he represented the monks.

Aranya had excused herself, pleading tiredness. If only. More a case of damage limitation; of retreating from a place of wild inner storms and the rash words they had sparked. She sighed heavily, saying aloud in Dragonish, Oh, Sapphire. I’m not much of a negotiator, am I? Saved by the Zippy one.

Sapphire purred happily and squirmed about in Aranya’s lap, presenting her belly for a scratch. More, Ari. More.

Aranya sallies into battle and returns … chastened.

Thankfully, if she read between the leaves of Ardan’s report, everyone else in that room had been far more gracious than Aranya and her flurry of verbal daggers. Whatever had bitten her?

At least we still have each other, Sapphire. You should fly to Ha’athior. Visit your warren.

Warren far. Ari here, murmured the dragonet.

Sapphire, you’ll need to stay at Fra’anior while we travel on to Jeradia. Sadness infused her words with the heaviness of molten lead. I’ll miss you awfully, little one.

Ari here. No Ha’athior, insisted the dragonet.

But you’ll have to, Sapphire, my darling–what?

To her chagrin, Aranya voiced a squeak of shock as Sapphire went from three-quarters asleep to a stiffly-coiled position around her neck, holding her windpipe ransom with the unsheathed claws of an uncompromising left forepaw! The dragonet shifted, her claws pricking Aranya’s shoulders through the thin dress that was all the ever-tropical temperatures of Fra’anior Cluster demanded, until her fully open fire-eyes stared directly into Aranya’s from a distance of but three inches. Crimson, jade and amber whirled in those depths.

The dragonet said, Ari need Sapphire.

Always, petal. But you can’t survive the Cloudlands. I’m–aah, can we treat the neck gently?

Aranya felt a warm trickle of blood reach her left clavicle as she held very, very still. What mood was this? Was Sapphire feral? Aggravated? Dangerous?

Sapphire love Ari. No leave.

I love you too, Sapphire. But we need to be realistic–mercy! Stow the daggers. You win. Maybe the dragonet should have conducted the negotiations. She was certainly insistent in a way she had never known Sapphire to be in the past.

Growing up, her baby.

Oddly, Ardan also reported faster and freer negotiations than anyone had expected, making King Beran scratch his beard mightily; apparently, neither King Cha’arlla nor his Councillors had divulged her earlier outburst! Had her flaming honesty contrariwise turned out a good result? Madness! Or were they holding back a strategic game-piece for later play? Ta’armion said many Fra’aniorians loved a strategy game called ‘Exploding Volcanoes’. How typical of her mother’s people!

Perhaps she should tell Beran–after the negotiations were done. Or now, before they ambushed him with his daughter’s poor behaviour? Mercy, she felt nauseous …

Sapphire’s eye-colour softened toward apricot. Ari promise?

Oh no.

How could she? Yet she must. Her headache flared again, a magic-induced migraine.

Gripped by a compulsion no less peculiar than the dragonet’s, Aranya whispered, Upon my oath, Sapphire.

Now, how by Fra’anior’s breath would she convince her companions this was right?

* * * *

Following the semi-planned meeting of King Cha’arlla, accompanied by his coterie of tall advisors robed in their risible, eye-watering violet, with Leandrial, Ardan returned to his Human form and threw himself into negotiations. Aranya excused herself with a weak appeal to exhaustion; when he briefed her later, she seemed tired and taciturn, unwilling to share her burdens. There must be many; none more so than the meddling of her shell-grandfather, the mighty Fra’anior. She deserved rest. Perhaps she needed time to process the horrors she had seen and experienced. He tended to her immediate needs before returning to the all-night negotiations.

Behind a warrior’s calm exterior, his mind seethed. Leave it to a practical man to accomplish the necessary. He and the Immadian King were of a mind. When Cha’arlla called for his Councillors to withdraw for a private discussion, he immediately fell to plotting with Ignathion and Beran.

Thereafter, events proceeded with gratifying speed. Before dawn, Ri’arion and Zuziana vanished to the secret monasteries to convey the King’s invitation to seal a pact so fresh, the ink practically dripped off the scrolleaf. He searched for Yolathion, but found no trace of the Brown Dragon or of the Riders hunting him. Aranya sent Sapphire to make enquiries of the local dragonets, and the Shapeshifters and monks descended on Gi’ishior in force. Almost immediately, two men and four Dragons died in booby-traps both magical and mechanical. With those parting gifts of treasure hunters and unknown Dragons dealt with, the great libraries of the Halls of the Dragons buzzed with activity as one hundred and eighty monks and over fifty Dragons scoured the lore and histories for information, which emerged with frustrating reluctance over the course of the following days.

Ardan grumbled his frustration to all and sundry.

* * * *

As a dawn of tempestuous volcanic majesty broke over Fra’anior Cluster, five days after their arrival, Beran appeared to join Ardan and Aranya as they broke their fast on her balcony. “Hey, Sparky.”

Aranya chuckled musically. “Security let you in?”

“And me,” said Nak.

“You’re no trouble at all, old man,” said Ardan, rising to offer Nak his stool.

He almost fell as his wrenched knee caved in. Training at hand-to-hand combat with the Nameless Man had become a ritual humiliation; he, Aranya and Zip had been hard at it since Ri’arion had suggested he teach them ‘essential skills’ at Yorbik. Ardan was far too proud to admit how fervently he wished he had never acceded to the monk’s invitation. Necessary? Aye. Wise? Dragon or none, he felt as if he had been wrestling ten rajals as large as the black cats wandering the Palace grounds below–taller than a man at the shoulder–every time he fought that warrior monk. Aranya had fared no better. She nursed a sprained right rotator cuff and a purpling eye.

“Bah, youngsters,” snorted the elderly Dragon Rider. “Not stopping, petal.” He nodded at Ardan. “Definitely not a petal. Just you perk up those pointy ears, Aranya. All that kafuffle up at Gi’ishior–they’re scrimmaging over scraps. Yesterday’s leftovers. Oyda and I agree all they’re going to find is dust and sneezes.”

“Useful dust,” King Beran put in, stooping to hug Aranya. She winced. “Plenty of scientific and historical dust. How was your trip to Ha’athior yesterday?”

The veil crinkled as she wrinkled her nose. Ardan was learning to read these signs.

Aranya said, “Aunt Va’assia and Uncle Ja’arrion were perfect hosts, thank you for disparaging them with your tone, o Robber-King of Immadia. Sapphire discovered a legend of another Dragon library at Ha’athior, dating back to the era of the Dragonfriend. Our merry clan of Shifters are intrigued. What did you mean about dust?”

Beran began, “Well, the Dragonfriend–”

Nak interrupted, “Speaking of which–off!” Ardan yelped as Nak belted him with a cane, before pinching his seat. The Dragon Rider sniffed, “Just you treat my petal better than all the treasures of Gi’ishior, you great, galumphing lug.” Turning to Beran, he added, “Usurping my storytelling, you muddy-kneed whippersnapper? My Shimmerith–oh, what a beauty she was–would’ve chewed your ears off for such insolence. Now, where was I?”

Ardan slipped around the small table, which held a pitcher of cool water and a basket of breads and unfamiliar fruits for their breakfast, to stand beside Aranya’s right shoulder. To his surprise, her hand found his. A tingling spread up his arm.

Enchantress, he thought to her.

Sha’aldior, I cannot–she began to reply, but Nak was being his excitable, voluble self.

“Stop that private chit-chat and listen, you rude pair of white-crested lovebirds,” he snapped. “One. Ri’arion warns of disaffected monks and Humans banding together to act against the return of Dragons to these Isles. Be alert.”

Sometimes, Nak’s mind wandered, but this morning, he was utterly lucid. Aranya’s fingers tightened; the skies grumbled nearby. Aye. Trouble in the air, or he was no Dragon.

“Two. The Nameless Man has named, or not named, or whatever those mystical wind-breaking monks do in their spare time, his successor. Falling over the Isles for your delightful friend–ah, beauteous Remoy–was apparently a touch naughty on his part. Not quite vow-breaking or forbidden, but Ri’arion’s been demoted to chief skirt-chaser as a result. Three. This bride-snatching King and my incomparable Oyda and I, have been talking. We want you, Aranya, to have a good old sniff around Gi’ishior. See what that pretty dust-wrangler of yours turns up. What this impudent pup was about to say, is that one of the monks found reference to a legend that the Dragonfriend grew up in one of the roosts there. She was raised by Dragons.”

“What?” Ardan and Aranya chorused.

“No time. They’ll brief you at Gi’ishior. Four. Your tame Land Dragon’s due back tomorrow. You ride her down to Jeradia–”

Aranya scowled across the table at him. “Nak, you don’t just ride a Land Dragon.”

“You shut those luscious lips and attend old Nak’s words. Why, I pulled you off a cliff, I did. Taught you how to fly. Practically wiped your beautiful bottom …” His eyes glazed over. “Ooh, aye!”

The Princess tossed a sweetbread at him. “Catch. Eat. What about Jeradia, Nak?”

Nak seemed disappointed to be woken from his despicable daydream. Roaring rajals! Ardan suppressed a forceful urge to rush around the table and throttle the old man.

The Dragon Rider scratched his beard. “Aye, Jeradia. Oyda and I agree that the last memories we have before that Pygmy scamp and her mind-tweaking Herimor Shapeshifter boyfriend scrambled our wits, as you allege, is that of beating the hells away from Jeradia as Marshal Re’akka–that was the beast’s name–descended upon the Academy volcano with all the armies of his Dragon Assassins and the power of the First Egg, and my Pip, oh my beautiful, lost Pip–” he paused to dash away his tears “–oh mercy, how the years have flown. Oh, I weep, Aranya … I weep for all that was lost. There were thousands of Dragons, my petal. Dragons to fill the skies, oh, and when they gathered there was such magic as would make your very bone-marrow tingle and dance. When they rose in their thousands above that Jeradian volcano to do battle, oh, it was a sight! What a sight! Their wings were a storm; their Dragon-rage shivered the very Moons. Flashes of dark wings, I see, and an Island floated across the Rift! And I don’t remember. I don’t … forgive me … remember …”

He wept, rubbing his face with his sleeve. Aranya stepped around the small, hand-carved wooden table to clasp Nak in her arms. “It’s alright, Nak. We’ll work this out.”

“Isn’t!” he sniffled. “We let Leandrial read our brains, Oyda and I did! That reckless, irresponsible mite pickled us good and proper, addled our scales backward, and added such a bastion-ward as made that Land Dragoness’ hackles rise! Can’t get a sparrow’s burp out of us, petal. Nothing. It’s all secreted in here.” He tapped his head. “But my heart’s true. Have I told thee how truly I adore thee, Immadia?”

“Often,” Aranya smiled, sneaking a glance at Ardan. He unclenched his fists, hoping she did not read his jealousy. He had no right to be jealous of her love for this old man, even if the odd murderous urge crossed his mind.

She prompted, “Tell us what happened, Nak. What about Pip?”

“Well, I’ve worked it out, see? Old as these Islands, I am, but I’ve still got all my wits, aye. Haven’t I?” Grasping Aranya’s hands in his own, Nak said earnestly, “She pinched the volcano, see?”

“She–who? Did … what the hells?” spluttered Ardan.

“Pip?” asked Aranya. “Pip pinched a volcano? Nak. Now, be straight with me. You’re saying–”

“I am, Immadia. One moment the Dragon Rider Academy was there. Then, it was gone. Poof. Thousands of people and Dragons, buildings, stores, a whole lake … and a volcano!” His voice rose querulously. “How else do you defeat the undefeatable Nurguz, that unstoppable, magic-guzzling beast? You must go to Jeradia, petal. See the place and jog Leandrial’s memories, because she’s as senile as me. That’s where Shurgal defeated Leandrial and stole the Egg. That old Island-chewer will tell you that they’ll find nothing at Gi’ishior because all the good lore was compiled by Hualiama and left at the Academy. That’s why you need to go to Herimor and get the Egg. Understand?”

Aranya looked baffled by the spillage of Nak’s chaotic thoughts, but her mind clearly flew to the Moons. Ardan joined her, bending upon one knee before the old Dragon Rider. He rumbled, “Nak, I’m a bit slower than these two Immadians. Help me understand. You’re claiming Pip stole the First Egg? Or the volcano? Leandrial said Pip betrayed–”

“Nonsense!” Nak’s thwacked Ardan’s knee with the accuracy of a born swordsman, growling, “Use your wits, my boy. I know you claim to possess a few–debatable, if you ask me. If the Academy volcano had blown up, the Jeradian histories would record the explosion. If it had slid under the Cloudlands, Leandrial would have found the debris. It’s clearly not where it used to be. Eliminate all the possibilities and then whatever’s left, however crazy it seems–”

“Crazy’s the word,” Ardan agreed, earning himself a swift clip across the earhole this time.

“Don’t you sass me, boy!” Nak cried. “Doesn’t anybody understand what I’m saying? Am I speaking the ancient language of stars?”

Aranya said, slowly, “I do. You’re saying Pip stole the volcano. Ergo, the volcano is inside the Egg.”

“Genius!” Nak screamed.

Ardan wiped spittle off his jaw. “Lunacy! Rajals dancing around the Mystic Moon. How do you even …”

Beran just plucked hairs from his beard, dumbfounded.

Aranya breathed, “No. It’s a talon-stroke of genius. It Balances, Ardan. It … oh, please don’t look at me like that. It feels right. Nak, once again I declare, you are the master.”

“Master? Not I.” The old Rider hung his head. “Is now when I confess this was Oyda’s idea? Mostly. I did add a few important bits …”

She kissed his cheek affectionately. “In honour of which I, Aranya, Princess of Immadia, do forevermore dub thee Nak the Incomparable.”

Everyone pretended not to notice as he dabbed his leaky eyes.

Chapter 8: Visions of Dragons

FLYING ACROSS THE CALDERA with Ta’armion riding Lyriela, and Sapphire, Ardan and her father upon her back, Aranya turned her Dragoness-head to regard Ardan. “Have you accepted the truth yet?”

“No!”

Ardan folded his stalwart arms across his chest and stared at her from those black-in-black eyes. Mmm. Aranya remembered how he had held her, that first day they met, and blushed up a petite firestorm in her belly. He might be a Dragon-powerful warrior, but he also possessed startling grace and gentleness. Not now, of course. Not when he was being Ardan the granite-headed Shadow Dragon.

Worse still, when he was right and she was being stubborn.

He grunted, “Why head to Jeradia when a Dragon matching Thoralian’s description was spotted leaving Sylakian shores fourteen days ago, headed for the Crescent Isles? What will we find at Jeradia–memories? Crazy theories which are impossible by any known law of science, draconic or Human?”

“I see, Ardan,” she purred, making his scowl deepen.

He growled, “Entire volcanoes do not disappear into eggs, nor do floating Islands, together with thousands of Dragons–no, I don’t care if that neatly parcels in a Helyon silk bow how you think the Lesser Dragons vanished from the North!”

In a sepulchral voice, she intoned, “You fail to grasp how inconceivably vast are the powers of the First Egg of the Ancient Dragons, o Ardan–”

“Aargh! I can’t argue with you.”

“The sooner you learn that, my boy, the better,” King Beran put in, clapping his left hand upon Ardan’s shoulder.

“Alright,” Ardan challenged, “assuming for a second all of this moons-madness is real, what happened to the Pygmy Dragoness? Where did she vanish to like the mists of dawn?”

“Inside the Egg.”

“Why would she put herself inside, if she couldn’t just climb out again? Which she clearly hasn’t or, I’d wager, history might read somewhat differently.”

“I don’t know,” Aranya admitted.

“Assuming she’s stuck inside together with thousands of Dragons and a whole freaking volcano–”

“And the floating Island,” Beran put in.

“How big is that benighted Egg?” Ardan waved his hands angrily. “Don’t answer that! How do you plan to get her out again? Ask sweetly? And how will we move an egg that size back over the uncrossable Rift? And what if you release thousands of enemy Dragons, those Night-Red Assassins lurking in Leandrial’s memories? Have you paused to think this through? Clearly not. Aranya, this is crazy!”

She whirled her eye-fires at him. “I agree.”

“Aargh!”

“I agree with that, too.”

Beran put in, “Aranya, will Oyda be alright?”

“I checked her as best I know how. It was a bowel irritation,” she said. “I relieved the inflammation. I’ve had Ja’arrion swear upon his own wings he’ll send a healer-Dragon to Oyda every day while we’re away. I couldn’t stand … I know she’s very old, Dad. But if this was the last time I saw her …” She gulped. “I know Shadow-britches over there thinks I’m being maudlin–”

“No, I don’t. I love your heart best of all.”

Ardan bit his lip and looked away across the caldera, clearly embarrassed and even defiant; Aranya could not quite stifle a quiver of delight that rippled through her wings and body, bouncing her about on the volcanic thermals. Lovely man. He wore his heart as openly as one of his tattoos, only he would not admit it to anyone, least of all to himself. She had tried to convince herself that he saw only a disfigured woman. O foolish, treacherous heart!

Grief and gratitude stuffed her throat so intensely, she could barely breathe. Aranya thought to him, Sha’aldior, know that I appreciate … all this, with my very soul. Yet it can never be–

It can.

How? You’d have a broken, stunted travesty; this half-blind wretch? You deserve better.

He snapped, What’s blind is your heart, Aranya! In time, you will learn to see. Then, his mind shuttered away behind an impenetrable barrier.

She whispered, You must find another. I declare, you are free.

Ardan pointedly examined the horizon.

Learn to see … what? He must find another to love. Aranya saw his pain, and did not understand. She had no choice! All they could ever be, was friends–the oldest cliché under the twin suns. Time would show him the way; he was the one who must learn not to stoke his fires for her, who refused to accept her brokenness. Did he not compare her to sleek, beautiful Lyriela, with her perfect scales, and cringe? In concert with her mood, thunder crackled around the caldera. Sapphire, who had been riding the Amethyst Dragoness’ left shoulder with her muzzle open, tasting the wind, flipped over and settled in Ardan’s lap for the first time. Dark thunderheads rose to occlude the suns.

She was Storm. Storms cleansed the soul.

Rain good, Ari, Sapphire chirped.

Conceivably. King Cha’arlla had mentioned a severe drought lasting four months. Aranya tasted the moisture on the breeze as Sapphire might. One of Fra’anior’s legendary monikers was ‘Storm Dragon’. If she could be as great as just a few scales off his paws … that would be a trick. Aranya could not detect any conscious effort on her part, but the storm continued to build as she winged five points west of true North across the great caldera, angling for where she knew Gi’ishior Island to be from the maps. Hot air caressed her scales from below, the thermals inconstant and tricky, forcing her to concentrate on her flying form as she tried to smooth the ride for her Riders.

“Don’t hurry, Sparky,” Beran said. “We’re in for a dousing no matter what, it seems. Oho. Do I detect a hint of Azure disappearing around that volcano, Ardan?”

“Aye. And Ri’arion, I think.” His voice was pure gravel. Aching.

The breeze soon picked up to a squally westerly, flinging Aranya sideways as she adjusted. She checked Lyriela’s wing-orientation and stamina, and helped her cousin set up a shield. Then, with a resounding crack of thunder the Black Dragon himself would have appreciated, the heavens opened and steel curtains of tropical rain crashed down everywhere except upon her Riders. Blessed, life-bringing liquid cascaded off her sleek amethyst flanks and outspread wings, while her secondary membranes set to work, flicking rapidly to clear her eyes.

“Honestly, Sparky, your shields are this good?” laughed Beran, still dry and a little dusty.

“Need a shower, Sting-King Dad?”

“I think we should cool his kingly brow,” Ardan suggested.

“At once, Rider Ardan.”

The King of Immadia laughed happily, turning his face to the heavens to drink in the water sheeting down his care-lined face and over his white-shot beard. He was in no danger, Aranya reminded herself, strapped in place on a worn, double-seat fledgling-sized saddle Ardan had filched from the old stores at Ya’arriol Island. Apparently there had been a Dragon Rider presence there once, at one of the secret monasteries.

With visibility reduced to mere tens of feet, the Amethyst Dragoness maintained her heading, trusting herself to cover the forty or so remaining miles to Gi’ishior without flying slap into a mountainside. How did Dragons navigate in blind conditions? She’d have to ask Ja’arrion or Nak. Ugh–inexperienced fledgling! Blind navigation would be essential beneath the Cloudlands, however … the rain abruptly doubled in intensity, great fat drops whacking her sensitive wing-membranes and rebounding off her nose. Hail! That wasn’t the plan. Aranya shielded her Riders and wings as hailstones the size of Fra’aniorian grapes pinged off her scaly length. Fra’aniorian storms were legendary, dangerous even to Dragons, she suddenly remembered–from which ballad? To her relief the hail grew no more powerful, but the storm endured for half an hour more, tossing her about with seething abandon until she felt as a hatchling chastised by Fra’anior.

This is my choice, grandfather, she thought acidly. Had you wished otherwise, you could have changed my fate.

Shift the blame to Fra’anior. Aye, Aranya? What a show of maturity …

The Dragonfriend had once dwelled upon these Islands. What would she have been like? Had she fought storms like this one, with her Tourmaline Dragon, Grandion?

Preoccupied with drawing a detailed mental picture of a tall, elegant Fra’aniorian Shapeshifter, Aranya suddenly broke free from the stinging hail and rain. Right before her startled eyes, perfectly framed between departing battlements of fuliginous cloud as though a fortress peeled aside its fortifications for the admission of majesty, stood the Island of Gi’ishior. A single, slender secondary volcanic cone, it perched upon the caldera’s northern rampart with curiously organic elegance, as though positioned above a Dragonship’s air sack to provide an exhaust funnel. The dormant peak was delicately and uniformly robed in lush, avocado-green foliage.

Yet a waking vision transported her. The creak of a Dragonship’s running-ropes. A strange sail configuration to port and starboard, as if the vessel sported wings. Aranya watched small, deft hands of an unfamiliar golden-tan cast adjust ailerons to scud her around the volcano’s western periphery. Her heart thudded in her throat–many Dragons spiralled in the skies above the rim. Attack! A trio of Orange Dragons sizzled past, one launching a fireball across her nose, thundering, Turn back!

Aranya’s body juddered.

Peace, cousin Aranya, Lyriela’s melodious voice soothed. Where were you?

Uh … I … her muzzle rose. She rasped a couple of deep breaths. Steady! Only two Dragons patrolled the skies, as best she could tell. Where had the rest–recognising the vision for what it had been, she relaxed. Odd. A solo Dragonship? Not many of those about, these days.

Aranya trimmed her wings to descend quickly toward a terrace lake that skirted the volcano to the western and northern quadrants, the waters serene and apparently unruffled by the storm they had just passed through. Famously, this lake contained giant whiskered carp capable of sating the most voracious Dragon’s appetite. When she mentioned this to Ardan, he enthused, “Now you tell me! They’ve languished untouched for a century and more!” Grinning rather dourly, Aranya stretched her wings, easing her way up the lake in the hope that no more visions would seize her unawares. Despite obsidian shores, the lake waters were so translucent that she could see clear to the bottom, a depth of perhaps four or five hundred feet. Silvery scales winked …

Hunger!

Aranya! Lyriela yelped, pulling her back timeously.

Uh …

Her cousin asked, Are you a bit–forgive me, Aranya–unstable of mind?

No. How she burned! That surge of silent, mutinous fury carried her through a cavern mouth into a wide tunnel that led to a realm of glorious light. She inhaled sharply. Oh, Emburion! It’s amazing!

What by the creepiest shadows of carrion birds stalking fresh kill, was that? Aranya blinked. Ardan, I … garnet, tourmaline and quartzite crystal formations winked light into her weak eyes, lining the volcano walls between the darker, shadowy entrances of Dragon roosts and, she assumed, chambers and quarters, storage and laboratories, and all the paraphernalia of a once-thriving Dragon city. Even the small portion of wall caught by the rising twin suns’ rays gleamed as resplendent as freshly polished Dragon scales.

Dragons everywhere! Sunning themselves and chatting and diving and training hatchlings … this place was alive!

No. She shook her muzzle, resisting the urge to rub her eyes. Not so many. Just a couple of Dragons, both Blues, apparently cleaning the crystals with storm winds and puffs of fire.

A great cavern stood before her. The partly-ajar, gorgeously fashioned metal doors had to measure two hundred feet tall and double that width, framing the sacred meeting-hall of the Dragon Elders. Yet she recoiled from that place. Shadows loomed over her, massive, menacing, a fiery dance ending in collapse … trapped beneath a Dragon’s paw! Battle-challenges reverberated in her mind. A voice of Storm split the ruinous raging of talon and fang.

Suddenly, her Human struggled against the unbreakable grip of a Blue Dragon of unparalleled stature. The Blue snarled, “Prove the worth of your oath.”

Never had she faced such a congregation of Dragons. In her tiny Human form–Dragoness-Aranya perceived this as from a distance–she saw Reds and Yellows and the mighty Blue stalking her, and her very living pith was gripped with such fear as would stop a Dragon’s hearts, yet there was fire within her, such a beautiful, incendiary tracery of white-fires that her vision cleared to an excruciating clarity which pierced even the inner places of Gi’ishior itself. Her lungs inflated of their own accord as if seeking to draw in all the magic of the Island-World. A great Word swelled in her burning throat.

Such a Word! Aranya’s mortal soul quaked, but the magic could not be denied. Opening her muzzle, she gave herself over to the power of Storm.

BEZALDIOR!!

* * * *

Her soul had travelled the universe’s darkest night.

Ari? Fragrant Ari?

She stirred at the oddity of Sapphire’s anxious trill. Unnh … frag …

“By my wings, who cracked the volcano? What’s Aranya doing lying there? Danger? Is there danger?” Tuzimi shouted, her acid tones making agonising, flaming colours burst through Aranya’s head. “Someone? Anyone–a report!”

Aranya found herself lying half-submerged at the edge of the lake, her muzzle propped up on a smallish, flat boulder. No, a spar of tourmaline. Tourmaline was his colour. Scales of gemstone … windroc droppings to that! She needed to be here, in the now.

She raised her head, and whacked her aching skull against the keel-bone of Ardan’s massive, deep chest. “Oh! My Islands …”

Had he dragged her to shore? The wrecked saddle-harness lying four feet from her left eye suggested as much. Now he stood straddling her prone, throbbing body, his stalwart stance preventing anyone from approaching–no, here came Human-Zip on the run, and she was not about to let a mere Shadow Dragon stand in her way. Aranya gazed further, taking in a brittle, weather-blasted wooden dock and at least forty or fifty Dragons looking on with uniformly grumpy, unimpressed expressions. King Beran stood nearby, deep in conversation with Ja’arrion and two other Shifters, all in Human form; as one, they turned to regard her with furrowed brows as Zip sang out:

“Aranya! Petal, don’t you love to make an entrance? You triggered the earthquake, didn’t you?”

Oh, great lashings of windroc spit …

To her further disbelief, Va’assia hop-flapped down to her level, demanding that Ardan yield to the healers. Two younger, matched female Blues, Tyziti and Zyriti–Aranya wondered how anyone told them apart, for even the similarity of their names did not help–immediately fell to fussing over her. They checked beneath her eyelids, commented on the tenor of her eye-fires, bade her flex both wingtips and extend her tongue, and examined her length with an almost unbearable prickling of magic.

That was when Aranya realised–she could see! Gingerly, she tilted her muzzle and gazed skyward. Her right eye focussed beautifully on the crescent Jade moon … her fires soughed, and Aranya wept. A great, thick tear exuded from beneath the fire-orb of each eye. Odd, she thought hazily. How did a Dragon cry if she had no tear-ducts?

“Quick, catch those,” Zip ordered the bemused healer-Dragonesses. “They’ve great healing value. We’ll need to find a gourd to store them.”

Sight! Oh, she had forgotten how beautiful was the Island-World seen in sharp edges and colours and detail! A touch to her muzzle confirmed that her wounds were still present, but her eyesight was clearer and keener than ever before. Had the white-fires somehow burned the darkness from her vision? She could not wait to share this tremendous news with her friends. A yearning so sweet flooded her veins, that Aranya shivered and gathered her paws beneath her.

“I’m fine,” she said, swaying on her paws. Oops. Zuziana’s expression of alarm told her that was a lie; Ardan’s solicitous paw steadied her weight with ease. “Stop fussing.”

“Oh, petal,” Zip sighed.

“Don’t suppose you’d have another Word to fix this mess?” Ja’arrion boomed irately. “You collapsed tunnels and roosts, damaged the library, cracked the rim itself, we’ve a lake’s flow into the underground store-rooms–quite the day’s work, shell-niece. Whatever possessed you to summon your Word of Storm?”

Aranya inquired, “Why’re you saying ‘Word’ like that?”

By the mountains of Immadia, walking made her feel as if she were swaying on a Dragonship’s gantry at the height of a storm. She drank sparingly from the lake waters to disguise her confusion, but no more than two seconds later, Zuziana splashed knee-deep into the water beside her. The petite Remoyan grabbed the Amethyst Dragoness by the eye-ridge and a handy skull-spike, and pulled her close to gaze deep into her left eye. Zip’s lips pursed.

Aranya concentrated on that well-loved face, feeling her eye-fires mellow toward warm yellows, oranges and apricot.

Zip screamed, “Petal!”

The Immadian almost jumped out of her hide.

Why does she call a Dragoness, petal? Va’assia complained nearby.

I had a waking vision, Aranya said meantime, to any Dragon listening. And to Zip, she said, “What do you see?”

Poor Zuziana. She just pressed her cheek against Aranya’s eye, and blubbered, “Light, Aranyi. I see light inside.”

* * * *

Walking with her Amethyst Dragon–hers, for she was Aranya’s first Dragon Rider–the Remoyan kept a Dragoness’ eye peeled for further signs of volcano-shaking behaviour. The Shadow Dragon shadowed them, along with Lyriela, Ta’armion, Beran and Ja’arrion, as Va’assia the Red provided a guided tour of Gi’ishior’s marvels. The Halls of the Dragons had been home to the Dragonkind for thousands of years. That great age showed in the artful fashioning of hallways and roosts, treasuries and hatchling-nurseries, scientific laboratories and the bathing-chambers, including red-hot lava, oil, fragrance and hot water baths. She took them first to the Dragon roosts, the chambers boasting Dragon perches and couches, and floor-to-ceiling, sliding crysglass panels opening out on the volcano or giving views of Fra’anior’s caldera to the South, the Islands to the East and West, or unbroken Cloudlands to the North.

Each Dragon roost included facilities for Humans to serve Dragons–Human-sized kitchens, bedchambers and living-spaces, and storage for scale-polishing implements, mite-extracting tools, talon clippers and files, and the like. Va’assia introduced them to Ha’azutl, who was called the Chief Scrollkeeper, the ceremonial title for the head of the famously iconoclastic clan of Humans who served Gi’ishior, who had returned from their homes on the tiny neighbouring Islets. At first the Humans had been overwhelmed to see the Dragons return, but the Red Shapeshifter later informed her delegation that many were less pleased at the predominance of Shapeshifters. Rightly, Lesser Dragons should be in command.

It seemed Shapeshifters were as little trusted in the ancient seat of Dragons as they had ever been historically.

Va’assia led them past the still-sealed roost of Sapphurion and Qualiana, the illustrious Dragon Elders who had reigned at the time of Hualiama Dragonfriend. Legend told of their death in battle in the Lost Islands in the far northeast, although that was debatable. No Dragon-explorer or long-range Dragonship had ever found trace of the Lost Islands. Aranya took a keen interest in this legend about her aunt. She had explained her visions and subsequent fright, the sense that something momentous had happened at Gi’ishior in centuries past, causing her to cry out in a way that Ja’arrion, who was Hualiama’s shell-brother after all, identified as that rarest and most perilous of Dragon powers, the Word of Command. Oddly, no-one else knew exactly what she had bellowed, but Aranya knew. Disturbance eddied in those fiery orbs, thunder prowled about the caldera, and her manner was withdrawn as it typically was when she introspected.

Zuziana’s eyes flicked to Ardan. Sapphire perched on the sooty-black Dragon’s left shoulder, as they conversed constantly. Ardan was patiently teaching Sapphire the Human and Dragon words for everything they saw. Zip grinned. Unforeseen talents!

After the roosts they toured the laboratories, climbing first to the astronomy dome at the top of the volcano. It boasted a range of Dragon telescopes for celestial star-gazing and studies of the orbits of the moons, asteroids and comets. Then they descended to the deeper laboratories designed for scholars of the botanical sciences, zoology, chemistry, magic, physics and draconic healthcare and more, and then to the forges and armouries in the volcano’s bowels, finishing up with the first of the great treasuries, re-opened that morning. Zuziana stared out over an underground lake of gold and gemstones, and caught her breath like everyone else.

Aranya averted her head. Get me out of here, Zip-Zip.

Surely … come with me, Aranya. Nonplussed, Zuziana guided her Dragon down the tunnel which had led them through the sextuple-layer security provisions of the vault. You aren’t avaricious. I know you, petal.

It sings to me. Strangely. I–I need suns-shine on my scales.

En route, Zip picked up a brush, a cloth and a pot of polishing oil from one of the storage chambers they had passed. They walked back up six levels to the lake, and then hiked higher to pool fed by a hot spring, Dragon-designed for bathing. At this hour the twin suns peered over the rim half a mile above, causing rainbows of iridescent light to cascade from the gemstone-studded walls with fearful intensity. Zip stretched like Aranya, catlike, savouring the heat.

She said, “Ah, a taste of summer in Remoy.”

Aranya nuzzled Zuziana’s left hand with her nose. “Scrub, slave.”

“Not before you soak the royal rump, lizard.”

“Ooh. I like ’em sassy,” growled Aranya, mock-feral. She huffed hot breath over the girl’s shoulders.

Zip brushed her hair back crossly. Pest.

The Amethyst sank into the steaming water with a sigh. Ah, beautiful.

Hands on hips, Zip confronted her Dragoness. “Right. Enough misty-mystique Islands from you, Immadia. Spit it out.”

“Spit? The royal personage does not spit. Mercy, Zip. Where do I start?”

“The beginning. I’ll give you a scratch behind the ears. You tell old Zippy everything.” She jumped lightly onto her friend’s lowered muzzle and clambered up to her modest but pretty ruff of skull-spikes. “Scrub, scrub. I know where you like it best.”

Aranya purred as Zuziana worked on the sensitive scales behind her skull-spikes, the equivalent of the nape of a Human neck.

“It’s just … this place has echoes,” Aranya muttered defensively. “Too much listening to Leandrial’s Balance and Harmony. I’m seeing oddities in corners.”

“You were odd long before we met Leandrial, my friend.”

“Rotten friend, you are. Remind me to tell my Dad to un-outlaw the painting of Dragons,” added the Amethyst, chuckling on cue. “Keep scrubbing. Ooh, do I smell fusty old monk?”

Zip waved happily. “Hey, sexy! Over here!”

“He’s blushing.”

“Good.” No doubt, Aranya noted the acceleration in her heart-rate as Ri’arion swung those long, lanky legs down a trail leading from the middle roosts. Dragons were all-knowing pests at the best of times.

He waved a scroll over his head. “Found something!” floated down to the girls. Correction. A girl and her Dragon. Zip shivered joyfully. Quadruple rainbows over Islands, that a girl of Remoy should unearth such a rich future!

Sapphire darted up to Aranya. Ari. Big, loud Ari. Shake leaves off Dragons. Scale-leaves.

The dragonet fell onto Aranya’s back, hiccoughing with laughter. It took them both a moment to understand her joke. Zip said, Aranya shook scales off the Dragons like leaves off trees, Sapphire?

Clever Dragoness. Clever, clever, clever, cooed the dragonet.

Honestly? Sapphire had to be the only creature cheekier than the Princess of Remoy. Even amongst her extensive family, she had earned the nickname of ‘volcanic hellion’. That detail, her siblings had helpfully shared with Aranya during their first visit to Remoy, along with various titbits drawn from her more hair-raising exploits. Now, she intended to bring home a man, handfast and settle down?

Cold sweat trickled down her neck–why?

Ri’arion started expounding the contents of his scroll from ten yards off–advanced shielding techniques they could use to hold multiple mental constructs in tension and achieve multiple layers of specialist shields–but Zuziana was struck with a crazy notion. Skip Jeradia, and their route would sweep right by Remoy.

She eyed Ri’arion speculatively, chewing the inside of her lip as the cold shakes moved from her belly down to her knees. Given as he’d flat-out forbidden her to travel to Herimor without him …

* * * *

On that sultry early afternoon following Aranya’s thunderclap arrival at Gi’ishior Island, as nearby storms fulminated without real menace, the Immadian Princess accosted Dragon-Ardan in the library. Ardan fretted over a Dragon lore-book, a volume ten feet tall and sixteen wide which Ri’arion’s scholars had retrieved for him and lugged up to a Dragon reading-stand, a plinth some fifteen feet tall in the massive upper chamber of Gi’ishior’s library.

Sensing a familiar presence playing as a threnody upon his Dragon senses, Ardan glanced to the library’s arched doorway. Great Islands–Aranya, wearing soft tan boots, snug-fitting Dragon Rider trousers and moulded body armour! Her hair was braided into a single, thick rope dangling to four inches above her knees, and Sapphire perched upon her right shoulder, her tail fondly twined about Aranya’s neck.

Amethyst eyes flashed between the folds of her face-veil, daring him to react.

Rage and desire choked him up like a roughly-corked wineskin. The Dragon-Princess insisted upon holding him at arms-length, yet now she dared to appear looking so … so much the breath of a volcanic dawn over the Islands? Those long, slender legs sashayed across the space between them with a rajal’s grace and all the poise of Immadian royalty, yet somehow mellower than he had imagined, the sway of her hips responding to the shared music of the oath-magic playing between them. Ardan swallowed fire down a suddenly parched throat. Did she feel as he? Amethyst-eyes must. How could she not recognise the effect upon a Dragon of staring into searing amethyst depths and recognising the fire, passion and high intelligence gathered there?

To some, Aranya must appear arrogant. Yet Ardan had seen her heart. Not all was the hard edges of a warrior like Kylara. He was the rough-hewn one, and she … she was … the Dragon struggled to put words to the feelings roiling audibly in his breast.

Incomparable.

Walking up to the Shadow Dragon as though this was perfectly natural, Aranya paused. “Good book?”

“Boring,” he croaked. Cleared his throat. His Dragon-hearing detected the precise burbling tones of her heart, faster than warranted–or was it? Curse this fate!

His muzzle swung down precipitously. Before he could stop himself, Ardan’s massive inhalation plucked at her clothing and sucked her braid upward to tickle his nostrils. Vanilla. Iridescent spider-silk magic. Perfume, not the dorlis-flower scent she had worn when courting Yolathion, but a headier, more complex scent. Lilies, fireflower, traces of oddly fragrant metals or aromatic wood, his dazed brain tried to comprehend. Smoke. Volcanoes. Fra’anior the Onyx’s roaring drowning out all but the raging of his Dragon-hearts!

Ardan was quite certain his expression must resemble a gormless ralti sheep.

“D-D … Dragon!” Aranya stammered, igniting liquid fire in his bowels. Ardan’s talons curled, squeaking against the stone floor. “Ride with me.”

He wanted to laugh. Fraud. She was as overcome as he.

This battle would be won by a Shadow Dragon. Aranya had no conception how tenacious he could be! Only friends? Find another to love? Toss that idiocy in the nearest volcano!

Aranya stamped her left foot. “Stop looking at me like … like that. You’re tearing your own scales off with boredom. Take me flying.” In a small voice, she added, “Now, please?”

From imperious command to a girlish plea. Oftentimes, he forgot she was still a teenager. Aye, Ardan, This was a young Dragoness who had made it her business to body-slam history and wrench it onto an entirely new course. Aranya’s course. And her heart throbbed in rhythm with his. His thoughts were sweet pollen tumbled by whimsical breezes.

He proffered a paw. “My lady.”

She bowed. “Thank you, Ardan. But I think I will practice mounting my Dragon. Never hurts to be prepared.”

Eloquence deserted his tongue. Ardan creaked, “Your saddle?”

“Spine-spike straps,” she said, holding up a tidy assortment of straps linked to ratchet-action fasteners. “A Dragonfriend special. Coupled with a touch of laziness on my part … come, Dragon! We’re frittering the day away.”

He purred:

’Ere thy gentle edicts doth shiver mine Islands,

Most deliciously–

“Ardan!” she squawked, blushing so hotly he saw heat shimmering right though her face-veil.

“What?”

“Don’t you know what you’re saying?”

“A ballad Ja’arrion was whispering to his mate the other … oh. Do I sense another cross-cultural mishap?” Holding her gaze with his febrile Dragon-eyes, Ardan watched her colour deepen intriguingly. He rumbled, “Aye, Aranya?”

“Aye. As in, that’s–” she switched languages mid-sentence–an expression reserved for roost-love. And a naughty expression at that. Quite inappropriate.

Naughty? Inappropriate? Immadians clearly did not excel in sharpening the verbal scimitar near the conjugal hut, as Western Islanders would put it. Ducking away in an attempt to disguise her blushes, Aranya proceeded to march off in a high dudgeon. Ardan’s eyes inadvertently lit upon the decidedly less-than-straitlaced action of her hips. Great Islands, how the poetry of Immadia simmered in tailored leather trousers!

He checked surreptitiously. Aye, his scales were smoking.

Chapter 9: Seeking Dragon Lore

ARANYA FUMED, AWARE she had erred. Doubtless, Nak would extol the virtues of playing with a man’s affections. That was not her style. So, what had she been thinking–to distract Ardan? Mission accomplished. Fire his futile desire? So done, as his scenting of her person signified. As self-directed irritation lengthened her stride, Aranya listened to and felt the Dragon’s massive tread trailing her. She had to inform Mister Sulphur-Breath soon about her decision soon, but she could not. Their oath-magic was too consuming; her loss too raw.

Dragons should not look at girls like that. It was just … it was the yearning between two oath-bound Shapeshifter-souls. It was right and proper, cried the voice of her inner storms–no! She must not admit this folly. Friends only, and not a scale’s-edge more!

Who was she trying to fool?

Aranya walked rapidly, but the Shadow Dragon took one step for every four of hers. As they exited Gi’ishior’s library through a tunnel, his rasping breath, burbling belly-fires and leathery scraping of paws on stone were magnified, and Dragoness-Aranya happily drooled over his warrior-Dragon wafting odour on the slight breeze from the rear. Her Human turned up her nose, mentally. Her Dragon had better behave herself–well, better than Human-Aranya, anyways.

Ardan paused as the fierce suns-shine broke over them; crouching, he shifted his hind left paw toward her foot. Mount up, Dragon Rider.

Stepping up onto the arch of his left foot, Aranya placed her boot on the nub of his ankle bone and levered herself up toward his tightly bent knee. She hesitated in surprise. Why the smoke, Ardan? Indeed, upon closer examination, wisps of smoke curled all over his body. Are you sick?

Not quite, he laughed gruffly, curving his neck to regard her progress.

I demand the truth, Dragon!

Very well. Too much flagrant ogling of thy peerless posterior, Immadia.

What? Aranya’s left foot slipped, landing the Princess flat on her stomach, in a fine pickle of wriggling embarrassment, partway onto his knee. A Nak joke? Too many truth-indicators shading … the truth! Ardan, how dare you–

He reached back to pat the upturned object of his desire. Need a paw now?

Paws off! Off, I said! Ardan, are you trying to vex me?

Aranya levered herself up with an angry flexion of her arms, before taking the route up the steely bulge of his phenomenal thigh muscles to his lower back. When she turned to glare at him, bending her knees to account for the slope of his black scale-armour, a sardonic, appraising Dragon-smile enflamed her fury. Stop … looking at me!

Slowly, the Shadow Dragon rumbled, Looking and vexing? I admit to both. Too much the Princess to handle the truth you stipulated?

Men! Dragons!

No, not that, she gritted out mentally. Ardan, I am not … I am no longer capable–I cannot be with you! Man and woman, it cannot ever be.

Kindly allow me my own opinions on the matter! the Dragon snarled. Aye, riddle me this, Princess: since when was love so one-dimensional? I spit upon this null-fires gibberish from a supposedly educated royal–

Thundering Dragon fires! She threw back, This is nothing to do with my station.

Then, I will admire what I will admire! Thou …

Abruptly, his cantankerous, smoke-billowing response mellowed into a purr that almost shook her off his back. Aranya climbed rapidly up to his spine-spikes. No! She had decided–spineless Immadia. Aye, she had provoked him, and now this? He had to desist! It was the only way.

She had to desist. Mercy.

He drawled, I fail to understand why we are arguing over the exquisitely inarguable, Princess.

Arguing over the what? Aranya snorted, before thinking the better of her response. Thunder resounded together with her cry, ARDAN!

His mighty body shook with laughter, still smoking visibly. Aye, Immadia? Might I endeavour to express how the delicious rondure of–

Not under any moon!

At once the Shadow Dragon bowed, acting unconcerned by her ire. Then, what is my lady’s pleasure today? The Islands are ours, the skies, the world below–where to?

A circuit of Fra’anior Cluster.

Agreed.

Shortly, Aranya had her straps affixed. Now Ardan could turn somersaults and she would merely bobble a bit on her seat between his spine-spikes. And he could ruddy well stop his shameless eyeballing of her pox-raddled personage! So much for denying the oath-magic. She settled her trembling hands on her lap. Fra’anior grant her strength to stay this dreadful course.

Oh, Sha’aldior!

At her low request, the Shadow Dragon sprang upward, his first leap taking them to double the height of a Dragon before he flexed his mighty wingspan, driving them toward the skies. The gemstone-encrusted walls of Gi’ishior’s volcano flashed by.

She whooped softly as the powerful young Dragon shot out of the volcano as though flung by an explosion, already exceeding a velocity of twenty-five leagues per hour. Oh, roaring rajals–Dragonflight! How different Ardan was to Yolathion. No well-bred, proper son of Jeradia would have dared to compliment her posterior in such a fashion–for the first time, she appreciated the irony and inanity of that notion, well-bred. What was not well-bred about a warrior who chose to shed his lifeblood for a kingdom not his own? He had Islands more honour, dignity and majesty than many a man or woman born into so-called high station. One mistook him for a simple man at one’s peril. Perhaps she would have governed Yolathion more than was healthy in a relationship. Ardan would not be dominated. They might clash, but he had already demonstrated the maturity to apologise for mistakes–apologies did not come as easily to proud Immadia, did they?

Fra’anior Cluster spread out before them, its mighty ramparts wreathed in a storm which had swept in low across the Cloudlands, washing around the base of the Islands of the south-eastern rim like a grim black tide, yet it did not reach high enough to surmount the league-tall cliffs. Another isolated storm embraced Fra’anior Island, its grey, drifting skirts proclaiming heavy rainfall; still a third approached Ha’athior, occluding the wilder, uninhabited southern rim-Isles beyond.

Clearly riled, Ardan indulged in a southerly sprint from Gi’ishior, just a quarter-mile offshore of the rim-wall, putting leagues between them and the Dragon patrols. Oh no, another Dragon patrol lurked high overhead, so high that her Human eyes only just caught the glint of suns-shine upon scales. One tropical Island slipped by. Two. Pocket-sized Human villages stood amongst the lush greenery, from this height seemingly populated by ants. She should memorise their names. Hualiama would have known these Islands like the palm of her hand.

Suddenly, her head swivelled. Ardan. Behind that storm …

What?

Instinct. Balance. A tingling in her bones. She had only the thinnest of descriptors to encompass the rich feedback of Dragon senses that led her to direct Ardan to fly low along the eastern flank of Ha’athior Island. She bade him slow, scouting the vine-festooned cliffs, hunting with her developing senses. His wings flexed and adjusted constantly upon the changeable winds. Gusts kicked them about so hard that twice, Ardan’s wingtips sliced the foliage. They sideslipped through cotton-puff ranks of white cloud; Aranya sensed Ardan’s concern, but she would not relent.

There! she yelled.

Ardan jinked, cutting his approach so narrowly that he employed his tail to knock them a few feet further from the cliff, before executing a cunning twist that took them beneath the stony outcropping and into a narrow crevasse that led to a cave. She breathed in the Shadow Dragon’s excitement. There were signs of recent occupation–broken vines, stripped leaves, a passage carved through a thick veil of trailing linger-vines.

Draconic occupation.

“Kylara!” gasped Aranya.

Ardan flared and braked as best he could manage in the narrow space, landing almost atop Kylara’s head in the sandy entrance of a hidden cave. “Wounded,” he growled.

“Ardan. Aranya,” the Western Isles warrior greeted them with a curt, pained bow.

Having already unclipped her harness, Aranya stepped rapidly down to Ardan’s shoulder. “Where’s Jia-Llonya? Yolathion?”

“Freaking feral Dragon’s gone,” Kylara cursed unhappily. “You ever tried to catch a feral Dragon without killing him, Princess? Go to Yedior–please. He’s the worst wounded. He kept Yolathion from killing us.”

A rapid paw-ride later, Aranya’s boots thumped down onto the sand. She ran after her erstwhile love-rival into the cave. It did not broaden out much, but it was deep. She smelled sulphur, dank smoke and the complex vanilla and anise-like scent of magical Dragon blood. Her boots squelched on what she realised was sand mixed with golden blood. As her eyes adjusted from the bright suns-glare, she saw Jia-Llonya lying to one side, nursing a severely burned arm. Yedior the Brown lay slumped beside the girl, the savage bite-wounds on his neck wadded with probably every item of clothing the two Riders possessed. Neither of them even wore trousers, she observed inanely.

Aranya snapped, “How long?”

“Four days,” Kylara said. “We’ve been waiting, calling for help … surviving.”

“Five,” Jia-Llonya whispered. “We felt something–was it you, Princess, kicking the Islands about?”

Never mind her weak joke. Rescue? Carry them back? Aranya knew she could not Shapeshift again this day and still have enough magic left to work on their wounds. She turned an unworthy curl of jealousy at these two chasing Yolathion about the Islands, into a fierce summons to her healing gift.

Yedior said, I’ve been lying still to conserve energy. We knew someone would come.

You did well with the clothing, Aranya noted. Ardan. Help me. Mind-meld. I’ll need your strength.

Then she reached for the Brown and laid her hands against his neck. Please, let her strength suffice. Please … Aranya rode the floodwaters of a familiar power. Let there be healing!

The Brown Dragon’s wounds had come within a rajal’s whisker of fatality, for Yolathion’s fangs had punctured the major neck arteries in four places. The Jeradian girl’s spare dress and Kylara’s wadded-up underwear had saved his life, she told them. Having contained the bleeding, the Dragon’s natural healing power had been at work meantime. Following Leandrial’s detailed instructions, Aranya drew also on Yedior’s strength and innate Balance–for in the Land Dragons’ philosophy, healing was a form of re-Balancing a physical, emotional or spiritual state–to repair the most life-threatening damage. The Brown sported other wounds upon his wings and paws, with three talons entirely torn from their roots, but Aranya understood those would regrow.

Now, the Dragon pointed her to Jia-Llonya. I’m well enough, for which I thank thee, Star Dragoness. Now, see to my Riders.

Infection had set in. Aranya swayed and almost fainted as she beat back the fever and hurting, trying to cleanse her friend’s arm as Jia-Llonya had once nursed her with the pox. Ardan’s presence was like a deep-rooted rock. The entirety of Jia’s left arm had been seared with Dragon fire, which had washed against her left flank and up to her neck. Aranya sweated three hours over her wounds.

“We’ll need cleansing herbs, salve and bandages,” Aranya said finally, becoming aware from the angle of the shadows how the day had advanced. “Kylara?”

“It’s just a cut,” growled the Warlord of Yanga Island.

“Which merely lifted a flap of skin off a granite-filled skull?” Aranya sniped, checking the wound behind Kylara’s head.

Kylara’s answering laughter told Aranya exactly how territorial she was being around Ardan. The Warlord said, “We tracked Yolathion down to Fra’anior. He’s been hiding around Islands and pinching ralti sheep. But at Rolodia he attacked a village–the buildings, actually, rather than people. Yedior drove him off. He’s completely wild, Aranya. Any advice for belting feral Dragons into their right mind? Assuming you don’t want to return the favour he bestowed upon you at Sylakia’s Last Walk …”

“I’m over that.” Aranya sighed. “And him. So over him. Not that I’m calling Yolathion leftovers, mind. He’s a good man in his own right, and honourable–”

“I’m to sup on a Princess’ leftovers?” Kylara shouted.

Jia-Llonya interrupted, “You don’t understand Immadian understatement.”

“Stuff it up your fumarole!” swore the Warlord.

However, Yedior turned a mesmerising eye upon the young Warlord; her hand trembled upon her scimitar hilt, before falling away. “Precious Rider,” the Brown rumbled earnestly, “how my hearts sing at the raging of your fires!”

Aranya did not understand what passed between the new Dragon-Rider pair, but Kylara appeared to relent. Soon, Yedior found his paws, stretching gingerly. I thank you, my Star-Shadow kin, he said. With your aid, I shall fly to Gi’ishior. We must scour the lore for the right methods to succour our wing-brother Yolathion, for our task is unfinished.

If this is your will, I shall carry your Riders, Ardan replied, overriding Aranya’s immediate protests. My Rider is right. We shall fly low to the Isles, Yedior the Brown, and I shall fly beneath. You will rest as needed upon my shoulders. Word of a Dragon?

Aranya sucked in her lip at Ardan’s tone. Dragon-direct! However, Yedior seemed pleased–this proposal winged the path between honour and shame, she recognised belatedly. His wounds and incapacity were shameful; worse, his defeat in battle. He had to show his strength by flying to Gi’ishior at once, or he was no Dragon. Aye. Sighing, Aranya summoned the dregs of her magical strength.

Perhaps, between them, she and Ardan might keep this stubborn lizard alive.

First, they had truly burned the heavens. Now, two Dragons and three Riders would limp home. This was her new life as a Shapeshifter Dragoness. Soul-inspiring. Tragic. Magical.

* * * *

Come the glorious deepening of evening that same day following a fiery Fra’aniorian suns-set, a second perturbation struck the much-abused volcano of Gi’ishior.

ARANYA!

Land Dragons had a way of making themselves heard. And he had just been chasing the largest fish he had ever seen. With a bubbling sigh, Dragon-Ardan breached the surface, shaking the water off his wings. He launched himself westward toward Leandrial’s head as she loomed above the terrace lake, searching with her eye-beam.

He bugled, “All is well, noble Leandrial.”

He called a second time in telepathic Dragonish, whereupon the powerful beam swept toward him. Ardan barrel-rolled smartly to his port flank, avoiding any impact, before accelerating with his utmost strength. Wind whistled across his ear-canals and scales. His flight muscles creaked and burned as he poured out his power, revelling in the joy of flight. To his surprise, he caught a telepathic chuckle from Leandrial.

Enjoying yourself, little one? Now, explain!

Compressing his thoughts into bite-sized chunks, Western Isles-style, Ardan peppered Leandrial with information. Aranya was fine. She had spoken a Word of Command; Leandrial replied that she had heard the Amethyst Dragoness over two hundred leagues away! He fired Ri’arion’s shielding ideas at the Land Dragoness and summarised the information they had received by message-hawk from Sylakia and Telstroy regarding Thoralian’s probable flight-path. He related their latest plan of eschewing the detour to Jeradia, if only they could extract information from her mind; Ri’arion also had ideas about how he might eavesdrop on Leandrial’s thoughts, if she was willing.

Then, he decelerated by cupping his wings, riding the violent forces conducted through the wing bones to his formidable shoulders and ready body.

Of course I’m willing, said Leandrial, apparently unruffled by this controversial idea. No mind-reading will be required, just the services of a mind that sees like yours. I will borrow their thoughts.

This pronouncement came accompanied by a thoroughly discomfiting grin. Ardan stretched his wings to disguise his unease; at exactly that moment, he heard Aranya’s call. The Amethyst Dragoness swirled through the tunnel entrance, having to take evasive action to avoid a fire-spitting Dragonwing. Their first thought had clearly been–attack!

Half an hour of explanations and bustling arrangements later, Leandrial’s knuckles curled over the terrace-lake edge in a posture of unalloyed frustration. Too many chiefs among these Dragons, Ardan decided, eyeing the commotion with a fiercely rolling eye. Two hundred monks and one hundred Human servitors sat on the terrace lake wall facing the volcanic cone, keeping a healthy distance from Leandrial’s mighty paws. King Beran rode Ja’arrion aloft, together with every single Dragon from the volcano, including Yedior and his double Rider-team. Jia-Llonya had evidently wangled or burgled her way out of the infirmary; she appeared deathly pale, and her green eyes dull with pain.

The Amethyst Dragoness, Sapphire and Ri’arion had alighted on the Land Dragoness’ towering muzzle and stood with their eyes closed, absorbed in whatever briefing Leandrial had for them. He eyed Aranya balefully. That Dragoness’ wingtips drooped, but she was still pushing herself beyond the edge of the Isle …

To the West, the thick golden rays of the suns’ fierce gaze beamed from beneath the horizon to the Yellow Moon, still shining furnace-hot two fingers above the faraway Cloudlands. Overhead, Jade waxed toward fullness, whilst the full Blue Moon seemed intent upon lurking behind Gi’ishior’s cone. Yet the caldera was never fully dark. Active lava flows and a constant level of eruption four miles below made a stolid Western Islander feel decidedly jumpy. Ground was supposed to stay still. Earthen-fires should stay well underground. Ardan’s gaze traced the copper-blue sky, picking out familiar constellations–the Golden Rajal, the Portal of the East, and the Forty Ancestors. At least some things remained immutable, unlike his life.

The suns dipped, the evening deepening as if golden curtains drew majestically across Fra’anior’s skies.

Suddenly, Aranya’s melody thrilled his soul. Ardan. We’re ready.

Without warning, Leandrial’s eye-cannon brightened, piercing the ruddy gloom with an ultra-powerful beam that played on the volcano’s steep slope three-quarters of a mile distant. White light irradiated the area, expanding as Leandrial adjusted her output, then abruptly, a picture flickered into existence against the foliage. Dozens of watchers gasped in concert with Ardan.

Monsters writhed and wrestled in an eerie realm of platter-like plants. Fists pummelled; flaming talons scored Dragon hide and punctured it like a Land Dragon ripping into a mountain. The other Land Dragon was larger than Leandrial by a considerable margin, but he wore puncture-wounds in his flanks and his boomed challenge communicated pain as his opponent struck him with multiple, rapid-fire blows. Every Dragon present flinched and exclaimed at the power of their battle. Yet the picture was wrong–lacking colour, Ardan realised. Leandrial was colour-blind. The aggressor, Shurgal, was shaped like a squat, powerful salamander, with three eyes to Leandrial’s one and five parallel lines of low, stubby spine-spikes running the length of his back and tail.

Leandrial’s voice, modulated through Aranya’s mind, rolled over the congregation. “I battled Shurgal for possession of the Pygmy Dragon. I was younger and much smaller, then. He had stolen the Pygmy Dragon from the Marshal of Herimor and dragged her into the depths of the Middle Sea, seeking to harness her powers for himself.”

Suddenly, a tiny Dragoness–barely half Aranya’s size–squeezed through a hole in Shurgal’s flank, clawing at the thick air like an uncoordinated frog. In Leandrial’s vision she was as black as onyx stone; they saw massive paws entering the picture, reaching for the mite, before the gigantic talons curled, shuddering terribly.

“Shurgal struck me a grievous blow. His anti-Harmonic attack disabled my defences.”

Latch onto this! a tiny voice cried.

“The little one was the voice of the Great Onyx to my soul.”

Ri’arion groaned and swayed visibly as a new sensation gripped the Dragons: power like the voice of volcanoes, strength born of old, of the darkest and most ancient reaches of Fra’anior’s power. Strength of Onyx, channelled through the presence of the Pygmy Dragon. The scene blurred, before stabilising just in time for the viewers to see Leandrial’s fisted forepaw striking Shurgal a monstrous, bone-crushing blow to the left-frontal section of his skull. KEERAACK!

Ardan flinched. Unholy, stinking windrocs!

“With Pip’s help, I defeated him. The traitor fled, but I was too sorely wounded to make any pursuit. I’ve had one hundred and fifty years to rue my blunder.”

* * * *

Flick. The images jumped again as Ri’arion, even with Aranya’s aid, struggled to control the Land Dragoness’ prodigious output. His job was to translate the language of Leandrial’s peculiar Harmonic vision into images ordinary Humans or Dragons could understand.

Aranya stared at the black scrap of Dragon fire-life lying collapsed on Leandrial’s palm. That was her? So tiny. So compact of scale and paw. Yet the magnitude of her power … great Islands, she had channelled the strength of Fra’anior himself into another Dragon! In that instant of blooming jealousy, she realised how badly she had underestimated the Pygmy Dragoness.

She was the most dangerous creature ever to shoot the rainbows above the Isles.

* * * *

Zuziana wanted to watch Ri’arion, but the faraway images mesmerised her. Aranya was helping and stabilising him, yet even a monk’s disciplined mind wrestled mightily with the task at hand.

The black scrap moaned, Jeradia. We must …

Only in unburdened rest can the soul be healed, little one, Leandrial replied. Now lay the world’s needs aside and sleep. We will reach Jeradia when the Balance of the Harmonies has reached its fruition.

Here in the now, Leandrial explained, “I ran with the Pygmy Dragon via Meldior to Jeradia. I am sorry, but my thought-memories have degenerated shamefully with senescence. I remind you, Shurgal-ap-Tuûar-bàr-Rhiytûxi was once a legend of my kind, the mighty Guardian of Wisdom of the Water-Runner Clan. Shurgal set out to wrest the First Egg from the deep-dwelling S’gulzzi. But he treated with the dread Theadurial in order to prevail in his quest. Upon returning with the Egg, when his foul bargain became common knowledge, there was outright war between the Clans. That was when the cunning Marshal Re’akka swooped and stole the First Egg for himself. Employing its power to corrupt armies of Lesser Dragons, he floated an entire Island across the Rift with the aim of conquering new territories and laying all the Dragonkind to the sword.”

“Pip believed that Shurgal summoned the Nurguz, a parasitic spirit-creature, to wreak revenge upon Marshal Re’akka. Whatever the case, the Nurguz ravaged the Dragons North of the Rift. Listen, I have a thought-fragment for you from a time I believe I carried the Pygmy Dragon inside my mouth.”

Pip’s earnest voice piped up, “Re’akka is a thief and Shurgal is a traitor armed with urzul. Re’akka and Shurgal hate each other. The Theadurial parasitize the Land Dragons–” The voice, apparently that of a teenager, snapped off.

Leandrial’s voice swelled. “Does any person or Dragon here know this magic called urzul?”

Zuziana glanced about, seeing a mighty dint of beard- and scale-scratching but not a great deal of knowledge emerging. Privately to Aranya, she said, Doesn’t Leandrial have any idea?

Ideas, aye, the Amethyst replied. But no direct knowledge. She’s concerned that Shurgal defeated her so comprehensively in both of their battles; the second time, she almost lost her life.

One of the monks rose from his cross-legged position to relay a pithy message, that the lexical root of urzul was similar to irzu, a word derived from an ancient Dragonish dialect that meant ‘taint’ or ‘corruption’. Ri’arion added that they would unleash linguistic researchers in the libraries. Then, he bowed to the Land Dragoness.

Leandrial continued, “Having released Pip near the Academy, I retreated for some days to heal. Then, I became aware of the Harmonic-song of battle joined upon the Island you call Jeradia.”

At once, the pictures jumped again. Accompanied by Leandrial’s low, thunderous commentary, Zip saw her charging up a vertical slope, her Harmonic vision picking out rock formations and features even through a misting that she suddenly realised must be the thick Cloudlands. Soon she poured over an incline before accelerating along the flat, her jouncing vision picking up a craggy, cracked mountain-scape she and many of the Dragonkind recognised as Jeradia Island. Then, the entire assembly drew breath as one.

An Island with no foundation! Shurgal. Myriad Dragons!

No Dragon in their group, Zip suspected, had ever seen a battle to compare. Upon a narrow plain between a massive, squat volcano and the north-eastern cliff-edge of Jeradia, a sizeable Island floated with infeasible ease in the air. Shurgal attacked its base like a frenzied mole, his great, spatulate claws fountaining rock behind him as he quarried for a power that shocked her, even now, hundreds of leagues and multiple generations later. Dragons darkened the sky. Spiky coal-black beasts in their thousands flitted around the floating Island and attacked a smaller group, who appeared to have approached from the volcano. The Academy Dragons, Leandrial noted, instructing Ri’arion to outline several of them in haloes of light. Zip would have struggled to pick them out herself, but her throat constricted as the monk showed a Dragonwing of hundreds of Riders seated upon mighty Dragons–she saw Nak riding a sleek beauty of a Dragoness, his Shimmerith, and Oyda aboard a much larger, muscular male who had to be Emblazon. They had been there! And remembered … nothing.

What by Fra’anior’s sulphurous breath had transpired, that day?

As Leandrial charged on, aiming her mile-long body like an arrow at Shurgal, who was half again her size, Zip saw the Nurguz. Formless and terrifying, a darkness of oily, unrecognisable magic descended upon the spiky Dragons clustered around Shurgal–helping? Attacking? She could not tell in the chaos. Tentacles fell lightly upon Dragons, pulsating as though to the tempo of an inner sucking, and the creature drank their souls, their very fire-life, out of their bodies!

Zip’s scream choked off in an explosion of bile, but even as she struggled not to vomit, she could not tear her eyes off the spectacle. The smaller force of Academy Dragons and Dragon Riders split up as Leandrial thundered into the fray, her unopposed opening strike knocking Shurgal sprawling as she tore a rib bodily out of his side. The Land Dragons tangled once more. They saw flashes of battle … Dragons clashing, falling … the ghastly Shadow feeding … the curvature of the First Egg partially exposed in the base of that Island, its inconceivable power playing havoc with Leandrial’s senses … the tiny Pygmy Dragon assaulting another Lesser Dragon of a size that beggared belief, power radiating from him in waves of awful majesty … Thoralian? No, surely–

HSSSS-KERRAAAACK!

An explosion of magic rocked the battling Land Dragons, momentarily turning her world to white, and then they tipped precipitately into space and fell, and fell …

Leandrial’s eye-beam shut off. Ri’arion sank to his knees, groaning and sweating. Aranya steadied him with her magic.

Roughly, the Land Dragoness ground out, “You have seen the Nurguz, my kin. It has departed our Island-World, or perished. You have seen the Academy volcano and its brave forces led by the Pygmy Dragon; you have seen the Island of Eridoon, home to Marshal Re’akka and his dread legions of Night-Red Assassins. Thus was my battle with Shurgal, but its ending was … shameful. I failed. I tumbled more than four leagues down the cliff; there, I fell upon my neck with the weight of Shurgal bearing down from above, damaging the spinal column. The traitor left me for dead. I was paralysed for a time spanning weeks. Having rolled all the way down to the middle layer, I placed my body into a healing sleep not unlike the hibernation of your high-dwelling animals. Once I had sufficiently recovered, I climbed that mountain again, the massif of Jeradia. And this is what I saw. Ri’arion?”

“Aye, mighty Dragoness,” he agreed, lurching to his feet.

The eye-beam speared out once more. Now she displayed two images, the first being the volcano and its backing mountains, and beside it, a second image showed a blackened, blasted hollow against a backdrop of manifestly the same mountain range. Gone. Spirited away, without explanation.

The eyes deceived. Surely, impossible? A chorus of querulous argument began among the monks and Dragons.

“That is Jeradia today, little friends,” Leandrial confirmed. She sounded exhausted and dispirited. “Long did I search, but the bodies of those slain Dragons also vanished into the aether, along with Eridoon Island, the volcano and all within it, and the First Egg. Yet I scented magical traces of Shurgal’s passing and the mighty power of the Egg, and I tracked him past your Crescent Islands, until I came at last to the Rift and knew the prospect of my doom. Three times I attempted that crossing, and failed. My kin suffer the most terrible oppression. But now, a new Star Dragoness has risen and I know a tingling and a trembling in my fires.”

Slowly, the talons of her right forepaw rose alongside her head, until the Amethyst Dragoness apprehended her intent and stepped forward to press her muzzle against Leandrial’s foreclaw.

After a long pause in which no soul dared move, Leandrial said, “By the power of the First Eggs, the Ancient Dragoness traversed the vast gulf between the stars and arrived upon the shores of our Island-World. At all costs, we must prevent Thoralian or Shurgal, if he still lives, from claiming such power. Yet we have hope. This little one is the paw of the incomparable Fra’anior in our world. She is the Daughter of Storm, her voice the thundering that resonates through the fate of all Dragons. Let Thoralian hear, and tremble! Let evil be struck into the abyss, and perish!”

The Shapeshifters’ answering battle-challenges boomed over the waters.

Zip watched Aranya. Her friend’s eye-fires were clear for the first time since her captivity in Sylakia. A tender wingtip-touch soothed her dragonet. What was she thinking? Aranya’s mind seemed to be trapped in another time and place, perhaps faraway at Jeradia …

* * * *

Ari call Dragon, Sapphire insisted. Ancient one.

A Dragon? Aranya puzzled. I know you don’t mean Fra’anior, petal. Help me understand.

As she flew back to the roost assigned to her and Zip, directly between Va’assia and Ja’arrion’s roost and a roost assigned to Beran, Ardan and Ri’arion, Aranya puzzled over the dragonet’s words. Her vocabulary and ability to communicate were growing by the day, but she was still the equivalent of an older child in dragonet terms.

Dancing. Laughing. She here, Ari. You see she-Dragon. Ancient one.

Numistar Winterborn? No. Aranya did not appreciate feeling dense, but her brain would not make a sensible connection. Poor Sapphire danced on her shoulder, making a spitting sound like an angry feline.

The dragonet hissed, Ari speak great Black Dragon. Now, speak her. Speak her!

But Fra’anior was male. Immadior? No. My mother? No, not ancient enough. Sapphire, who do you–

Here! She here! Ari lots-help. Sapphire flipped over her head and somersaulted into a landing on Aranya’s nose. Her little talons dug in sharply. Ari silly mush-for-brains.

Hmm. Perhaps less language was better. Aranya scowled at the mite, gazing at her eyes in turn from a distance of less than a foot as she danced from one paw to the other, making encouraging noises. Here at Gi’ishior, a dancer. Who had been a dancer in the ballads? Surely not …

Hualiama?

Chapter 10: A Dance of Stars

ONCE BEFORE, ARANYA had channelled her mother’s presence in a time of grave need. Now, her need was not battle-urgent, but nevertheless, excitement pinched her chest like a pair of warm blacksmith’s tongs as she settled on her pallet that night. She had returned to her Human form. Somehow, it felt right–not for any practical or obvious reasons, just an intuition.

Hualiama. Star Dragoness. Long deceased–surely, a legend of yore. Aranya knew so little about the mystical ways of Star Dragons, but if her mother could rise from her near-death state to enter a waking vision–whereupon she rebuked her daughter soundly, yet in terms so lucid, Aranya was persuaded Izariela had actually been present in some spiritual sense–could the legendary Hualiama do the same? Heavens knew she needed help. Even Sapphire said so! Paws the size of Fra’anior’s might help, along with the ability to spirit herself and her companions across the Rift.

Aranya closed her eyes decisively. She stilled her breathing. She must summon yearning and desire, and thrust rational objections out of her mind. This was no rational exercise.

This was a family affair.

Hualiama? Blue-star? If you can hear me, please, heed my call. I need you. Actually, I’m not ashamed to say I’m desperate, and a bit scared. She chuckled sleepily. Alright, I’m more the shaking-loose-of-my-hide kind of scared. Please come soon.

Sapphire snuggled against her ribs. Ari … so warm …

Aranya twined an arm around the dragonet. You’re so much more than a heap of pretty scales, eh, girl?

Sapphire prettiest, murmured the dragonet.

Their eyelids shuttered.

* * * *

The Red Dragoness burst into her roost, dripping hot oil. What? Are you hurt? Come to Mama, little one.

A tiny slip of a girl sat lost within the vastness of a Dragon-sized turquoise floor-cushion, facing the Dragoness. Her hair was a white-blonde moon-halo about her elfin face, framing eyes of a haunting, smoky green. Dragon-Mama? Hurt. Look. She displayed a deep cut on her knee.

Aranya watched, thunderstruck. How could a girl-child call a Dragoness her mother? She must be three years old, four at most, but … the Red was a Shapeshifter, surely. That was the only sensible conclusion.

Oh, my sweet mouse, crooned the Dragoness. Come to Mama. What were you doing?

Her eyes brimmed with fat, hot tears. With a spectacularly cute pout and a trembling lower lip, the girl sniffed, Was dancing, but I fell down. Hurt, Mama. Hurt bad.

Come. Crooking one talon about the child’s waist, the Dragoness whisked her to the bath-chamber, where she bathed the wound in cool water and touched it with her healing magic, singing:

Hush little eggling, don’t take fright,

Mama’s wings will rock thee all the night,

Safe and sound in roost and fire …

Aranya could not help herself. She gasped aloud, transported in her own memories to a time when Izariela used to sing that very song over her crib!

Squirming in the Dragoness’ tenderly cupped paw, the little girl stared directly at Aranya. She lisped, Who are you, tall spirit?

The Red Dragoness’ head jerked about, searching. There’s no-one there, she said. You and your imaginings. Now, why don’t you show me that charming dance, Hualiama?

Hualiama!

* * * *

Aranya’s jaw was just starting to drop when a petite, blue-haired girl of about her own age almost stuck a finger up her nostril, using the wagging appendage to illustrate her shout, “You leave my hatchling-memories alone, you despicable thought-stealer!”

“Calm down, Dragonsoul. We invited her,” called another, virtually identical voice, tugging at the other girl’s arm.

“Barbarian. Cloud-scraper. Memory-looting lout,” complained blue-hair.

“Twins?” Aranya spluttered.

Twins, save for the hair. Her eyes flicked rapidly between the pair of Human girls. Shapeshifters, or she missed her mark. Ears tending to Fra’aniorian points were almost hidden beneath the mass of their locks, which had an oh-so-familiar quality and consistency; both possessed terrace-lake eyes, one framed in deep blue hair, the other in a wealth of white-blonde. The identical set of the twins’ jaws … she had only ever seen that expression in a mirror. Oh, mercy! Shapeshifter royalty, precious images of her heritage …

“Aunt Hualiama!” Aranya sank to one knee. “Uh … which of you … is my Aunt?”

“I am,” they chorused.

“But you’re so young,” Aranya swallowed, the dipped her head to hide her embarrassment. “I’m sorry. Am I dreaming? Are you alive? I need your help, please, I beg–”

“Oh, petal!”

Again, the twins spoke in perfect concert, then looked at each other and laughed. “Alright, Hualiama, you tell her.” Aranya could not tell which of them had spoken. “Allow me.”

Slim, petite hands slipped around her neck from her left. The blonde girl leaned close, and kissed her cheek tenderly, notwithstanding its ruin. “I am Human-Hualiama, called the Dragonfriend,” she whispered. “I am one aspect of my fire-soul. In this place, which I call my soul-space, we two can always be together when we want to be. This blue-haired bundle of mischief is my Dragonsoul. My second-soul, if you like. Also, Blue-star, the promise-star. Hualiama.”

A second pair of arms clasped her gently, and the other twin’s breath warmed her cheek. “She’s my Humansoul. I call her Humanlove, dear Aranya. And I am her beloved Dragonsoul. I like this form because identical twins have many parallels with our existence. Together, we are Hualiama–your mother’s shell-sister–and we invited you into our soul-space because thou art kin, and we have loved thee since before thy star was born, Aranya of Immadia, and from beyond the stars, we have loved thee across the ages with an abiding and incendiary and fierce love! Thou art beloved–thou, Aranya!”

As the Dragoness’ passion rose, Aranya noticed her speech changed to more ancient, more draconic patterns. Like Fra’anior, she realised.

“Isn’t it my job to do the weeping?” asked Human-Hualiama.

The other chuckled softly, clutching Aranya to her bosom. So strong! “We’ve waited an eternity for thee, petal. Now. Doubtless, our father the mighty Onyx has roared at you the ways of fate, that the future must not be troubled by any meddling paw?”

Aranya’s head shook slightly. Unbelievable! This manner and excess of love alarmed and staggered her; could she have risen of her own volition? She must hold her head above the flood, must gather her wits to ask the right questions … what had Hualiama just revealed? Harmonies and fate itself could be modified by interference from Fra’anior, or his legendary Shapeshifter shell-daughter? So many questions burned upon her tongue! She must demand answers …

Blonde-Hualiama said, “No, petal. If we answered all your questions the future would change, and not for the better.”

Mind-reader! Aranya wet her lips. “Mercy.”

“Mercy indeed, my fierce shell-niece!” cried Dragonsoul. “Did your shell-grandfather not teach you these things? No mind. Question him when next you meet. And ignore all the thundering and fulminating awesomeness. Typical, overweening draconic ego, that’s all.”

The Princess of Immadia laughed at this spirited declaration, but the other twin added, “We have gifts for you, Aranya. Mine is the gift of dance.”

“Dance?” Flying monkeys, now her voice cracked and wobbled?

Dragonsoul said, “Mine is the gift of hope. We will show you the place in your vision. Indeed, you saw Sapphurion and Qualiana’s roost, where we grew up. Hidden in their roost is a storage chamber wherein you’ll find two further gifts–a collection of lore-scrolls, and–”

“Hurry, Dragonsoul,” interrupted Hualiama.

Aranya’s head felt as if it were spinning freely on her shoulders. That Hualiama? Or that one?

“Arise!” commanded the twins.

Her knees obeyed, even if the rest of her was rather less certain. For the first time, Aranya looked about, finding herself in a realm beneath a starry sky so close, she could reach up to touch the white-spangled velveteen trappings of the night. All was warm. Cosy, not bleak. Her bare feet trod a smooth surface of what appeared to be endless white marble; nearby stood a small platform surrounded by a colonnade of tall white pillars that incongruously, appeared to vanish amidst the stars. Hualiama’s soul-space? Why was her visualisation of being a Shapeshifter so very different to Aranya’s own?

Beside the platform lay quite the most breathtaking male Dragon she had ever seen, apparently asleep, his muzzle curved to embrace a tiny, white mite. She smiled unconsciously. Wow. He was the handsomest heap of gemstone scales, the awesome, celebrated Grandion! He was … alive? And the dragonet–that must be the fabled Flicker!

Aranya gave in to the need to rub her eyes in sheer disbelief. “What is this place? How can you be two? And talk to each other? Why am I here, Hualiama and … uh, other-Hualiama?”

The blonde girl said, “You must learn to listen to your Dragonsoul, Aranya. She is with you even now. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course.”

Aye, I’ll bake my brains in a furnace for you, Aunt. Because I don’t understand in the slightest.

Aranya chuckled as her feisty companions turned equally dazzling, empathetic smiles upon her. They knew. Peculiar perturbations wracked her soul. She had a sense of waking, of knowledge seeping into her at thoroughly discomfiting levels–unconscious, magical, spiritual, she had no idea.

When the girl-Dragoness reached up to touch her wounded face, however, Aranya flinched. “Don’t.”

The depth of understanding in the girl’s gaze snared her more surely than any hunter’s trap. Again, the petite hand reached up, the girl’s tears flowing freely. How thou hast suffered, mine soul-daughter. Yet beautiful are the wounds of thy heart. I shall not speak a monk’s curse upon the hand that wrought thy afflictions, for that oath is wrought, immutable. My gift is benediction.

Hualiama was tiny. Aranya gazed down from her height of more than a head taller than the twins, yet it was she who felt smaller, by far.

Dragonsong garlanded her soul, incongruously, in the heady scents of flowers intermingled with the rich cinnamon-vanilla scent of draconic magic, as her companions sang a harmonious duet in soprano voices of surpassing depth and clarity:

Thou art beautiful to me, to me, to me,

Thou art beautiful to me,

The truth within shall rise anew, soul-incarnate,

For these chains cannot bind flesh and spirit forever,

Thou art beautiful to me, to me, to me.

Each time the Hualiamas repeated that triplet of ‘to me’, Aranya heard promises enfolding promises. Though she could not believe, could not grasp that truth for herself as yet, she looked within and found a seed of hope burning in her breast. She wept for the longest time.

Then, the twins seized her hands with cries of irrepressible joy. “Come! Come, Aranya; beloved Aranya! Run with us, laugh with us, dance with us!”

Her feet tickled unbearably! Flinging aside her tears, she ran through the night until her loss fell away in tatters, as if she sloughed the rags of desolation off her newborn, shining body.

* * * *

A Dragon-sense woke Zuziana when Aranya chuckled in her sleep.

The musical sound had barely finished washing her vision with white when her friend flung aside her coverings and skipped, barefoot and clad only in her sheer linen sleepshirt, around the roost! Twice! She frisked and danced like a young girl, perfectly navigating the roost’s steps and hollows without recourse to opening her eyes.

“Uh … Aranya?”

Madness? Flame? She was accustomed to Aranya’s peculiarities, but this took the proverbial purple windroc. Her body shone, not so much with flame as with an inner light Zuziana did not recognise and felt she should fear, yet all she felt teeming in her own breast was Dragon-fire. A wondrous song of fire.

When Aranya broke for the door, Zip followed.

Helpless.

* * * *

Light passing the roost’s crysglass outer window woke Ardan. A prickle of premonition brought him smoothly to his feet, sword in hand. Warrior-ready. Yet he was not ready for the sight of a glowing Princess of Immadia skipping past his window like a lamb feeling the joys of growing legs and fresh pasture, nor for the surprise of Zuziana following up the path with Sapphire performing her usual aerial acrobatics around her shoulders.

Swift as thought, he stepped over to Ri’arion’s pallet. The monk slept right on the wooden slats, eschewing any form of padding or blankets. Moons-mad ascetic.

“Wake up, Ri’arion. Something’s afoot.”

When he turned for the hallway, which had a door sealed by a magical word, Ardan found King Beran already standing there, armed too. Ha. Habits of the warrior-born. The tall King grinned fiercely, understanding the tenor of his thoughts.

Ardan said gruffly, “Are you with me?” Both men nodded. “Then let us stalk …” he chuckled quietly. “As Nak would say, let us stalk a couple of scantily-clad ladies.”

Beran’s expression suggested the Shadow Dragon had better behave himself around his daughter, or the King would be moved to very un-Immadian forms of torture. Aye. Ardan bade his lolloping heartbeat behave itself. Now was the hour to move with draconic stealth.

* * * *

“Faster,” laughed Hualiama. “This way.”

Aranya’s feet tripped lightly up stairs which had miraculously appeared before her. She followed to a door, where Hualiama spoke the secret code-phrase and disarmed a number of magical wards, taking care that Aranya understood each one. Her soul soared in undeniable lightness as she stepped into a place so precious to her Aunt, the roost of the eminent Dragon Elders Sapphurion and Qualiana.

“I grew up here. I learned to dance here,” said the blue-haired twin. “Qualiana loved that couch, and the pedestal is Sapphurion’s work, his perch.”

Aranya stared at the finely-crafted block of agate crystal for a moment before she realised she was seeing an artwork. A masterwork. Lighter and darker blue agate crystals had been sculpted and fused, perhaps by Dragon fire, into a statue of water lilies growing beside a flowing river. The vivid patterns of the agates swirled and curved so eloquently that it was hard to imagine the artwork was not alive. The whole pedestal was shaped to support a Dragon at rest, she realised. It had to be twenty of her paces from end to end, perhaps more. It would dwarf a fledgling Amethyst Dragoness.

“Because I am me,” said blonde-Hualiama, “dance is the key to opening our secret chamber.”

“Formal dance? I can do formal,” said Aranya.

“No, free dance. Come. I will teach you the movements.”

“I … I’m not much of a–”

“You will do as you’re told,” Hualiama commanded, but her eyes twinkled as she made a shushing motion toward Aranya’s lips. “You’re an artist. That creativity is within you, dearest Dragoness, and it is far from dormant. I will simply show you how to release those silly Immadian inhibitions that keep your feet rooted to the floor.”

“Uh-um!” spluttered Aranya, blushing up a decent suns-set colour.

“Humansoul’s an incorrigible tease,” said the other twin, twirling so that her knee-length blue locks spun in a wide arc around her body. “She hasn’t changed in six hundred years.”

Aranya glanced from one to the other, noticing that they wore identical Fra’aniorian dresses, although the skirts were cut unfamiliarly short, above the knee. Gracious, how scandalous! The Human girl wore a deep blue that set off her eyes, while the blue-haired girl-Dragoness was garbed in pure white. The lacework was unmistakably Fra’aniorian. How on the Islands did her Shapeshifting manage to preserve those clothes, she wondered inanely?

Her heart felt squeezed with a beautiful ache. Aranya essayed a mischievous grin, accepting the Human girl’s outstretched hand. She inquired, “What will dancing do to those six hundred year-old, arthritic knees of yours, o most antiquated Aunt?”

Dragonsoul fell over in a heap of gasping, hiccoughing hysterics.

* * * *

Zuziana startled as the sleep-walker, having not even blinked as she neatly burgled the most hallowed roost in Gi’ishior and disarmed half a dozen violently lethal magical traps, burst into merry peals of laughter. She bowed to an unseen partner, extending her arm elegantly.

They danced.

She blinked. Aranya had never been ungraceful, but she was six feet and two inches of whisper-thin Princess, so she moved with the care and pride of a taller girl. She was no wren, more heron. Plus, she had her native Immadian reserve to overcome, not to mention the entire weight of a conservative, isolated Island-culture.

Now, she danced with an artist’s form and a child’s abandon.

Flame incarnate. Flickering, falling, rising, burning. Zuziana giggled as a lissom leap and flare of the muscular legs exposed Aranya’s very proper cotton undershorts to the world. She wept as white-fire filigree traced her friend’s limbs and flying, flowing hair. Throwing back her head with unconstrained joy, Aranya danced as if the Island-World should ignite and dance with her. Faster. Freer. A gloriously wild leap landed her lightly atop the Dragon-pedestal, which rose eight feet above the sunken seating-area in the main chamber of this famous roost. She twirled upon the air! Feather-light, Aranya spun and pirouetted on a bed of air toward a dark archway that led to Sapphurion’s sleeping-chamber. How–was this a case of the mythical Dragon power of Telekinesis at work?

Zip almost cried out as a hand gripped her shoulder. Ri’arion. He gaped at Aranya in a way that made her imagine clawing his eyes out, yet she understood. “Exquisite,” he breathed in her ear.

Just behind Ri’arion’s left shoulder, Ardan looked on with admiration at least equal to the monk’s, and a pleading light in his eyes. Through the roost’s crysglass windows, they saw lightning playing madly about Gi’ishior’s peak and gushing in multi-coloured streamers off the huge gemstones within the volcanic pipe.

Zip whispered back, “No, I didn’t know she could do this either.”

“Who’s that dancing with her?” asked King Beran, crowding into the roost-entrance with the others. He pointed. “Look.”

Indeed, a breath of flame lived in the air, now; a hint of an arm, the curve of a leg whirling impossibly high in the air. Silvery laughter delighted their ears, making Sapphire chuckle in response. She had perched on Ardan’s left shoulder, curving her body around the back of his neck so that she peered past his right ear.

Ardan said, Do you know anything about this, little one?

Sapphire’s laughter trilled around the chamber. Silly Humans. Hoo-lee … Hoo-a-lee-yah-mah, she sounded out the syllables carefully.

Hualiama? Zip gasped.

Aranya twirled through the twenty feet tall and wide, richly engraved archway into the Dragons’ sleeping chamber, built to accommodate even the largest Dragon. By unseen means, light flared within. Of one accord, Zip, Ri’arion, Ardan and Beran rushed across the roost, just in time to observe Aranya making an intricate, complex series of dance-movements before she stepped through ostensibly solid rock, and vanished!

“Aranya!” bellowed Ardan.

Beran was fastest. He sprinted for the wall where his daughter had vanished, alongside the sleeping-pallets. Everything seemed undisturbed, not even covered by a layer of dust. Zip accidentally bit a hole in her tongue as the men slammed up against the wall, kicked it, felt this way and that for an opening. Ardan moved to Shadow, but the wall denied even his power.

Sapphire launched off Ardan’s shoulder, squeaking in a miniature rage. She called, Stop! Ari all good.

* * * *

When she pressed back through the magical barrier, Aranya found she had gathered an avid audience. “Uh … good, help me with this,” she said, deflecting their questions. “It’s heavy.”

Ardan and Ri’arion immediately bumped into each other, laughed, and helped Aranya lug a painting some eight feet tall by seventeen feet wide out of a solid wall. Zip peeked around the edge, almost tripping her monk. She gasped. “Why, it’s … uh, not you, Aranya.”

The men set the painting carefully against the nearest wall and stood back in awed appreciation.

Beran growled, “Family likeness, eh? Look at the ruff, the arch of the neck, the neatness of those paws and musculature. And he’s–”

“Breathtaking,” said Aranya. “That’s Grandion, the Tourmaline Dragon. Hualiama’s Dragon.”

The artist, probably a Dragon, Aranya thought, had done a masterful job in capturing the gemstone gleam of Grandion’s scales. He had a fantastic ruff of skull-spikes, giving him a raffish, almost piratical air, but the artwork depicted the strapping Tourmaline tenderly curving a wing over a much smaller, midnight-blue Dragoness, who was so identical to her, Aranya felt as if the artist had simply painted the wrong colour, blue for amethyst. So ineffably tender, the way Grandion and Hualiama nuzzled …

“Freakish likeness,” said Ardan, his tone belying his ill-chosen words. “They’re … legendary in love. She’s said to be the mother of all Shapeshifters.”

Zip said, “Petal, your face is shining.”

Aranya rubbed her cheeks briefly, feeling the roughness. “Nothing’s changed. But everything has. One moment.”

She ducked back into the chamber, breathing hard. Mercy, her friend had raised a fragile hope that she might be restored in body after that mystical dance, but she was not. Forget it, Aranya. She had the word of the promise-star; she must not be impatient, no matter how it hurt. She had work to do.

Picking out the scrolls Hualiama had listed, and a most precious necklace, Aranya re-emerged into the roost-chamber. Ardan’s dark gaze gleamed upon her, draconic. Zip looked pensive. Beran seemed on the verge of popping with pride, while Ri’arion seemed on the verge of drooling at the sight of an armload of scrolls.

Aranya said, “In case you hadn’t worked it out, that was a … well, not a vision, exactly, of Hualiama Dragonfriend, and I’m pretty sure she’s alive, although she hasn’t told me where, yet. These are scrolls she said we must take on the journey. Ri’arion, these can go in the library once you’ve–”

Zip touched Aranya’s arm. “Give them to me, petal, or I’ll never see Ri’arion again.”

The monk made a pretence of great fuss and annoyance, which ended, predictably, in a passionate kiss.

“This is a White Dragoness’ scale.” Aranya held up a necklace. Her voice betrayed a discernible quaver. “It’s Istariela’s scale–you know, my grandmother. Hualiama gave me gifts of hope and dance, and identified the Word I inadvertently spoke when we arrived at Gi’ishior. It was the secret name of an Ancient Dragon who used to live beneath Ha’athior Island, Amaryllion Fireborn, a name of great and abiding power, as I just about managed to work out for myself. Hualiama also urged the utmost haste on our quest. We must pack tonight and leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Zip snorted. “What’s the hurry?”

“Aye, we won’t have time to analyse these scrolls,” Ri’arion added, sharing an inscrutable glance with Zuziana.

King Beran said, “What was the substance of the Dragonfriend’s wisdom?”

“Let me explain.” Aranya summoned Hualiama’s words. “The Rift is in flux. Its activities appear to be cyclical, but it is not a regular cycle. She said that if we can’t cross this month, we won’t be able to for at least a year, which would give Thoralian that much more time to wreak havoc in Herimor. I understood that she meant the fires and the disruptive magic of the Rift-storms increase dramatically during these cycles. Hualiama crossed the Rift herself–”

“So the legend is true!” Ri’arion crowed.

“Aye. But she also said it was easier back then. And she was severely injured both times she made that crossing.”

Zip groaned, “The mighty Dragonfriend? Mercy! What’re our chances?”

Beran chucked Aranya beneath the chin. “So, Sparky, did you bring back any actually cheerful news?”

She shrugged. “Hualiama wasn’t giving away much, but I do believe your theory about the First Egg might be true, Ri’arion. She called the Egg a ‘time capsule’ and said that–well, she’s an engineer and scientist, I definitely didn’t understand all the terms she used–there’s a chance everything in that Egg might still be alive, kept in a state of stasis or suspended animation. That’s how the Ancient Dragons travelled between the stars. Magically slowed aging … as I said, I didn’t really understand.”

Ardan put in, “Are you saying Pip could come out only a little older than she went in?”

“Aye, that’s what she implied,” said the monk, mining his beard for fleas.

“If–”

Zip cried, “Oh, Aranya, I hate ifs. Can we do without this one?”

Aranya hugged her friend impulsively. “Very well. Here’s the proverbial windroc in the hatchery. We’d need to work out and reverse the exact process the Pygmy Dragon used to suck a volcano, a floating Island and thousands of Dragons inside the Egg. And hope beyond all hope that the Nurguz didn’t somehow enter the Egg too, or that this all-conquering Marshal isn’t resurrected to continue his merry genocidal ways.”

“He looked like Thoralian’s egg-sibling,” Ardan pointed out, confirming Aranya’s suspicion.

They stared at each other. Even Sapphire appeared cowed by their collective dismay. Thoralian might resurrect an army of Dragons. They might unleash an enemy crueller and more powerful than the Yellow-White despot of Sylakia, an enemy that even the legendary, tiny-pawed Pygmy Dragoness had not cast into defeat and ruin.

Beran clapped his hands. “Good. Let’s get packing, ladies, gentlemen and Dragons.”

Aranya groaned, “Who’s going to explain this to Va’assia and Ja’arrion?”

“No need,” came a saccharine reply from the doorway. “When were you planning to tell us about the Dragonfriend’s visit, Aranya?”

She whirled. “Aunt Va’assia!”

“Dragons have ears,” purred her Aunt, in her Red Dragoness form. “So, my lovely plotters, how can Ja’arrion and I help? And Aranya?”

“Ayeeii?” Aranya squeaked involuntarily. She covered her mouth. “Aye, Aunt Va’assia?”

“My itchy nose tells me you had some influence on the frankly astonishing levels of co-operation King Cha’arlla showed in the negotiation process. Is there a confession you’d like to make before you depart our shores?”

Mercy, her Aunt’s Dragon-smile was an exercise in sweat-provoking disquiet. Aranya was quite sure her own colour had summarily migrated toward a pasty swamp-green.

Ja’arrion shouldered his wife aside good-naturedly, as only a Green-Orange of his size, or perhaps Ardan, could have done. “You’ve a way with words, my flame.” That earned him a shoulder-bite. “Seriously, Aranya. We need to know because your Aunt and I intend to see that the will of Aranya is implemented concerning these Isles, the Dragons, their governance–whatever it was you said.”

Aranya raised her chin. “I was candid.”

“Verbal fireballs,” said Zip.

“You threatened him?” asked Ja’arrion, sounding so impressed that Va’assia bit him again.

“I merely reminded the King that we’re family.”

Chapter 11: The Far Shores

THE SHADOW DRAGON spread his wings over the caldera before daybreak. So nascent was the pre-dawn gleam, Fra’anior’s Islands appeared to float upon beds of darkness. Mist and smoke swirling around the base of the Islands lent the Cluster an air of mystique, so that Ardan imagined the Islands might just drift off on the breeze like Dragonships. Fine. This land was stunning. He was growing mawkish, a tough Dragon-warrior developing a melancholic appreciation of natural beauty. Or was this his Dragon’s outlook? Intriguing. For literally, he saw the Island-World through new eyes, and unaccustomed thoughts percolated through his armoured cranium. Just behind his left wingtip came Aranya, and then Zuziana, in the perfect slipstreaming position Ja’arrion had taught them–when was it? Less than two weeks ago?

Leandrial had already set off around midnight, since she and Ri’arion had worked out that given prevailing winds, the flying Dragons should catch her at the latest by Archion Island. Ardan had made the journey to Sylakia in two straight days and nights of flying, but this time they intended to take three, which was Leandrial’s estimate of her under-Cloudlands ability. Besides, there was no point in killing anyone before they partook in the communal delight of tossing themselves into the Rift for a swift and deadly roasting.

Ardan asked, New saddlebags, Zuziana?

Aye. Longer ones made of Dragonship sacking, which strap to multiple spine-spikes. I’m less likely to lose anything this way, she replied. Also, this configuration provides improved protection for all the jolly implements our wise Elders insisted we pack.

Tell me about it, he grumbled, hooking a talon backward at his load. Ardan had been ready to fly four hours before anyone else. At least he did not need to leave his beloved behind. Poor Zip. Her wings drooped at the tips.

Ri’arion had divided the scrolls exactly as specified by Hualiama, some to pack in a treble-sealed package in Zuziana’s saddlebags, while the rest he deposited in the library of Gi’ishior. Disturbingly, he reported a number of valuable scrolls were missing from the library’s racks–Thoralian’s handiwork, Ja’arrion concluded.

Let’s go burn the heavens, Dragons! Aranya bugled unexpectedly.

A spurt of Dragon-hormones roused Ardan’s being into a battlefield of pulsating blood and quivering muscles. Aargh! He expended his energy on driving higher, searching for a Dragons’ Highway. To his intense annoyance, the Dragonesses not only kept up, they were visibly flying more languidly than he and even goading him to fly faster! Rascally females! Ardan tried to focus on wing-form and body posture, but there were few apparent differences, apart from the obvious disparity in size and strength. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see in the spectra which Ri’arion had advised would allow him to observe magical influences, and was rewarded with a view of the air flowing over their peculiarly-shaped aerodynamic shields. Oh! How did they do that?

Alright, Ardan. Time to eat humble gristle, as his people said. He growled, Teach me to shield like you!

The Amethyst Dragoness eyeballed him in a way that made a Dragon’s blood boil. Are you asking or demanding, thou paragon of soot and fire?

Please, he barked. Uh … please, would you teach me, thou … um? Dragoness? Ardan burned at the ineloquent words snarled up in his throat. By his wings, he had better work on the romance, as Ja’arrion had quietly advised. He was no silver-tongued Immadian, but even a gruff word well-turned could shiver a Dragoness’ wings …

Ooh, that was nicer, said Zuziana, with a pert waggle of her tail.

You don’t want to make a grown Dragon beg, he snorted. It’s not pretty. How’s about a little Aranya-style negotiation?

How does that work? asked the Amethyst, playing the innocent.

Ardan said, First I burn your pretty rump from here to Sylakia, then–hey! Aranya’s mischievous wing-slap caught him unawares, sending the Shadow Dragon into a spiralling part-stall.

Catch me if you can, floated back to him on the breeze.

GRRROOAARRGGHH!!

* * * *

Three days later, the Lesser Dragons dived into the Cloudlands to join the Land Dragoness at the southern tip of Sylakia Island. Over the howling of the wind as they plunged, Zip called, “This is where the fun starts, according to Leandrial.”

They had tarried briefly at Nak and Oyda’s old cottage, finding only a note from their friend Nelthion and enjoying the pick of Nak’s herd of ralti sheep, who had continued to patiently fatten themselves on the sword-grass without a herder to care for them. Zuziana dropped by the nearest village–in her Human form–to send a note by message-hawk to Nelthion suggesting he meet Nak and Oyda at Fra’anior. A man of his administrative gifts could easily find employment at Fra’anior or Gi’ishior, or with King Beran.

With an unseasonal snowstorm closing in, which they could not blame on Aranya for a change, the threesome opted to shoot the breeze and dive off Sylakia’s edge, cutting through a driving blizzard which Zuziana teasingly suggested was ‘home and hearth to a Northern paleface’.

Aranya favoured this with her snootiest snort.

It seemed difficult to believe that travel in the dense layers beneath the Cloudlands could beat travel through the grey, stormy skies above, but with the blizzard firmly set against them, choices appeared limited. Down they speared, battered by the gale-force winds swirling around Sylakia’s peninsulas. Ardan’s lead took them several miles offshore on a steep descent aimed to obviate any chance of striking the cliffs, even though Sylakia’s massif plunged a jaw-dropping three leagues beneath the Cloudlands, right into the middle-lower and lower layers. There was no distinction between blizzard and toxic cloud, only an awareness of sinking into a realm where the snow fell ever more imperceptibly, and predatory bodies cut through the murk around them in search of easy pickings.

Aranya’s developing senses identified the primitive forms of Harmonic magic these creatures hunted with, responding to disturbances in the aether, either magical or physical. The light intensified rapidly as they descended through a drifting swarm of shihurior, an untranslatable word in Dragonish which described a class of light-producing, single-celled organisms which converted ambient electro-magical waves into light. Feathery, transparent bodies teemed against their shields. Though these appeared to be the benign form of shihurior, Leandrial had adjured them to be alert for other, more aggressive subspecies.

Thus, their wings stirred a cauldron of ever-changing, blue-white light as they descended into a realm where the deadly masqueraded behind serenity. Four times they dodged or hid as inquisitive monsters sought them out, from bubble-bodied, swift electrical Stingers to the lazy, mile-long Harvesters, which consumed everything in their path. Beautifully-patterned, butterfly-like insects the size of Dragonships concealed deadly stinging probosces beneath the pretty ancillary wings lining the undersides of their abdomens like sweeping lace skirts. In this middle layer the colours of plants and animals were vivid and variegated, like the view from one of Gi’ishior’s underwater windows which opened on the terrace lake. Stripes and spots and shimmering colours abounded, so unlike the realms they had traversed further north. This was the start of the Middle Sea’s vast expanse, stretching from Jeradia to Remoy along the full length of the Southern Archipelago, a sea so broad and untamed that no Dragon or long-range Dragonship would attempt such a flight.

In these parts there was no flat, leafy plant-layer to separate the middle layer from the middle-lower, only the waving tips of the forest in the distance, approximately three miles beneath their position in the aquamarine depths. Here, a vast shadow named Leandrial awaited them.

Little ones! she bugled gladly.

She looks well, Zip observed. Have you noticed the phosphorescent quality to her scales, Aranya? That’s new. She’s become … bluer. Brighter.

The barbels beneath Leandrial’s jaw, housing many of her additional sensory organs, waved as the Land Dragoness flicked her tail lazily, swishing toward them. Aranya realised they had never been so deep. The pressure against her pneumatic shield-layer was massive. She adjusted her wingbeat and form, performing more circumscribed beats with an increased cupping of the wing-struts on the downward stroke, lessening the lift required in thinner air while increasing direct forward thrust–semi-swimming, Leandrial called this movement. Aranya adjusted her pressure-compensation constructs and called for Ardan and Zip to do the same. As they had learned from Hualiama’s lore-scrolls, increased pressure differentials directly influenced the forms of filtering magic they required.

Besides, her little passenger needed to be kept comfortable.

Leandrial looked them over with a muted touch of her Harmonic eye-magic. She had explained that Harmonic magic examined or acted upon the natural vibration of every element of the material realm at the atomic level, which was an element of science unfamiliar to Lesser Dragons. At the simplest level, she could increase or decrease the amplitude of vibration or change its nature according to various vectors, leading to observable effects such as heating, cooling or even vaporising materials. Then, there was a host of other more metaphysical uses in the realms of her Balance-magic, which Aranya understood as a way of seeing broader global or even universal harmonies, such as the flow and probable cause and effect of events.

Very good, the Land Dragoness approved. Will you teach me all that is new about these multi-layer, responsive constructs? Where came you by this lore? Tell me everything!

As you command, o wise teacher, Zip said meekly.

I am wise, Leandrial agreed, oblivious to the Remoyan’s sarcasm.

Aranya sensed that the Land Dragon must have missed them even in three short days. How droll. How … sad. She could not imagine the loneliness of a century and a half’s enforced isolation from her kind–too staggering to frame in words.

She listened to Zip as Leandrial led them deeper, forging down to the level of the ‘treetops’, the broad, leafy terminal tufts of the snaking forest giants that stood rooted in a substrate a further three miles down–and these were not the largest under-Cloudlands forests by any means. The trunks, a mere fifteen or twenty feet in diameter for the portion they could see before they vanished in the sapphire depths a mile below, swayed gently in the air currents, and played home to a unique menagerie of under-Cloudlands life. How Aranya revelled in her newfound sight! Oh, she had never appreciated colours and details and distances like this!

They flew a mere compass-point or two east of south, angling for the mighty Urtuo-Jahû current, the great circular current that served the Middle Sea and kept its denizens alive.

From Sylakia to the fringes of the Urtuo-Jahû was a matter of a mere twelve leagues, but that was enough time for Leandrial to outline the dangers. Aranya ticked them off in her mind. Electrical pod-fish. A class of Sharp-fin predators that hunted in shoals, usually swimming against the current and relying on surprise to ambush their next meal. Eddies and whirlpools. Sentuki Squid, the flying giants of the invertebrate class together with the packs of hunting Minors they controlled psychically, and then a host of sub-intelligent draconic species.

Soon, a low rumbling communicated to their senses, agitating the magenta fronds of the forest in this area, bending them toward the southeast and the Crescent Islands.

The fringes are the most perilous, Leandrial noted. This is prime predator territory, where the voracious ones enjoy cover and camouflage, and the benefit of creatures knocked about in the Current’s swirling edges. Behold.

She pointed with her talon. A half-mile distant, the body of one of those creatures Aranya had nicknamed ‘Butterflies’ tumbled toward them, under siege by a host of Borers. As they watched, a flash of light beyond the Butterfly caught their attention. Dense shoals of sleek, fifty-foot swimmers descended upon the mess, their triple rows of inward-sloping teeth flashing white as they tore into the Borers. Beyond, a massive violet head reared up out of the current, squeezing and pulsating as the monster jetted toward the fray, its stubby yet powerful tentacles waving eagerly.

Sentuki Squid, the Land Dragoness advised.

Aranya shivered. The creature had to be a quarter-mile across, and the beak that pushed out of its underparts was capable of snaffling ten of Ardan for breakfast at a time. One gleaming, crimson eye fixed balefully upon them. She felt that gaze! No wonder Leandrial had them shielding; the creature’s menace was palpable and accompanied by psychic probing that stabbed at their brains like a thousand pinpricks all at once.

Leandrial explained, Hold firm. She seeks Minors for her herd, but she isn’t strong enough to overcome any of us. Sentuki are best left to their own devices. They’re too smart to take on a Land Dragon.

True enough, the Sentuki flashed a few luminescent warning-indicators on her hide at them, and then bent to her meal, leaving her herd to consume the luckless Borers while she concentrated on using her metallic grey beak to snap the larger Butterfly into Dragon-sized pieces, before stuffing them down her gullet with her tentacles. The rolling maul of feasting creatures drifted quickly down-current.

Time to move, commanded the Land Dragoness.

They swam-flew down a slope in the forest created by the pressure of moving air, immediately feeling the increased tugging upon their shields. Ahead, there was no apparent end or bottom to the blue, just an endless, increasingly steep slope that would take them to the lower layer and the heart of the tremendous current. Leafy fronds lashed violently beneath their compact wings. Ardan yelped as a predator ambushed him, but he beat it away by means of the firm application of a clawed paw to its sensitive snout.

Ha, he growled. I am not your dinner.

Zip’s laughter turned into a howl as a trio of pink tentacles snagged her left wing-shield and dragged her down into the forest!

Get off! yelled the Azure Dragoness, throwing lightning about liberally. Aranya swirled in, trying the same. A brace of fireball-blasts warmed up the hidden creature, while her lightning severed a couple of tentacles, which continued to writhe and spray dark green blood for several moments.

Panting, the Dragonesses winged away from the foliage.

Leandrial regarded them severely. Lack of attention will get you killed in this realm, little ones. Now, follow me!

When Leandrial’s back was turned, Zip gave Aranya a sympathetic look. Thanks for the helping paw, friend. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

What? Aranya asked defensively.

Nothing.

* * * *

Ardan eyed his companions. Odd. He could not put a talon on it, but he was convinced they were up to mischief. Both Dragonesses would bear watching.

His first concern was the Urtuo-Jahû, which swept along at speeds exceeding twenty leagues per hour, a tremendous rumbling, bubbling, buffeting mass of air. Leandrial coached them in how to take best advantage of the flow–taking long, languid strokes, and making an undulating motion of the body to provide additional propulsion courtesy of their Dragon bodies and powerful tails. She fought off enemies and allowed her small companions to rest, especially Aranya. He was proud of her. Never a word of complaint crossed her lips. Daily, she grew stronger. She worked relentlessly at understanding Harmonic and Balance magic with Leandrial; when even Leandrial tired of her incessant questioning, she bounced ideas off Ardan and Zuziana.

The great current pummelled them along the long, curving archipelago of the Crescent Islands, home to Pip’s Pygmy people. Ardan thought appreciatively back to Aranya’s further ‘requests’ of Ja’arrion and Va’assia, one of which was explicit Dragon protection for the Pygmies and a repeal of any laws and practices that treated them as animals. They were to stamp out, with claw and fireball if necessary, any form of slavery and systematic oppression of people-groups across the Island-World. Oh, Aranya. Lofty ideals!

Ideals, fearlessness, power and a ridiculous work ethic. That made for one dangerous woman.

The closer they drew to Remoy, the quieter Zuziana became. Germodia, not a chirp. Tyrodia, like a mouse. What was so difficult about the notion of visiting her family? The Shadow Dragon turned this over in his mind.

Zuziana. Aranya. What misbehaviour were they brewing? It took Ardan all of four days to work out what the Amethyst was hiding, but he had been stubborn as a man and his Dragon-form excelled at this character-strength.

Night only came to the middle-lower layer if there were no light-producing creatures about. This meant resting in apparent daytime, at regular intervals. When the three Lesser Dragons were meant to be sleeping up against Leandrial’s hide, just behind the curve of her skull, he Shadowed and slipped around to the Amethyst Dragoness. She was quick and slick, but not quick enough.

Sapphire! he growled. How long have you been hiding that dragonet, Aranya?

Ugh, keep it down to a dull roar, would you? Zuziana complained.

Ardan did not withhold his ire. Aranya, we cannot take Sapphire through the Rift! This is madness. Leandrial, you tell her.

How did you hide the dragonet, little one? Leandrial wanted to know.

Behind a highly specified auditory and olfactory shield! growled the Shadow Dragon. Completely irresponsible. I’m ashamed of you, Aranya!

Aranya said, Sapphire made me promise not to leave her behind.

The Shadow snapped, Oh, I suppose a dragonet forced the future Queen of Immadia and a Star Dragoness to boot, to pack her in a saddlebag and tell lies for a week …

Of course, the Amethyst only raised her chin and curved a protective paw around Sapphire. She’s Dragonkind. Look, I made a promise. I will not change my mind. Sapphire may well prove very useful to us.

He was about to tear strips off Aranya’s hide, when Ardan caught himself staring at Zuziana. Firstly, she had not protested. Now, he saw the Azure Dragoness’ thoughts incline to one of her saddlebags–no, not her thoughts, but his Shadow-vision somehow saw through her body to the yearning of her fires. No, no, NO! he almost howled, taking several jerky steps toward her. You didn’t!

Didn’t what? asked Leandrial. Little one, I see nothing wrong with taking a dragonet, if she’s willing to risk her life–

Not her. Her! Ardan aimed a talon at Zip.

The Remoyan protested, Me? I’m not hiding any dragonets.

No. Just something a little … larger, sneered Ardan. Come on, Remoy. Tell the truth. I’ve never seen you so quiet. You missed five predators in the last day alone, predators any self-respecting Azure Dragoness should eat for breakfast. Zip did not move a muscle. Don’t make me order a search of your saddlebags. Your guilt stinks.

* * * *

Aranya sidled over to Zuziana as Ardan’s ire swelled. “Ardan, please. I’m the one who took Sapphire against orders. Don’t be mad at Zip, too.”

“Angry?” he bristled. “I’m not angry, I’m fire-spitting furious, that’s what I am! How can I embark on a journey, on a quest of this magnitude, with any hope of success, if I’m lumbered with two freaking, colluding little liars?”

“Zip knew nothing about Sapphire, Ardan.”

“It’s not the dragonet, she has her monk in one of those saddlebags!” The Shadow Dragon swallowed, fighting to master his emotions. “Look. Here’s my last word on the subject, Zuziana. If you’re so desperate, fly the man to Remoy, marry him and send him back to ruddy Fra’anior, hear me? Or stay behind if you can’t–”

“No!” cried Aranya. “Zip, I need you!”

“AND NOT ME?”

“Ardan, calm down!” Aranya’s temper frayed at the speed of Storm-invigorated magic. “Of course I need you–I need all of you, with your hearts in the right places. Zip, tell me … it isn’t true?”

“Afraid it is, Immadia. He made me. Ri’arion absolutely forbade me to travel without him.”

RI’ARION!! bellowed the Shadow Dragon.

Aranya had rarely heard Ardan so riled. He did like things just so, but why was he so enraged about this?

Zip said smugly, “He can’t hear you, Ardan. For everyone’s information before they start fire-breathing all over this lovely current, or creating personal storms, Ri’arion’s hypnotised himself into a state of deep hibernation. If you listen carefully, you might detect his heart beat once every fifty seconds or so, and hear a single shallow breath every two to three minutes.”

“Hibernating a Human through the Cloudlands and across the Rift?” said Leandrial, shaking her head in wonder. The three Dragons gripped her scales more tightly. “Fascinating idea, little ones. You really make a Land Dragoness think. Most fascinating!”

“Fascinating?” Ardan winged off a short ways, his body rigid with anger. He threw back over his shoulder, “Since we’re all awake now, why don’t we hurry to Remoy and get this childishness over with?”

Aranya stared after him, before turning to her best friend with a half-hearted scowl. “Zuziana of Remoy, you didn’t.”

“Aranya of Immadia, you didn’t.”

Indulging in a fit of the giggles right now would probably be a bad idea, given Ardan’s reaction. Aranya could tell that Zuziana was about to erupt. She said ruefully, “So, when exactly did you plan your little charade? I promised Sapphire … well, that night before I met Hualiama, which was her idea, Zip. Sapphire’s, not mine–and just look at what it gained us.”

“Sapphire’s? Wow. So you thought, she won’t take up much room. She can get into places I can’t. She sees things I don’t–so she’d be an asset. Who’d suspect a dragonet? Right?”

Aranya elbowed her friend, knowing exactly where this was leading. “Who’d suspect an upright, virtuous monk of marrying a morally dissolute Remoyan, right?”

“Hey! You take that back, you man-eater.”

“Hey!” Aranya imitated her friend. “I’m not the one prancing about stuffing men in my handbag.”

That was too much for Zip. With a high-pitched squeal of laughter, the Azure Dragoness lost any semblance of control, causing the not-very-distant Shadow Dragon to expectorate a ten-foot wide fireball of overheated indignation. Aranya just shook her head at her friend’s antics. A dragonet stowaway–sneaky, aye, but compared to bagging a whole monk?

That Princess of Remoy had style!

* * * *

To say that Zuziana’s family were pleased by her unexpected arrival was perhaps the understatement of the century. All of Remoy turned out in paroxysms of celebration, for the rod of the Sylakian Empire had chastised their kingdom most sorely. Message hawks announcing victory were one matter. The arrival of a Dragon-Princess of Remoy, quite another. When the joyous tidings escaped the Palace, which they did at the speed of a hunting Dragon after Zip, Aranya and Ardan’s first chaotic briefing of the King and his Queens–that was the trigger. They could hear a roar rising from the Palace gates and spreading throughout the city.

Crazy Remoyans.

Zip’s sisters and mothers dragged her away. “We must unbag your luggage, daughter dearest!” gushed one of her mothers, as excited as a fledgling dragonet turning somersaults.

“Oi, Immadia. Over here.” Three sisters grabbed her, while one smiled, “Remember me?”

“Graziala? Of course,” said Aranya.

King Lorman waded through his swirling family, which numbered four of Zuziana’s brothers, including Yuka and Tarka whom she knew, and nine sisters, with a further four siblings missing here and there, barking, “Hold! O Princess of Immadia, I’ll have your hand, Milady!”

In a moment, the tiny, moustachioed King of Remoy snaffled her from the sisters, who had no qualms. They danced off to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over Ardan. Poor man. Aranya might have felt sympathetic if she hadn’t been so ragingly jealous of all the pretty, flagrantly underdressed Remoyans cooing over him. Zip had briefly warned her about hot season dress customs. That would be ‘undress’, Aranya thought uncharitably. And communal bathing. Ardan and Ri’arion were about to have their eyes opened–not that hers weren’t! Tuning in her draconic senses, she heard:

“Ooh, I didn’t know the Western Isles bred rajals for men.”

“Ooooh, these biceps! Do you eat boulders for breakfast, big man?”

“So dark; sooooo very beautiful,” gushed another sister, who could not have been more than twelve, nor an inch over four and a half feet in height. “He’s blushing, girls. So cute!”

“Grazi–oh mercy, I’m going to faint.”

“He’s leopard!”

Lashes fluttered, waves of perfume swirled and bright giggles rose around the dark warrior as his body burst into feverish embarrassment. Dragoness-Aranya could practically smell smoke from where she stood. Human-Aranya quelled her with difficulty, only to gasp as one of Zip’s mothers, Remoy’s third Queen of four, shooed the girls away–then blatantly ran her sparkling green eyes up and down Ardan’s physique herself! This provoked a rabid howl from Aranya’s inner Dragoness. Enamoured of Hualiama’s open, sweet relationship between her two Shapeshifter forms, Aranya had hoped to start listening to her inner life. No time like the present.

She managed an ugly, fire-filled snarl, “Leave my man alone!”

Ardan’s dark gaze snapped to her, jammed with passions she could only guess at.

So much for pushing him away, Immadia! Stupid emotions–Aranya shoved them inside, only to wince as an almighty thunderclap rattled every window across Remoy. Down, Star Dragoness! They were among friends … burning with humiliation, Aranya dropped her gaze to King Lorman, who held her hands gently in his own. His thumbs rubbed her knuckles, feeling the lumps and contusions there. At once, Aranya knew he knew.

“My father … wrote?” she stammered.

“And Zuziana. They wanted us to know that my daughter was a Dragoness and you … and you …” his voice broke. King Lorman dashed away tears, but his moustache began to sag from the volume of salty wetness running down his cheeks. He whispered, “When we released you to fight the Sylakians, my daughter, we had no idea. This is–we Remoyans say, there is no animal as cruel as the Human beast. I would take it all back for thy sake, Immadia, I swear … our freedom is not worth this travesty.”

Impulsively, Aranya hugged him. “The one life in exchange for the many, King Lorman. That’s the Immadian way.”

“Truly so brave, o Princess?”

His gentleness wrenched honesty from her breast. Aranya said, “No. But if I repeat the words often enough …”

“You’ve been more than a friend to our family, Aranya,” he said. “I will pray every day that you bring that monster to heel, but moreover, that you are restored to your true beauty and your precious mother to her life. I will assault the heavens in prayer with such passion that the very moons and stars shall take heed and make obeisance. I want you to know, my precious, precious daughter, and I declare this with all of my heart: your affliction is grievous, but it will be transitory–and I am not speaking of the afterlife.”

Aranya stared at the King, at a homely visage that suddenly possessed eyes like prophetic daggers. Her mind reeled. Magic? In Zip’s lineage? No wonder!

King Lorman whispered, “My tears for yours, Aranya of Immadia. My heart for your broken heart. May you fly to the far shores of our Island-World, where you shall soar on wings afire with the glory of stars! And all shall be restored. All–that is my prayer. Let it be.”

And it seemed to her that the voice of Fra’anior growled beneath the world, Aye, let it be.

She could not help but wonder how many promises must be spoken over a Star Dragoness. Was she so needy? Or the task ahead, so overwhelming?

Chapter 12: A Royal Handfasting

THE DAY OF Zip’s wedding dawned bright and fair. The melodious strains of flutes, harps, zithers and cymbals roused the citizens of Remoy as columns of musicians and dancers paraded through the cobblestone streets, counterpoint to a stormy argument inside the Royal Palace of the fabled Jade Isle, the Island of eighteen terrace-lake levels and a people as passionate as the best of an Amethyst Dragon’s storm-summoning.

Her parents! Zip battled her Dragoness as much as the five of them in an argument that was rapidly getting out of hand.

Losing both the desire and the ability to keep quiet so that Aranya could continue to sleep, Zuziana yelled at her father, “Of course he’s a monk! Aranya, tell him. Tell my father and my mothers–accursed windrocs, I’m getting married today!”

Stirring on the pillow-roll, Aranya murmured, “Uh, monk? Sort of a … lapsed monk. Aye.”

“Heavens, no!” Zip gasped.

First-mother Yuhina snapped, “Lapsed? No daughter of ours is marrying some vow-breaking religious freak! What kind of monkey-nut is he, lacking a single moral bone in his body? Get that fraud in here. Now!”

King Lorman implored the heavens, “Whatever were you thinking, Zuzi? A monk?”

“She’s in love,” said Aranya, waking up properly. Open mouth, insert Dragon’s paw, Zuziana thought crossly. Even more helpfully, the Immadian Princess growled, “Leave my friend alone.”

“That’s exactly what Remoyans don’t do!” fourth-mother Siyantha said icily. “We know how to treat our daughters, so don’t you interfere–”

“Interfere?”

Keep your Dragoness inside, Aranya, Zip said privately. There are ways of fighting this battle.

Uh … spluttered her friend, discovering to her evident chagrin that she had been sleeping with her arm curled around Zip’s shoulders. Mercy … Aranya sat up, holding the blankets close to her chest as she reached for her face-veil.

Shortly, Ardan entered the royal bedchamber followed by a bemused, mussed-looking Ri’arion. Zip had five parents, but between them they had accusations for a hundred, burning the air until Aranya finally exploded, “SILENCE!”

Ardan dived for the blue Helyon silk sheets and snuffed out the flames, but there were scorch-marks all around her friend. Shocked, Zip checked her limbs. She was not burned, not even a little.

“Right,” said Ri’arion, coolly. “So, is the problem the chastity issue, or a religious objection?”

“Your vows,” said King Lorman.

“I see,” he said. With his most inscrutable monk-face set firmly in place, Zip’s heart sank. Oh no. Ri’arion was about to ruin everything!

“May I explain, now that all the shouting’s done?” she asked, acidly.

The tall monk said, “No, you may not.” Zip clicked her dangling jaw shut. What? He said, “King Lorman, I’m afraid I’ve not had very many chaste thoughts since the day I met your daughter. I may be a powerful Enchanter, but she played my heart-strings from the very first–the notes of her bravery, fiery spirit and loyalty to her friend and to our cause, shall resound through the ages. What I see in her is wholly admirable, and perfect in my eyes, though none of us Humans are perfect.”

For once, Zuziana’s family were silenced. So was she–but how her heart sang! Ri’arion! Oh mercy, to hear him speak thus! Then, his natural diffidence seized him like a Dragon’s paw.

“I … uh, I mean, not wholly unchaste thoughts,” he spluttered, blushing up to his bald pate. “Well, I have entertained a few rather un-monkish notions. Here and there. Thank the heavens, I said to myself, that the vows of service to the Great Dragon do not include chastity. It’s assumed by many, of course, o King. But not avowed.”

“You mean, you don’t anticipate any trouble with your manhood?” Ardan boomed, with a wicked chuckle and typical Western Isles bluntness. “Everything’s in fine working order?”

“Whaa!” Ri’arion choked.

“Besides, I’m sure Zip can teach you what you need to know,” he cackled.

She gave a small shriek. “Ardan! I am not … I have never–”

“Nor has he,” said the dark warrior, still in wicked-Dragon guise. “But I’m quite, quite certain Ri’arion can be persuaded. Just look at him.” No man living at that instant could more have resembled a fine, purple beet than the monk.

Zuziana vacillated between wanting to hit Ardan, and deciding if he needed a kiss. Whatever the case, he had neatly usurped all five of her parents. Was that a hint of a smile lurking beneath her father’s moustache?

Ardan added, “Now listen, all you Remoyans. This man is the most powerful monk-Enchanter of Fra’anior, a status akin to royalty amongst the monks, as I understand it. As their Nameless Man he took special vows, in his youth. But no Nameless Man lives forever. Some days ago, Ri’arion set in process the choosing of his successor. Historically speaking, I believe Ri’arion would be the fifth Nameless Man to choose this route, and it is accounted for in the vows he took–favourably, and with honour. The Great Dragon’s service is not limited to one Cluster in one corner of the Island-World.”

“Correct. The original vows are not time-bound,” Ri’arion clarified. “Nor do I wish … uh, in light of all things regarding my beloved, wonderful Zuziana … and her being so beautiful and … uh, exceedingly desirable–”

“He’s happy to sire children?” asked her third mother, Suziala, over the hoots of laugher rocking the room.

“Lots,” said Zip, restricting her contribution to a diplomatic minimum.

First-mother Yuhina added, “Like any normal man?”

“I certainly hope so,” said Zip, with a coquettish glance that did not help Ri’arion’s fuddled, blushing state in the slightest. “Isn’t that so, monk-darling?”

“Whaa,” he spluttered again.

Ardan clapped him on the shoulder. “He’s a clever fellow. He’ll catch on eventually.”

More guffaws greeted this sally as the Remoyans relaxed. Zuziana had never appreciated how much her family’s emotions swung from one pole to the other until she saw them from her friends’ viewpoint. Aye, this morning’s eruption had already subsided. Now there were more catcalls, promising ‘advice’ and making wagers on when the wriggling of ‘guppies in her belly’ would be felt. Had they fresh bread, it could have been toasted on Ri’arion’s cheeks.

“And then, he’s planning to let you leave for Herimor without him?” Lorman finally managed to wedge a question in between the kafuffle.

With her eyes, Zip pleaded with Ardan. Ri’arion had survived for days under the Cloudlands, hadn’t he? His mental skills would be invaluable in Herimor. And she didn’t want to leave him behind, oh please, no! Not when there was a chance …

The dark head bobbed. “No, he should accompany us. What say you, Immadia?”

“Well, we’ll stick him in the saddlebags,” Aranya agreed, with rising enthusiasm, “and Zip-Zap can pull him out from time to time for a little play!”

Silence loomed like an invisible Dragon in the room.

Zip raised an eyebrow eloquently.

Suddenly, colour exploded into the Princess of Immadia’s cheeks. She yelped, “Mercy! My Dragoness … oh mercy, I didn’t mean that!”

The Remoyans fell about in helpless outpourings of mirth.

“Oh, Immadia!” Zip flung her arms around her best friend. “You’re priceless.”

* * * *

As the noon suns beat upon Remoy’s lush crown, warmth settled over the Island like a Dragon’s breath. The birdsong of thousands of water-birds inhabiting Remoy’s eighteen concentric lakes hushed, but not because of the heat. The Island was a tall dome, surrounded on its flanks by terrace lakes from one mile to three miles above the Cloudlands, but its standard jade colouration had frazzled a little beneath the brunt of the Southern hot-season. Nary a cloud blotted the skies.

Rising into this perfect day, the head of a Land Dragon surmounted the lake walls, and upon her nose, a wedding-party danced.

Ardan, hovering a few hundred feet overhead in his Dragon form, chuckled quietly to himself. His job was to keep lookout, for with the entire population of the Island now gathered on a vast, grassy meadow that stretched eight miles from the walled city of Remoy to the first of the terrace lakes to the West, there might be opportunity for brigands or remnants of the Sylakian forces–far too many of the latter–to foment trouble.

Leandrial had been as startled and delighted as he had ever seen her to be invited to a Human wedding. She tiptoed over the lakes, trying her utmost not to crush too much vegetation, while keeping her head level as the bridal party danced the traditional Remoyan nuptial dances on her nose.

Now, there was a stage unlike any other!

All of the women–the Queens and Princesses, Zip’s female relatives and Aranya–wore the palest blue silk of Helyon, making a perfect spectacle against Leandrial’s dark, green-blue hide. Zuziana danced in their midst, a vision of bridal loveliness in a brief chemise that would have passed for scandalous nightwear, he imagined, on most Islands of the world, together with sheer skirts shaped as lily petals, dainty diamond-jewelled slippers, and a slim white gold coronet in her hair to anchor the lilies adorning her unbound, chestnut-brown locks. All of the women in the bridal party had embraced Zuziana’s request to flout tradition in this way; all wore their hair long and loose, none more so than his fabulous Aranya.

His Aranya? Oh, vain hope!

Three of the sisters had spent two hours that morning working miracles with makeup, transforming the Immadian’s poor, pockmarked skin into sheer beauty, apart from the hole in her cheek. That could not be disguised, so she alone among the women wore a face-veil. Perhaps people would think it a nod to Immadian conservatism, for the rest of her outfit was most certainly … smoking. He glanced at his scales. Literally.

His vision washed with the greens and crimsons of commingled jealousy and feverish desire as the Shadow Dragon soared above the crowd of thousands gathered on the hillside. They waved leafy fronds and yelled at the tops of their lungs as the male party, surrounding Ri’arion, danced their way up a spiralling path from the bottom of a small hill to the top, where the ceremony would take place. Drums thumped urgently. Great-horns of brass, twenty feet long, sounded the fanfares, and the flutes crooned incessantly at a much lower register than he was used to–again, a Remoyan tradition. He suspected that more than a few Remoyans were rather well-oiled with ale, despite the hour. The celebrations had raged all night.

Ardan could not arrest the curve of his neck to bring his superior Dragon sight to bear upon Aranya for the umpteenth time. She was a vision; strikingly tall and reed-slender, queenly of bearing, her unique multi-coloured locks swirling down to her knees in an astonishing treasury of feminine beauty. They had made her pale Northern skin flawless, glinting as if she wore a dusting of diamonds. His eyes drank in the moulding of Aranya’s scanty dress to her torso and a waist so trim, he could encircle it with his Human’s strong hands. He perceived the White Dragoness’ scale fastened to its golden pendant necklace, nestled between her breasts. He had to swallow and avert his gaze. Be not foolish, Ardan! She had been tortured and broken; too damaged to contemplate–his mouth twisted in a sad half-smile–at least a few of Ri’arion’s unchaste ideas. Mercy, how foolish his decision to give her space and time seemed now! He wanted her with an all-consuming passion; his desire burned like a volcano’s raging heart. She must sense the tenor of his regard. Did she dream of what Zip and Ri’arion enjoyed this day–the freedom to handfast and make promises to each other?

All he could do was play his part in her fate, and hope. Ardan’s right forepaw curled into a shaking, painful fist. Whatever it took. Anything. Everything. He would be her man. Her Dragon.

The Shadow Dragon drifted above the exultant crowd, hunting with all of his senses on high alert. Somewhere among these thousands, he was convinced, would be a Sylakian sympathiser.

Woe betide any enemy he smelled out.

* * * *

This day was about Zuziana’s happiness. Aranya entered into the fun as much as her strength and skill allowed, dancing with the women, dressing Zip’s hair and allowing their high spirits to infect her, too. Yet when Dragon-Ardan’s shadow briefly touched her cheek, she glanced to the skies. What did he think of this … wedding outfit? She had sensed his gaze upon her person, frequently. Did he stare at her bare legs and uncovered throat; might he remember what they had shared before her ruin tore them apart? She shuddered with echoes of flame-desire, of oath-magic run wild …

She must focus on her friend, and crush these futile thoughts.

Leandrial’s chin came to rest at the base of the small hill Zuziana had chosen for her outdoor ceremony, her tail-tip resting perhaps six or seven lakes downslope, such was her size.

Such were the Remoyans, the frenetic drumbeat barely faltered. If a Dragon twice the size of an average city had been peering over her shoulder, Aranya suspected the sensible reaction would have been to faint or run away screaming. Zip’s people, however, were famously enamoured with Dragons. To have a Land Dragoness turn up on their doorstep was an unprecedented opportunity for the balladeers to tune up their instruments, the artists to make a mad rush for canvas and paints, and the storytellers to buff up their finest adjectives and adverbs. The din the people raised upon sighting Zuziana, now standing apart on Leandrial’s nose, was enough to make every hair on her neck stand to attention. Sapphire launched into the air, mewling in consternation.

From the brow of the hill, Ri’arion gazed at his beloved. The artist in Aranya consciously committed every detail of his expression, every line upon his face and the crinkling of his eyes with his bedazzled smile, to memory. Unguarded love. If she cried, she’d ruin her makeup. She did not care. What they shared was precious; beyond reproach.

Come on, beautiful bride, she said privately to Zip.

Several sisters somersaulted or produced neat handsprings to take them onto Leandrial’s proffered paw. Aranya took Zip by the hand. No broken ankles needed now!

Is he there? Does he look nervous? Zip asked breathlessly.

Atop the hill. Can’t you see him?

Stupid tears, said Zip, even as she smiled at the crowd with a princess’ poise.

Aranya dabbed her friend’s eyes very carefully with a silk handkerchief she had been given for exactly this purpose. Better? He’s the handsome one looking rainbows-over-the-Isles. Which reminds me–Ardan?

Your majesty. The massive Shadow Dragon made an aerial bow. Thou … his voice broke with a soft oath. Then he rallied with, Thou art the rainbows over my Isle.

No! Unrelenting Ardan. She whispered back, Try to do your job without making me cry, because that’ll ruin this façade I’m wearing.

Waving his paws, Ardan extended an optical shield he and Aranya had conceived of the previous evening. Heart-shaped pink and azure rainbows spread over the Jade Isle. Leandrial voiced a throaty chuckle. Oh, you little ones, so enamoured with beautiful silliness. Zuziana, may I sing for you?

Zip turned to bow. We’d be honoured, mighty Leandrial.

Without warning, the Land Dragoness boomed, “Let every person and Dragon present hearken to the blessing of oath-bound lovers.”

She sang in a Dragonish dialect so ancient that Aranya understood but one word in four, but it was the exquisite musicianship of her performance that stilled the great crowd. Her voice was many instruments combined in harmonies so gorgeous and delicate, so complex and compelling, that the heart recognised a foretaste of the divine; an interlude of enchantment so deep, it transcended the boundaries of aeons and species. Men wept. Women broke into spontaneous harmonies and descants. Even the smallest child stilled to hear inspiration writ upon their very hearts. Overcome with emotion, Sapphire fainted into Ardan’s paw, but he assured Aranya the dragonet was fine.

By the time Leandrial’s last note echoed off the hills, the Land Dragoness’ paw rested upon the earth and it was a mere matter of sliding seventy vertical feet down from her digits to the ground, which they accomplished by using the natural curvature of her talons. Then the drumbeat picked up again, and the wedding-party danced into the waiting crowd. Onward. Deeper. Aranya’s feet danced for her as she followed her radiant friend on her slow, winding course uphill. She laughed and sang breathlessly with the others, hearing the crowd’s clamour as the roaring of a single, faraway voice.

Fra’anior’s voice?

His speech reached her as if through battle; Aranya heard fire crackling and the full-throated booming of draconic thunder. Thou hast conversed with mine rebellious shell-daughter, little one? She helped thee. I am not displeased, Aranya. Thou needest no permission of mine to know thine family.

Thank you, shell-grandfather, she said. A gracious word? Heavens forfend!

The heat sucked at her strength and will, and drained her pathetically shallow resources. Fire consumed her lungs as Aranya tired. The crowd’s roaring rose and fell, the sky brightening toward white-fires, and she wailed:

Oh, Izariela, how thou art lost! Might I not see thee once more?

The Dragoness’ scale scalded her chest. She heard, or perhaps imagined, a woman’s tones nearby, and sensed a hand stroking a swollen belly, feeling its tender vibration within. Thou, beloved shell-daughter, said a sweetly evocative voice. Oh, mother! I shall name thee Aranya, a strong name for the bastion of the Dragonkind, the name by which Dragons shall live again. Oh I weep at the fate I foresee, my shell-daughter. Shall we rise? I fear … look ahead! Look beyond!

Her mother’s cry mingled with Ardan’s mental roar from on high, Aranya! In the crowd!

As if in a nightmare, Aranya saw from the corner of her eye an upraised hand, deep in the crowd beyond her best friend, release a dagger. It winked with metallic menace, spinning end-over-end toward her friend’s throat. She was too far back. Too many heads bobbed between her and Zuziana. Why? Why had she allowed herself to be consumed by foolish visions? The bride turned slowly, as if trapped in a dream, and Aranya saw herself reach out in terror and desperation, a scream clawing her throat. Ardan!

Pain lanced into her hand. Zip, still turning, accepted a posy of lilies from a child with a bright smile. Aranya emerged through her friend. Ahead of her in the crowd, she saw swords and cudgels rising and falling in brutally brief mob justice. She stared at the small throwing dagger embedded in the back of her right hand. What had just happened? How … Zip brushed past her back and continued on her way, oblivious.

Pretend everything’s fine, Ardan’s voice entered her mind. The man’s dead. I don’t sense further danger, but I’ll keep sniffing about.

Fine? Why was there no pain? A knife right through the hand, and she felt no pain?

We don’t want to spoil Zip’s celebration. Your blood, Aranya! Cleanse!

Poison. Of course. She was not about to fall prey to that again. Aranya focussed on her hand, feeling the tickle of Leandrial’s presence in her mind. The Land Dragoness showed her the special tang and spread of the poison; Aranya drew deep of her healing power to deny it any further ingress into her flesh, then with a wince, drew out the knife. Returned to his station a quarter-mile above the throng, Ardan told her to be careful with the poisoned blade, but one of the Palace guards gripped her forearm.

Aranya straightened imperiously, but the man snapped, “How the hells did you do that, lady?”

“What?”

“You’re fifteen feet back of the Princess then I blink and you’re this side of her. I watched the hair, lady. I know what I saw.”

“I … er …” Aranya stammered. “This knife is poisoned. Be careful.”

The soldier bowed, before accepting the blade with care. With gruff respect, he added, “You saved our Zuziana’s life, Princess. Remoyans never forget.”

Aranya stared after the young man. Ardan? Did you see–

Faster than Shadow, he said, sounding troubled.

Faster than what? You’re joking.

It was no jest, Ardan’s irascible growl informed her. The Shadow Dragon scanned the crowd relentlessly as Zip, entirely unaware of any drama, reached the summit and pirouetted into her beloved’s circle.

The Remoyan handfasting ceremony was a curious mixture of formality, beauty and playfulness. Firstly, the young men of Ri’arion’s circle responded to Zip’s precipitous arrival by stealing her away from the groom. She had to win him back with an elaborate dance-performance which inevitably ended up with the bride’s triumph. Zip knocked men spinning, bowled them over with a flirtatious tweak of an eyebrow–overplayed in a style that Aranya remembered fondly from her cousin Lyriela’s wedding–and even danced past an uncle only to whirl and apply the royal slipper firmly to his expectant backside. Then the older men paired off with Zuziana’s retinue, presenting them with rich gifts, or offerings of poetry or dance. Ri’arion was supposed to make a dance-offering to his bride, which he accomplished by cleverly adapting a martial arts sequence Aranya had often seen him using for training, a beautiful, flowing exposition of the Fra’aniorian martial arts forms.

Didn’t know Mister Inflexible could frolic like that, Ardan commented drolly.

Aranya gave him a light-hearted mental shove by way of reply.

King Lorman, subtly amplified by Leandrial, delivered a rousing and oftentimes hilarious speech that ranged from Ri’arion’s new powers as a member of the Remoyan royal family to some blushingly pointed advice about the exploits he was expected to perform later.

After that came the traditional tossing of the bride. This began with an energetic dance in which even King Lorman showed he could shake and stretch his legs like a man twenty years his junior, before the men linked hands, four at a time, beneath Zuziana’s feet to toss her from one group to the next. Aranya’s eyebrows crawled as Zip neatly executed a range of forward and backward somersaults, raising a roar from forty thousand throats, then she threw in a single-twist, double-forward effort. Pandemonium!

Wryly, Aranya found herself hoping she might not have to produce any acrobatics on her wedding day.

Had there been a roof, Zip’s climactic triple-twisting single-backward piked somersault would have blown it right off the building.

Yet what moved her most deeply was the unabashed joy with which Ri’arion and Zuziana exchanged first the Remoyan, then the Fra’aniorian wedding vows, which if she recalled correctly, included a few more draconic overtones than expected. Every member of Zuziana’s family blubbered their way through the formal oath-taking, which included special oaths for parents, brothers and sisters, relatives and even one that was surely made up on the spot by King Lorman, presiding over this part of the ceremony, for Zuziana’s ‘best and truest friend’, Princess Aranya of Immadia, Star Dragoness.

After that, her makeup was a hopeless mess.

The afternoon’s shadows grew long in a realm of unending bliss for Zuziana and Ri’arion. As they clinched the matter with the traditional five-minute no-holds-barred kiss, Aranya was startled to look up and wonder where the time had flown. Truly, it was said that love transcended time, touching eternity. Zip stretched upward on her tiptoes to kiss the much taller monk, her chestnut curls flowing to her waist–just not quite long enough to disguise his hand wandering beyond her lower back. The Nameless Man’s countenance shone as if he beheld the very twin suns.

Leandrial split the heavens with her exuberant bugling. She fired her light-cannon in all directions, causing a fine, silvery dust to rain from the skies.

Then, the Fra’aniorian monk swung his bride off her feet and ran the gauntlet through the crowds as the people strewed the ecstatic couple with lily petals, perfume and small, sticky sweetmeats, to the strains of the ballad, Love is of Jade Eternal.

* * * *

That evening, at the Shadow Dragon’s insistence, Aranya and Sapphire flew Dragonback with him toward the setting suns. The day’s mellowing light perfectly matched their mood. Roseate upon the terrace lakes, winking impulsively off what appeared to be new patterns of mineral deposits in Leandrial’s hide, the rich suns-set robed all Remoy in truly royal splendour.

Stroking Sapphire’s scales serenely, Aranya said, “Ardan, I wanted to thank you for the gift you gave Zuziana and Ri’arion this morning. Before it all began.”

“Oh, that?” said the Dragon. “Selfish, that’s what it was.”

“All for my benefit? I’ll swallow that the next time I swallow an Island, Ardan.”

His knowing chuckle betrayed the truth. “Alright. I was wrong. Does an apology ring better upon the royal ear?”

Aranya tugged her grey travel-cloak more closely about her neck, but her legs remained bare to the thigh, tucked neatly either side of the Shadow Dragon’s towering spine-spikes. Today was about freedom. She could not have stood to wear a long dress upon Ardan’s back, nor suffered the closeness of trousers. Only, she could not easily pretend. Happiness for Zip’s sake was effortless. Pretending her pockmarks had vanished? Not so easy, despite the Remoyan King’s unforeseen kindness.

Yet she possessed sight enough to imbibe the suns-set’s glory.

“Not so much,” she said lightly. “What did you mean, ‘faster than Shadow’? There’s no such concept in known physics.”

Obliquely, he said, “One of Hualiama’s lore-scrolls noted the slow melding of powers, especially in more powerful Shapeshifters, and the ability of the oath-magic to be called upon in times of duress, leading to unpredictable results. You Shadowed through your friend.” He chuckled deeply, “I even saw you hesitate, probably wondering what on the Islands was happening.”

Aranya sat puzzling over this. Ardan was right. Maybe she had become light’s converse, momentarily. She had called upon Ardan’s powers and partially passed through her best friend’s body, only she didn’t remember actually running or leaping those four or five long strides through the crowd to reach Zip. So the soldier must have seen her cloaked in Shadow, aye, and her use of Shadow power had brought her clothing with her, just like Ardan kept his ur-makka through transformation–no. Wait just a hummingbird’s wingbeat!

“The odd thing is, you didn’t call upon my power until you reached Zuziana,” Ardan added, putting words to the twisting constriction in her throat. “I’d know. I identified the precise millisecond of that demand upon my magic. The timing was skewed, exactly as that soldier said.”

“I-I d-did …” Her teeth were chattering too hard to speak. Her mind managed to yelp, Impossible!

The huge, black head curved back until the Dragon fixed Aranya with one eye, as pearlescent and hypnotic of fires as she had ever seen in the Shadow Dragon. Glints of the fiery suns-set appeared between his fangs as Ardan essayed a fierce, noble, lunatic grin.

“Tell me about impossible, Star Dragoness. Tell me all about it.”

Chapter 13: Southerly Spear

IF RI’ARION’S BLUSHING the following morning was any indicator, the wedding night had not deviated too far from plan. Princess Zuziana coyly bagged her monk, leaving his face exposed for a moment in order to provide him a parting smooch for his mind to hibernate upon. Once Zuziana had transformed, Dragoness-Aranya fastened the saddlebags to her friend’s back.

Aranya made sure she elbowed Zip sharply. “Smug.”

“Aranya! Not in front of my family.”

Zip, embarrassed? A novel idea. Aranya bent her gaze upon King Lorman, his wives and family, who had all turned out despite the early hour to wish them felicitous travels, the Remoyan expression for ‘farewell’. She growled, “If I have anything to say on the matter, o King–”

He bowed deeply. “We know. You’ll bring our Zuziana, and all you love, safe to home and hearth. Go burn a trail beyond the moons, Star Dragoness!”

The Azure Dragoness picked that moment to land a Dragon kiss right on top of her father’s head, pinching his crown in the process. “Felicitous rulings, Dad,” she quipped. “Oops. Er, want your crown back?”

The King retrieved his crown from its lodging-place upon one of her fangs. “Perhaps you intend to start a new fashion in Dragon-tooth jewellery?” He rolled his eyes comically. “Given as I now have a scandalous epidemic of headscarf-burning young women to deal with around Remoy, you’d best be off, you irrepressible rascals!”

With that, the three Dragons launched off the flat Palace roof, headed south over the fabulous ribbon-lakes surrounding Remoy. The family waved until the Dragons had to be mere specks in the sky; Aranya did not tease Zip about looking back until she developed a crick in her neck. She knew what it meant to turn one’s back on family and face an uncertain future.

Instead, she sidled up to Ardan. Let’s give them a proper send-off.

What do you have in mind, Immadia?

Together, she and Ardan fashioned a heart-shaped rainbow ten miles high and wide, with the word ‘Remoy’ written in five-mile-high, rainbow-hued runes right through the middle.

Zip startled and laughed happily. “Oh, you two patsies. It’ll be your turn next, mark my words.”

Suddenly, a huge body cut through the Cloudlands beneath them, as if an Island rose to bare its back to the softly spreading dawn. Leandrial’s great length breached the clean air briefly, dark and slick and monstrous, as if reaching for the five moons. Her answering laughter boomed over the rose-tinted Cloudlands; her light-cannon blazed briefly before she sounded, showing the way.

Leandrial cried, Fly like a southerly spear, Dragons!

“You know, all she’s missing is wings,” said Ardan. “I thought she required Islands to climb up above the Cloudlands, but no. Just a long run-up.”

“Follow on!” cried Zip, clearly overexcited. “Only seven days to the Rift!”

Sapphire returned to Aranya’s right shoulder as the Lesser Dragons accelerated into a long, shallow descent designed to eat into the many leagues still to travel. The dragonet clung on with fully extended talons, revelling in the strong breeze. Sapphire snapped up a few flying morsels, then just stood mouth-agape for fun, enjoying the way the wind buffeted her tongue and puffed out her cheeks.

Between Remoy and the Rift stood nothing but league upon league of open, storm-swept Cloudlands, notorious for their fickle weather and legendary monsters of the deeps. Few Dragonship Steersmen braved the westerly run to the sprawling Southern Archipelago, although Aranya understood that it was Human-inhabited by hardy frontier types fond of living in wild, primitive conditions. As the Archipelago curved westward toward Meldior and eventually, at least a month’s journey even by Dragon, reached Elidia, Mejia and Jeradia, it crossed a desert of Islands ravaged by Dramagon the Red’s legions of Anubam, the legendary rock-chewing Dragon worms. She had to wonder what truth had spawned that legend. Far more fable than fact lurked out here near the edge of her Island-World–her corner of the Island-World, compared to the mythical extent of Herimor.

True to form, the Cloudlands grew choppy and the winds spiteful just a few hours offshore of Remoy. A storm blew up magically out of nowhere. Ardan led the downward plunge beneath the scudding cloud-front. After the three smaller Dragons rejoined their own monster of the deep, Leandrial, they dived into the tail-end of the Urtuo-Jahû current.

“Just an offshoot of the main current,” the Land Dragoness corrected Zuziana’s misapprehension. “We should enjoy two days of helpful currents, then five days of more laborious and dangerous travel.”

Once more, they descended into the middle-lower layer to find the optimal travelling conditions in a world of murky blue, employing the warm, plant-rich flow of wind to sweep them along. Leandrial chewed happily on a plentiful supply of one of her favourite foods, wine-red berries half the size of Aranya, swept down from the sprawling reed-beds of the Middle Sea. Aranya, Zuziana and Ardan flew above or to the side of Leandrial’s head as she snaked languorously along the current, making occasional corrective paddles with her forelegs or changing the rippling action of her hindquarters and tail. In her native environment, she was graceful and quick, her enormous, streamlined tonnage supported by the air’s density and shunned by most predators–which were plentiful, and most dwarfed even Ardan, never mind Sapphire. The dragonet goggled at the sights, cooing and peppering Leandrial with questions.

What’s that, Li-Li? she asked, using her name for Leandrial.

That’s a paw-sized chunk of flaming chak-chak moss, little one. Tamped into a wound, it has fine healing properties.

And Li-Li, what’s that?

Stickleback constrictor flatworm, little one. It’s a parasite with a nasty habit of strangulating its victims, anything from the size of a Borer up to that school of marauding Soma-Terrors up there. See those ugly insects with the underslung mandibles and curved frontal fangs? Very poisonous. They sometimes infest Land Dragon wounds and their acidic bite is excruciatingly painful, often leading to necrotic or gangrenous secondary infections. Now, the treatment for such is …

Aranya glanced from the five hundred foot long flatworm to the school of nasties Leandrial pointed out. They came in a vile, luminous green with fangs longer than her entire wingspan. Great. Assume everything wanted to eat you down here? Aye, Leandrial. Sage advice.

Ooh, mountains, Li-Li.

We’ll see plenty more of those, Leandrial purred indulgently. By evening the day after tomorrow, we’ll reach the first of the impossible deeps, and the beginning of the Rift-cracks.

As they flew between ranks of under-Cloudlands peaks, Aranya realised that they were following a deeply-scored watercourse. They passed fantastical mountain landscapes of delicate, fluted violet columns, towering reddish cliffs and a place where a bright orange lava flow tumbled sluggishly down a series of mile-high rock steps to plunge into the water flow below–and what a flow, at least nine miles wide! That afternoon, the canyon broadened as an even larger river joined from the East, opening out onto a floodplain twenty leagues wide and hundreds long, populated by the silvery, metallic Rollers, a class of water-loving herbivores that–Zip chuckled at another Land Dragon literalism–rolled along the bottom using their spherical or conical bodies and steam propulsion powered by their proto-draconic fire stomachs. Their main defence was targeted jets of steam.

This floodplain eventually terminated in a waterfall twenty miles wide and eight tall, as the run-off from the Middle Sea roared into an immense lake–more an ocean, Leandrial shouted to them over the deafening thundering of the waters, an impossible deep which had been flooded over the aeons. Many hitherto unseen piscine, crustacean and insectoid forms of life inhabited this new realm.

The rumbling commotion followed them for many a mile as they flew above endless, almost black waters for the remainder of that day and most of the next two, stopping occasionally to rest on the jagged mountain peaks protruding from this underworld ocean. Their talk turned often to the conundrum of Thoralian–including his uncanny resemblance to Marshal Re’akka–and the clear evidence of commerce across the Rift, not least the treacherous Chameleon Shapeshifters of Herimor, and the poisons they had used to bring both Aranya and her mother down.

During one enforced sleep-time, as an electrical storm laden with magical overtones growled over the ocean and the smaller Dragons took refuge in a mountaintop cave, Aranya said, “I think I’ve finally worked it out. Thoralian, I mean.”

Zuziana lifted her head from a quick check of the hibernating monk, giving Aranya a droll whirl of her fire-eyes. “Aye?”

Just outside the cave, Leandrial murmured, “My ear-canals tingle in anticipation, Aranya.”

That was Land-Dragonese for, ‘explain in detail.’ She replied, “Actually, I’ve only put together what you’ve all been talking about, perhaps in a slightly different way. It seems evident that Thoralian or his sire must originate from Herimor. He’s never been Sylakian, my friends. His Dragon-form’s colour is so unusual, it is absent from any Dragon lore we could find, besides his colossal physical size. He possesses a combination of psychic powers of unusual character and unmatched expertise in the mental disciplines, together with the strategic skills you mentioned, Ardan–which taken together with the probable timeline, argue against Re’akka being his sire. And let’s not mention his abhorrent feeding habits.”

“To think I was about to accuse you of admiring the beast,” the Remoyan growled. “Could you check Ri’arion in a minute?”

“Sure, girlfriend.”

Ardan’s eyes flicked open to roll at the Dragonesses. As his charcoal colour blended almost perfectly with the gloom, the effect was almost as if a predator had sneaked up on them. Both Aranya and Zuziana startled crossly.

“Dragon powers do arise spontaneously, particularly in Lesser Dragons,” Leandrial pointed out. “Case in point, one Shadow Dragon.”

“You mentioned the highly sophisticated nature of Thoralian’s mental processes, Leandrial,” Aranya countered. “Mostly, I refer to Ardan’s comments yesterday on the unexpected rise of the Sylakian Empire. Let’s say Shapeshifters had been infiltrating Sylakia for years, perhaps decades. At some point after Shurgal stole the First Egg and whisked it off to Herimor, Shifters came North. Why? Easy conquest, perhaps. Or they were forced out. Both Shurgal and Thoralian have demonstrated the ability–a theoretical ability in Thoralian’s case, I’ll grant–to cross the Rift, where even Leandrial has failed. That suggests a type of magic which counteracts the Rift’s disruptive magic. Then, a miracle. Over a period of sixteen years, Sylakia developed from being a band of merry, bearded occasional pirates and hardened ale-drinkers to the dominant power in our third of the Island-World. They improved Dragonship and battle technology, and demonstrated long-term, strategic mastery and a level of drive that was never present before. They subtly, quietly, removed all opposing Shapeshifters and Lesser Dragons during their conquests. Thoralian could be a hundred years old. He could already have been some kind of Herimor potentate–”

“A powerful Marshal from one of the ancient Shapeshifter bloodlines,” Leandrial clarified. “Or, he’s the old Marshal’s shell-son, as we discussed before.”

“Aye. He’s battle-hardened. Cunning. Every action and counter-action thought through beforehand,” the Amethyst added.

Ardan’s eyes held an especial gleam for her as he pointed one dagger-sharp grey talon at Aranya. “Only, he failed to identify the disruptive factor. Fate’s wild rebuke.”

Zip chuckled, “Well, there’s a few titles I don’t believe Aranya’s ever heard before. Shut the jaw, petal. No, better still, finish your thought.”

“Perhaps he planned to invade Herimor from the North, or there was knowledge he sought,” Aranya said, trying to decide just how thoroughly to thrash Ardan for that comment. “Thoralian had been busy in the library at Gi’ishior, Ja’arrion said–they reported various important scrolls and manuscripts were missing. What I mean to say is, however, that Thoralian is likely to be returning to his ancestral power base. He’s not one lone Dragon bent on causing a ripple of discontent. He means to gain the First Egg, and for that reason, he’s off to war.”

“Cheery, but logical,” suggested Zip. “Leandrial, I thought you couldn’t see colour?”

“I can discern gemstone qualities,” she replied.

Zip preened. “Meaning, I’m quality. Thanks, Leandrial!”

“Not that sort of quality, you silly ralti sheep,” Aranya joshed her. “So, is it true that all the most powerful Dragons in Herimor hail from these bloodlines, noble Leandrial?”

The Land Dragoness said, “That’s my understanding. Herimor society is arranged very differently to what you might be used to. There is a complex class and caste system, ruled by the Marshals and Sub-Marshals at the top of the pile. Marshals can be Dragonkind, Shapeshifter or Human, but it’s generally agreed and historically demonstrable that Shapeshifters are preeminent in Herimor. They place great emphasis on good breeding and selection of potential mates. Often, royal young are thrust into year-group nurseries where they are expected to survive various trials or even to kill all of their siblings in order to demonstrate their worthiness to rule. Murder is not only tolerated, it is encouraged.”

“Unlike Remoy’s slightly different emphasis on breeding,” Ardan observed dryly.

The Azure Dragoness gnawed playfully on his left secondary wing-bone. “Aye? I was very selective, Ardan. Enchanter, powerful warrior, brain on legs–”

“Sexy sack of rocks for abdominals,” Aranya offered.

Zip just laughed. “Oh aye, that was my first and only criterion. You understand me so well, Immadia.”

“Can we not insult a man while he’s hibernating?” suggested Ardan.

The Land Dragoness said, “I approve of Aranya’s synthesis of ideas regarding Thoralian. Only I would add and emphasise, we must discover how Shurgal and Thoralian came by similar powers to conquer the Rift. I posit that urzul, the foul magic of the Theadurial, is our crucial clue. Further, we know not if Shurgal and Thoralian be foes or allies.”

“I’d generally assume the worst regarding those two,” Ardan growled, half-heartedly shoving the Azure Dragoness away. “Can I have my wing back, please?”

Aranya checked Ri’arion and Sapphire’s health, making the dragonet wriggle and squirm in her grasp. The monk seemed almost dead, but she found her magic could detect his deep life-processes. “Detox needed, all. Leandrial, do tell us more about this Herimor class system?”

“Below the ruling class of Herimor comes the warrior caste of battle-ready Dragons. Again, the more powerful rule the weaker,” Leandrial told them, as the Lesser Dragons worked through their exercises. “There are specific subclasses of Dragons and Humans bred for war–Granite Dragons, Lightning Dragons, scouts and spies, hunters, assassins, even Dragons that specialise in heavy haulage. There are all the usual merchants and artisans you’d expect, but they’re typically organised into Guilds, as I understand it. The Guilds command all practice and lore relating to particular skills, ranging from masonry to developing poisons, from farming to scholarly pursuits, and the like. A code of chivalry and honour commands much of daily life. I do not understand its many nuances, but I believe that war is often conducted in a staged fashion in order to minimise the impact on life. Champions fight champions, and suchlike.”

Ardan said, “All very good as long as we actually manage to reach Herimor. Can’t we just fly over the Rift-Storm, Leandrial?”

“When we arrive, you may make your own assessment,” said the Land Dragoness. “Perhaps Shadow power is the key to conquering the Rift. Think upon that, noble Dragon.”

As usual, the appellation ‘noble’ made the Shadow Dragon appear as if he were developing another infestation of the unmentionables. To her intense surprise, Dragoness-Aranya drew herself up and roared at him–with a fine mini-rendition of Fra’anior’s storm of thunder, lightning and smoke, “You are noble–you’re a Dragon, not a ralti sheep! Islands’ sakes, Ardan!”

Having skittered a hundred feet off with battle-ready reactions, the Shadow Dragon came thundering back with, “What’s the matter with you, Amethyst–”

“You! Will you just grow into your oversized paws for a change?”

Aranya did not flinch before the rage of a Dragon the better part of two and a half times her size. Suddenly, she collapsed in a fit of giggles. Ardan coughed and spluttered as he swallowed smoke into the wrong stomach, then burped up an outraged fireball.

Aranya flicked his nose pertly with her wingtip. “Aren’t Dragon arguments such fun, Ardan?”

“You … Dragoness!” His eyes bulged with all the pressure of fire and brimstone roiling inside of him.

“Dragoness indeed, noble Dragon. And don’t you forget it.”

* * * *

Departing the eerie ocean beneath the clouds at what passed for morning in this realm, Zuziana made a grim discovery. The far shore was littered with bones–Human-like bones. The three Lesser Dragons descended to examine them, with Leandrial trailing just behind. The obsidian shoreline seemed to merge with the opaque waters, rippling with wavelets half a foot tall. No doubt greater storms kicked up waves, Zip thought, spotting the high-tide marks further up the beach. Many of the bones had been smashed or splintered, but all the evidence pointed to a remarkable resilience to time’s depredations. Left and right, the bones littered the dark sand as far as the eye could see.

“Streamlined skulls with especially wide and deep eyes,” Ardan said, pointing delicately with his fore-talon. “I wish Ri’arion could see this. Take mental pictures, Zuziana. Look. They’ve strangely shaped thigh bones and, could these be fins in place of feet? Aquatic, water-dwelling Humans–down here?”

Leandrial said, “I’ve never heard of such a tribe or people group, yet the likeness to Human skeletal structures is unmistakable. Note the deeper and stronger chests, probably adapted for breathing water or at least, air under great pressure. They’d be nine or ten feet tall, including additional leg joints and tail structures, even though the torso is roughly of Human dimensions. And see here? This one was killed by a spear.”

The Azure Dragoness reached down to delicately pluck the spear-point from its lodging-place between a pair of ribs clearly cracked by the impact. “What a peculiar design. I’ve never seen the like.”

“We’ll put it in your packs for safekeeping,” Aranya decided.

“Careful with my bag-man. I don’t want a shield-breach.”

“And you call me soppy, Zippy?” The Amethyst fussed with Zip’s Dragon-friendly buckles. “I’ve tucked it in here with my grandmother’s scale.”

“Don’t stand on the bones, Leandrial,” Ardan cautioned.

She paused mid-step, one great paw hovering three hundred feet overhead. “They’re bones, little one.”

“We don’t desecrate bones,” he said. “Nor do the Lesser Dragons above the clouds. No mind, Leandrial. Shall I tell you a few of our traditions regarding bones?”

“How astutely you judge my desires, mighty Shadow Dragon,” rumbled Leandrial, stretching her legs to take a monstrous step out of the ocean, over the beach and a goodly ways beyond. There was something mind-blowing about not measuring up to this creature’s ankle-bone, Zip decided. It certainly kept Lesser Dragons from thinking too much of themselves!

Yet a pensive mood overtook her that day. Perhaps it was the fate of a people lost to time and memory. So many deaths. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands had perished upon that dark shore. Could it mean that people had once lived in deeps like this? That they had been overcome by an unimaginable doom?

They flew up and over a deep purple mountain range that towered three and a half leagues above the beach of bones, yet did not come close to breaching the opaque Cloudlands. Zip might have imagined they simply flew beneath a permanently overcast sky, were it not for the pressure, eerie landscapes and distinctive predators. Perhaps Aranya thought the same, she observed. Her friend suffered from severe, constant headaches, and there was an inexplicable turmoil in the Immadian Princess and around her that kept Leandrial complaining of disturbances in the aether and baffling storm weather.

Daughter of Storm? Zip’s wings shivered lightly. Aye.

The following day, the four companions launched out over an impossible deep; a canyon so profound, the blue merged into blackness far below their steadily-descending flight. The cliff they left in their wake was the greatest the Lesser Dragons had seen yet, a jaw-dropping, unrelieved precipice of roughly eighteen miles, and the impossible deep shelved off still further below that. In several places, water from the ocean they had left behind jetted through tall cracks, creating slow-falling, plumy white waterfalls of a stature that beggared belief.

Leandrial quickly dropped two leagues, conserving magic and energy as she allowed the air density to stabilise her weight, before they paddled out into the vast blue world, travelling three to four leagues below the shadowy heights. The patches of shihurior were few and far between and visibility poor, so that it seemed they travelled through a dead, gloomy realm shunned by living things.

After crossing the impossible deep, Leandrial walked up a five-mile cliff carpeted in slowly waving yellow ferns, whereupon they launched out once more into a blasted wilderness of poisonous, luminous fungi and lichen-like plants that furred every crack and surface of the deeply fissured landscape. The smell of rot and decay permeated even their shields. Repeatedly, Leandrial urged the Lesser Dragons to check their shield-filters and magical protections, and to combat the sharply escalating levels of toxins in the environment. Sapphire stuck very close to Aranya, having mislaid her typical dragonet zip and bounce.

Progress became a steady push against contrary breezes. That push developed quickly into a struggle as the weather took a turn for the dangerous–currents, counter-currents and wind-shear attacking the Dragons from every conceivable angle. Leandrial might have been large, but even she was not immune. Shoals of giant, marauding crustaceans were the main menace. The dull yellow Spider-Crabs, as Zip dubbed them, attacked the Dragons with flurries of grapnels attached to silken ropes and sharp pinpricks of their native magic, propelling themselves rapidly through the air with bursts of their flat tails. Leandrial’s paws and talons soon became clogged with dangling crustaceans; losing patience, she occasionally turned to clean them off with irritated blasts of her eye-cannon. Aranya, Zip and Ardan had to keep a sharp watch for the perennially aggressive pests.

During their sixth day’s travel from Remoy’s shores, Ardan began to sniff about suspiciously.

Zip said, “You smell that–strange magic?”

“I don’t smell anything,” said Aranya. “I feel peculiar, though.”

“Has the pox affected your sense of smell?” growled Ardan.

“No!” Aranya glared at them both, before her head dropped. “Alright, maybe–don’t ruddy well stare. It’s just another side-effect, one I didn’t grasp until now …” Zip’s hearts, three in concert, turned over as Aranya muttered, “Curse that Thoralian! Must he take everything?”

Zip made to wing over, but Aranya jinked away. For the first time, Zuziana felt a stab of anger at her friend. Was she the only one who had suffered? No! Her own torso was a shameful mass of scar tissue; Ri’arion had treated her tenderly, but Zip had requested that the lamps be blown out before he saw her–besides, her best friend should be more gracious. Right then, Zip just wanted to belt Aranya and shout, ‘Get over your misery!’ Worse, the way Aranya treated gallant Ardan! Although, did she detect a thawing of the Northern icicle in that territory?

Right. As her mothers would say, she who aimed her forefinger in accusation, had better heed the three fingers pointed back at her own heart.

Leandrial said, “Little ones, what you sense is the disruptive magic and Disharmony of the Rift-Storm. I would value your analysis of this phenomenon before we attack it. I suggest that tomorrow morning, you three take a trip to view the Rift-Storm from above the Cloudlands. Wake your monk; demand his inputs. We need to develop the best possible strategy, and employ the Nameless Man’s powers during the crossing.”

Zip had a high opinion of Ri’arion, but she was surprised the mighty, self-sufficient Land Dragoness would admit her need so openly. Could she protect Ri’arion enough inside a shield-bubble? Worrying about him caused a reflexive flurry of lightning to greet the next attack of Spider-Crabs. Ardan jumped fifty feet sideways before catching himself with an irascible, choked-off battle-roar.

Aranya, observing this, said, “Interesting. Do you think it’s possible for a shield to absorb magical energy and reflect it, like Hualiama said in her scrolls?”

Leandrial immediately bugled her approval. “Aye! A noble pursuit!”

And she fell at once to discussion with Aranya. The small Azure peered ahead, sharing an apprehensive glance with the Shadow Dragon. That rumbling. Aye, they were starting to feel the presence of the Rift-Storm, and they were still more than three hundred leagues distant.

She bit back a few choice expletives. Ri’arion hated swearing. What he would appreciate, was the input of every draconic sense she had. Together with her companions, she began to catalogue what she sensed, and was soon embroiled in the rapid-fire telepathic communication of Dragons as they tossed ideas about with stormy abandon–only their storm was all in the mind.

The Rift was physical, inimical and deeply disquieting.

* * * *

Together with the two Dragonesses, Ardan raised his head above the ash-grey Cloudlands that evening, just a few minutes before suns-set. They drew sharp breaths.

For a moment, it seemed to Ardan that the world had tipped on its side, that he was seeing a crazy replication of the Cloudlands in the vertical plane. Then, Zip whispered, “The Rift-Storm.”

His neck-vertebrae protested as Ardan looked left and right, then up. And up. And up.

“Unholy, spitting windrocs!” the Azure spluttered, vocalising all of their thoughts.

A wall of crimson fire and sooty black cloud spanned the horizon. Seen from this close vantage-point, the Shapeshifter Dragons perceived how the fabled Rift-Storm curved gradually southward in a vast, shallow arc, just as the scrolls had noted, making Remoy one of the closest Islands to the Rift despite it lying at a latitude hundreds of leagues more northerly than the Southern Archipelago. The visceral shock was the way those sinister, red-tinted clouds billowed continually toward the sky, creating an unbroken rampart of tempest from the roots of the world to the skies above–attaining heights of between fourteen and fifteen leagues, Ardan estimated. Over half the height of the fabled Rim-Wall Mountains, and three times and more a Dragon’s maximum flying altitude.

The oily fires raged upward without pause or reason, bespeaking the unthinkable, hellish underlying volcanic activity that must spawn this phenomenon. Disturbing magic chilled his spine-spikes; judging by Aranya’s paw-curling reaction, she sensed the same. The Amethyst winced as peals of thunder resounded from the otherwise clear skies. Storm.

Ardan bared his fangs in concern. The storm grows within you, Aranya.

Aye. Something is amiss. The Amethyst Dragoness examined the Rift-Storm pensively. Could it be our proximity to this abnormal magic? Or is it me, Ardan? Last time …

We’ll work it out, Ardan and Zip growled simultaneously.

Aranya chuckled at their expressions. Alright. Is either of you my friend, perchance?

Just then, Ri’arion stirred in the saddlebag Aranya had opened for Zip, and peered out. He blinked. Slowly, the monk’s head tilted over to the side as he stared at the storm for several minutes, unblinking. No-one spoke.

He groaned, “What is this?”

“Alright, monk-love?” Zip crooned. “Awake and …” her voice trailed off.

The monk continued to stare as if he had seen his own soul walk out of his flesh. His cheeks lost any hint of colour. Eventually, he hissed, “Right. Confession time, you motley band of jokers. Who dumped the sky on its backside?”

Chapter 14: Riding the Storm

GRIMLY, THE SIX travellers conferred that evening after viewing the Rift-Storm, and examining it with every sense and technique at their disposal.

Sapphire chirped, Bad magic. Scared. Sapphire help Ari?

Thank you. Aranya stroked the dragonet’s skull-ruff with her fore-talon. Why did you ever choose me, Sapphire? Aren’t I a pain?

Big Onyx order, claimed Sapphire, then fell about in a fit of trilling giggles at Aranya’s choked wheeze. Jokey-jokes? Good joke?

Aranya could only splutter incoherently, for she realised the dragonet might be speaking more truth than she knew.

“So we’re agreed?” asked Ri’arion. “We go in hard and fast, trying Ardan’s Shadow magic first. We’ll also work with Leandrial to counter the disruptive magic we’ve all sensed in that storm. The Rift-Storm is said to be a mere–” his smile flattened into an even dourer line than before “–two hundred and fifty leagues across. Like chewing a piece of sweetbread.”

“Funny,” Ardan grunted.

“You and Leandrial will work together in the mind-meld to perform countermeasures?” Aranya asked.

The Nameless Man made an inviting sweep of his hand. “Aye. We haven’t talked about your contribution, Aranya. If you have any Star Dragoness tricks up your scaly sleeves–”

“–like re-Balancing the entire Rift, say?” Zuziana quipped lightly.

Starlight purify shields, the dragonet said unexpectedly. The wry chuckles around the group stuttered as everyone turned to gape at Sapphire. She preened immodestly. Sapphire best-brains.

“Never underestimate the manifold wisdom of the smallest!” Ardan said feelingly, tapping Sapphire with his right wingtip. Awesomeness on wings, you are. He added, “What do you think, Amethyst-eyes? Fancy infusing our shields with starlight, or having one of your mystical conferences with the Great Onyx?”

“Both,” she replied, still staring at her dragonet. Holy smoking … whatever! Sapphire, you’ve given us hope.

Yet she knew that they needed more than hope.

* * * *

Ensconced once more in the pocket of Leandrial’s cheek in order to save her strength, Aranya set her mind to dreaming about the greatest Onyx Dragon of all, Fra’anior. He was no nightmare. He had bellowed at her because she had avoided listening to his voice.

This night, however, she spent tossing and turning as the raging thunder of Fra’anior’s voices merged with the nearing roar of the Rift-Storm. Her dreams were tormented. Endless chasing. Endless falling through storms where the voice of the Great Onyx battered and bruised her body without respite. Try as she might, Aranya could not understand his bellowing–a caution about oath-magic? Betrayal by starlight? His voice rose and fell like a furnace’s song. Throbbing. Growling. Crackling like rock giving way beneath the brunt of an earthquake’s force. She screamed, cried and fought …

She sensed Leandrial’s soothing, but the dreams gripped her like a Dragon’s merciless talons. On the cusp of imagining she should shed her very scales in terror, Aranya slipped instead, into peace.

Unexpected, wholesome peace; soul-deep.

The laughter of starlight.

Who had spoken? She glanced about, as confused as a rajal chasing butterflies. She was cupped in a small pocket of soft, violet Dragon hide, its innate density shielding her from the buffeting that impacted a much larger body without. Oh. She lay inside her friend’s cheek, of course. And she felt as if she had spent a few days being repeatedly punched by a Land Dragon. Ugh.

Aranya coughed, Uh … Leandrial, was that you?

Was what who? chuckled the Land Dragoness, but Aranya heard strain-indicators behind her light-hearted comment. Guiltily, she realised her physical Storm had assaulted her friend.

Sorry. Someone said, ‘The laughter of starlight.’

Not me, said Leandrial. Hearken with your inmost fires. I’m about to call in our companions. We’re ten leagues from entering the Rift-Storm.

I–what?

You slept a whole day, little one. Twenty-seven hours. Her Dragonish softened, developing additional motherly-concern nuances. You must have needed respite, yet your dreams … her inward fire-shudder communicated much.

What could she say? Warm, orange tones of gratitude shaded her telepathic Dragonish as Aranya breathed, Thanks, Leandrial. I mean it.

I know, little one. Gratitude-reflection upon thee, who hath lifted a Land Dragoness from the mire with true-fires friendship. Never shall it be forgotten. With a curl of mischief-indicators shading her Dragonish like dancing dragonets, the old Dragoness added, Perhaps, for reason of thy heart, I should start to call thee, ‘great one’. It suits.

Aranya laughed uncomfortably. Would that I might step into such largeness of paw one day, Leandrial.

I join my fires to this endeavour, Leandrial replied, with a further atypical genuflection of her inner being. An oath-wish? Aranya did not understand the nuances communicated by her action, a spreading and fluttering of her fires, as if the Dragoness herself had grown spirit-wings.

With that, the pocket drew open upon the strange realm of Leandrial’s broad, flat tongue, which formed the floor of her mouth-cavern. The roof–her palette–was a luminous, very light purple similar to the plumage of the young terhals of Immadia, producing a soft radiance by which Aranya could make out many details, from the blocky molars with what appeared to be half a tree stuck between them, midway down the starboard side, to the exact patterning of the taste buds, smell bulbs and electrical-sensor-inlets upon her purple tongue’s surface. Interestingly, her highly elastic, prehensile tongue hinged from the front, allowing the Land Dragoness to snare potential food with a muscular movement that she described as snap-snaffle-swallow.

After checking that her talons were sheathed, Aranya stepped out onto Leandrial’s tongue. There had to be a balladeer’s dream in this moment, she decided, parading with queenly grace–and making herself chuckle in the doing–over to the stuck morsel.

Calling the dental surgeon, she said.

What silliness are you perpetrating this time, Aranya? Leandrial inquired.

Human-Aranya would have stood no chance of removing the stem of whatever plant it had been; Dragoness-Aranya arched her back beneath it, and pried the three-foot thick length free with a single, powerful flexion of her muscles.

Ah! Leandrial exclaimed. So that’s what kept me from conquering the Rift last time!

To the tune of their mingled laughter, Ardan, Sapphire, Zip and Ri’arion entered Leandrial’s mouth.

“Fra’anior spoke?” the monk asked at once, as direct as a flying arrow.

Aranya began to shake her head, then arrested the movement. Nothing carved in granite, Ri’arion, but there was something–if I could just remember it–and the briefest of inputs I think, and a message which I believe came from Hualiama.

Which was? Zip prompted.

Ah … ‘the laughter of starlight.’

She could have split Islands with the growls that emanated from the Shadow and the Azure, but Sapphire trilled brightly, Hoo-lee spoke! Is enough, yes, yes, yes?

Ri’arion fished for flies as he followed this. At length he grumbled, “Your Aunt prescribes a diet of laughter for the greatest magical storm in the Island-World and a dragonet understands more than any of us? You should meditate upon the Dragonfriend’s teachings, Aranya, rather than sleeping the days away.”

Aranya flashed a few dozen fangs at him. “Great leaping Islands, I’ll try to remember your advice next time Fra’anior won’t leave well enough alone!”

The beat of Leandrial’s tail picked up as the Land Dragoness accelerated. Meantime, she tucked Ardan into one of the twenty-five cheek-pockets that lined either side of her mouth, and drew him into the mind-meld. Ri’arion lost interest in baiting Aranya, concentrating instead on instructing Ardan so that he and Leandrial could achieve a deeper level of trust and sharing.

With Leandrial’s resources underpinning his effort, Ardan’s uncanny Shadow power enveloped the group. Aranya had a sense of fading into nothingness. In reality, she knew she still stood paws-akimbo upon Leandrial’s tongue, but her brain insisted there was no substance; at once, she saw through the Land Dragoness’ lips, teeth and hide to the landscape beyond. How? An image of teeth and jawbones seemed superimposed upon the terrifying storm ahead. Leandrial had dived deep, the best way to start, she claimed.

Ahead, fire jetted from a jagged crack in the black basal rock with huge force. The stench of taint was heavy in her nostrils, but more so, the awareness of disturbance in the aether. Aranya’s scales crawled as if stroked by enormous, ice-cold talons.

Quick, to my cheek-pockets, Leandrial commanded. The entry will be rough …

Amethyst and Azure managed to scramble into the same pocket, along with Sapphire. Aranya saw the monk’s faint outline above Zuziana’s shoulders and brought him down lest the enfolding Dragon hide squash him–or could it, in a realm of Shadow? Zip drew him gratefully in her paws; the monk gave no sign of being aware that he had been moved.

Their shields drew together. Heat. Pressure. A resilient force-distribution mechanism to spread the impact of conflicting forces along Leandrial’s great length, or she would be torn limb from limb. Leandrial had adapted the shaped aerodynamic shielding to best suit her. Aranya sensed the Land Dragoness’ mind checking over the shield-constructs one last time as she neared the wall, thrusting with her utmost power, a synchronised action of all four legs and her lashing tail.

Like the largest spear in existence, one and a half miles of Land Dragon plunged into the Rift-Storm.

An upward-rushing waterfall of fire snatched them away.

* * * *

The Azure Dragoness had imagined nothing could move the mighty mountain of Dragonflesh that was Leandrial. She had braced for an explosion. Instead, a prolonged, rising hissing sound developed as an orange and vermilion waterfall streamed over and around Leandrial’s body. An ultra-low rumbling shook her entire length. Heat enveloped them. Then, the Rift’s fires began to crumble their shields. Ardan and Ri’arion set about shoring up the defences at once.

Long minutes crawled by as the ambient temperature rapidly escalated. Leandrial swam powerfully, aiming not to be dragged too high, for if they struck one of the maelstroms, too much of a drop could kill her. The Land Dragoness’ great body juddered under the increasingly powerful assault, as if she were being pummelled from without by Shurgal himself. Meantime, she and the Amethyst tried to make sense of the disruptive magic. Was it sound? Impact? A wholly magical contagion? Certainly, it was far more complex than mere fire.

It’s unravelling constructs faster than they can rebuild them, said Aranya. This is what I see, Zip.

Zip inspected a highly-focussed close-up of the shield magic. To Aranya’s sight, magic was comprised of a very fine meshwork of threads … no, runes? Aranya took her closer. Look at how each thread is a poetic expression of magical language, as if this language comprises the very atomic structures and forces Leandrial spoke of … I do not understand how, but our presence and powers shape and mould this language, this expression of white-fires. Zuziana chewed her forked tongue thoughtfully. This was how a Star Dragoness saw her world? Very different to Leandrial. Together, they pointed to linkages and interdependencies and nuances in the great tapestry of magical language.

While they cogitated, their companions fought an unequal battle. It’s far worse than the last time I entered, Leandrial gasped, mining her magic deeply. I can’t cope much longer. We have to reach the maelstrom, the one-third point … hold, Aranya! Save your strength!

The Amethyst Dragoness paused. A small experiment?

WAIT!

The shaking worsened steadily, pounding Leandrial side-to-side and upward, always upward. Even the Shadow-effect of Ardan’s magic could not protect her from the Rift-Storm, for its innate magic seemed inimical to all forms of draconic magic. Disharmony. Disintegration. Destruction. Ardan growled expletives beneath his breath, trying to hold together, but he battled an endless flood. His Shadow flickered.

Ardan growled, Help me, Ri’arion … no … an explosion without rattled them all.

The Azure Dragoness could not believe how quickly his strength waned–Aranya muttered that they had been inside for over two hours, and swum twenty-five leagues. Their great companion still moved strongly … BOOM! BOOM! Leandrial groaned. The explosions came with more frequency now. All she saw without was fire. Rivers of fire. An upside-down torrent of fierce orange fire, as if they swam into the roasting heart of a volcano. Heat built upon heat despite their best protections.

The Shadow Dragon groaned again, in real pain now, but he still had strength enough to push aside Aranya’s tentative mental touch. No! He concentrated fiercely.

Suddenly, they entered a region of violent wind-shear. Zuziana’s stomachs leaped into her throat as Leandrial first dropped precipitously, before splashing down upon a huge, swelling bubble of bright yellow magma. BOOM! She tumbled into space. House-sized boulders peppered their shield, followed by a curling wave of white-hot, molten metal that dragged the Land Dragoness down again. Ri’arion helped to steady and phase the shields; Leandrial’s challenge roared forth as she shook free and resumed the beating action of her feet and tail.

Again and again, explosions pummelled them, twice sending the entire Land Dragon muzzle-over-paws into raging canyons of fire. She recovered each time, but the effort cost her dearly.

After three and a half hours of struggling into the teeth of the Rift-Storm, Leandrial was spent. Haven’t even come as far as last time, she gasped. Maelstrom … ahead. Too high.

Zuziana was wishing she knew what Leandrial meant by the ‘maelstrom’, when without warning, the Land Dragoness’ head and shoulders suddenly punched into space. Half of their shield evaporated instantly.

Disruption! The shrieking backlash of lethal magic concussed both Ri’arion and Ardan as if their candlewicks had been snuffed by the pinch of monstrous talons. The Rift-Storm’s voice was an unimaginable, shrieking turmoil; its heart a vortex of yellow-orange lava-froth forty leagues wide and ten deep. The brief glimpse she caught before Ardan’s Shadow-power vanished and the scene with it, showed them an estimated six leagues up the side wall of a churning, apparently bottomless whirlpool of hellish fire.

Hold on, Leandrial! cried the Amethyst.

* * * *

This was the place. If they could reach one of the pumice-like Islands she had spotted floating on the maelstrom’s surface, Aranya reasoned, Leandrial could rest. The Rift-Storm would shred their magic like a Dragon sieving soft flesh with his talons, but physical rest was possible.

As Beran liked to say, first problems first.

Before actual wisdom interfered, the Amethyst Dragoness seized the remnant of their shield in her mind and contorted it enthusiastically in an unexpected direction. Backward.

BRRROAARRR … Leandrial roared, mouth momentarily agape, as an area of low pressure developed at her tail and ultra-high pressure at her head. She squeezed backward like sugar bamboo being pressed through rollers to extract sap.

Steady as she goes, Helmsman! Aranya sang out.

She had the impression the Azure was gaping at her somewhere in the semidarkness inside Leandrial’s cheek-pocket, but the Land Dragoness voiced a mighty guffaw of rough and pained conception, before awkwardly paddling backward and downward in a corkscrewing motion, keeping her tail as stiff as a spear–a southerly spear. Downward. The starlight-infused penetrative shield teased aside just enough of the Rift’s hostile magic to succeed. Aranya could not understand the opposing forces, a mixture of stormy earthen-fire, physical winds that struck a shrill note of never-ending pain, as though the Island-World itself suffered a ghastly eruption of its bowels, and arcane magic–always the boisterous, caustic magic. The Rift-Storm’s perturbation was so deep-seated, it attacked her magic at the most elemental level, as if its very nature were–she grappled with the problem, meantime goggling at the rapid drain on her resources–antithetical. Forces so opposed, the mere juxtaposition of their existence resulted in mutual annihilation.

Inspiration! Could she imitate this magic, thereby cloaking them in deceit? No, they’d all be torn apart in the doing. Ugh. Thrusting that prekki-fruit mush aside, the Dragoness returned to her work.

Almost an hour later, when Leandrial adjudged the time to be right, they reverted to their previous configuration. With a dozen or so swishes of her mighty tail, Leandrial drove through the fierce wash and out upon the maelstrom.

Great grafting, Aranya, Ardan hissed tiredly.

Aye, top work, said Zuziana, plainly disgruntled. Remoy sits on her duff while the boys are fainting left and right and the Star Dragoness’ backwards logic sucks us down the proverbial plughole. At least we can conclude that Thoralian is disgusting enough to perfectly suit this Rift-magic.

Aranya heard Ri’arion slapping his Dragoness’ hide. Easy, Azure. We’ll need your strength yet, since us boys did such stellar work on the first leg. Almost had us killed.

They gazed about as Ardan turned Leandrial’s flesh semi-transparent once more, giving them a view through her clenched teeth to the whirling outskirts of the maelstrom. The dark centre moved at a dangerous speed, swirling downward with a lusty howl audible even over the Rift-Storm’s natural voice. The maelstrom’s surface bubbled and bulged ominously, like a terrace lake troubled from beneath, creating huge patches of orange-white foam that smoked and frothed and churned constantly. At its circumference, the storm’s edges rose upward abruptly as though sheared by a knife. Streamers and gobbets of strangely glutinous, red-laced fire peeled off these fiery cliffs to shower slowly into the great cauldron. Higher still, the cloud-ceiling was a filthy, sooty grey-black, like the residue of burning oil.

Leandrial swam a quarter-mile inward before allowing the tide to take control. Then, she rested her limbs.

No need to rush this part, the Land Dragoness said. No Islands, though. Last time there were–

Swim, Leandrial! yelled Aranya. Go!

The titan bellowed, What? Where’s the danger?

Straight up!

Aranya’s world tilted as Leandrial cast her eye-beam upward. A flat, metallic disk punched through the streaming fires three miles overhead. Already it shaded them as its nose tilted downward with ponderous majesty.

What the hells is that? Ardan bellowed.

An Island … thing! Metal! Leandrial panted, stirring the mixture beneath her belly with great strokes of her cupped paws.

Aranya linked in with the Land Dragoness, welcoming her great, shining presence at the edge of her mind. Instinctively, they shaped the shield once more. Pneumatic elements could ease the movement of her legs through the dense, liquescent substrate, and further, Aranya increased the size of her paddles on each downstroke. Leandrial’s molars ground together as the Dragoness applied her titanic muscles to swimming; Aranya tasted Ardan’s dark strength, Sapphire’s tickling laughter-magic, and Zuziana’s signature touch of blue lightning against her mind as she forced her own Storm inward. Use it all! Rage, winds!

The Land Dragon’s heaving chest began to throw out a bow-wave as she accelerated.

She glanced up. The Island shifted steadily to mirror their evasive movement … Stinking windrocs, it’s chasing us! Aranya’s mental voice hit a shrill note of shock. Faster, Leandrial!

Ardan growled, Ruddy wings would help …

Fins! Zuziana put in. Aranya, try this!

Aranya gasped. Turn Leandrial into a Dragonship? Excellent! In Zip’s vision, ailerons similar to a Dragonship’s adjustable steerage equipment lifted the Land Dragoness out of the gloopy fire dragging at her torso … at the speed of thought, she adjusted Leandrial’s shield-profile to conform to the clear objective in her mind, instantly refined by Zip, Ri’arion and Leandrial working in concert. The Dragoness’ massive tonnage surged upward as the ailerons solidified, borne upon paws that stabbed six hundred feet deep with every stroke. Her chin lifted. Leandrial’s body seemed to lengthen as the fires reluctantly sucked away.

The Amethyst Dragoness began to laugh. Fly, Leandrial! Faster! Spread your wings! She drew wings in her mind, great spreading white wings that flowered out of the Dragoness’ flanks, entirely formed of starlight magic. Beautiful, functional ailerons. Fly, o magnificent Dragoness!

The grey Island poured down toward them upon a bed of fire, as though it created a crimson comber for its own use; Leandrial glided ahead of it, running upon her talon-tips.

How Aranya chuckled! Hualiama? Is this you?

Very nearly, the great Dragoness flew–she skim-glided across the maelstrom, heading in a wide curve around to the southerly side to avoid the centre’s irresistible flow. The metal Island showed no such compunction. Dipping down until it skimmed across the surface, it accelerated on the inner track, catching the fleeing Dragoness with ease. Aranya half-expected the Island to grow a vast maw or tentacles, but when its denizens appeared, she experienced a greater shock than any so far. People! Grey, Human-like creatures bounded off the Island’s flanks with palpable joy and abandon, skidding and skating over the flames upon wide, spatulate feet. They had no eyes, but their humanoid nature was clear. Heads, pumping arms and skating legs were all present. Their skins were a smooth, seamless grey, as if they were encased in metal, or …

ENTIRELY METALLOID BEINGS! Leandrial shouted, deafening them all in her excitement. AMAZING!

At her shout, the metallic beings scattered across the heated foam, and then converged again. The Amethyst Dragoness frantically shored up their failing shields. Grief, with so much happening, she had failed to recognise the toll taken on all of the Lesser Dragons, not to mention Leandrial. Pushing this amount of complex magic about had drained their gourds to the dregs.

Suddenly, telepathic utterances pattered against her mind like soft, plinking rain.

<?Speaking-things?>

<!Concept: non-dwellers yet fire-born!>

<?Confusion?>

<!Excitement-fires-inside kin-creatures!>

They speak some kind of draconic proto-language, Ri’arion gasped, in exact concert with Leandrial.

I’ll try to speak to them. Aranya tried, <Frib-frib> … <Fingle> … <!Friends!>

Her fumbling attempt at communication caused the metalloid creatures to explode in delight. Somersaults ensued. Fancy spins. They indulged in froth-skimming and handstands and intrepid leaps up toward Leandrial’s flanks. Then, with bewildering speed, commands pinged between the creatures. Metallic ropes rose as if by magic–of course, magic, the Immadian admonished herself–from the blistering orange-white foam to entangle Leandrial’s’ legs! None of them could have arrested what followed. Snarled up, Leandrial’s muzzle dipped to snag in the flaming lake; subsequently, the entire length of the Dragoness’ body flipped up into the air. There was a dreadful pause in which everyone braced for the worst and in Sapphire’s case, screamed.

Then, they landed as if cushioned on clouds. The Island scooped them up and hurried off around the maelstrom. Unhurt. Baffled. Leandrial was not tied or otherwise encumbered; the ropes simply vanished, leaving her to squirm to her paws with a venomous hiss.

It was not every day someone casually flipped a Land Dragoness off of her paws.

Uh … I’m not sure that’s my exact definition of ‘friends’, Zuziana griped for them all. Right, everyone–heads, wings, paws, check?

I can’t feel the disruptive magic, Ardan said.

They all froze, thinking the same: had Thoralian or Shurgal taken a ride through the Rift-Storm on one of these?

No, the power drain continues, said Leandrial, but nothing like before. I’m convinced that–

Here they come! Shields! Ri’arion shouted. What the blazes–Aranya, stop!

The Amethyst called over her shoulder, I’m off to make friends. Show them your tonsils, Leandrial.

What are tonsils? asked the Land Dragoness.

* * * *

Thankfully, Ardan thought, Aranya was not even slightly the fool his gut-reaction painted her. Although he modified his thoughts hastily, a mental snap of her fangs confirmed his secret was no secret. This quality in Aranya of seizing life by the scruff of its protesting neck and giving it a firm shake, never failed to give him the hot and cold shivers. Didn’t she understand, ‘take a rest?’ Scarily focussed, Zip had said, adding that her friend sometimes needed to be surprised out of her ultra-intense, resolute mindset.

The Amethyst whipped out of Leandrial’s mouth and winged down to the Haven’s blistering surface.

The Shadow Dragon joined Aranya’s mind as she began to bat thought-monads about with the metallic beings. He became aware of Ri’arion, Zip and Leandrial all looking on with interest; Aranya developed a thumping headache as she puzzled out their form of communication, which was not at all unintelligible, just … ideas in different packaging, as he understood it. Ardan had assumed Ri’arion would assume the role of chief linguist, but his lack of interference suggested that the Princess was doing a creditable job. She identified the Foam-Riders and teased out their motivation for snagging the Land Dragon with their Haven–the hollow metal plate which served as their base for surfing the Rift-Storm. At her request, the metalloid creatures explained that ‘surfing’ was the action of riding fire-currents just as flesh-enclosed fire-spirits–that would be Lesser Dragons–rode the ‘deathly open air’ upon their wings. Apparently, these Foam-Riders were perfectly adapted to living in their native environment.

Ardan gritted his fangs. If only!

Now, Aranya questioned how they resisted the disruptive magic, a concept the Foam-Riders did not initially grasp. They kept insisting <!metal!> and <!metal-fire-inside!>, by which Zuziana’s mental voice quietly concluded that these creatures must not only be fire-dwellers, but also harboured fire within their bodies, like Dragons. Perhaps that was what kept their metal fluid enough for movement, Ri’arion theorised. Up close, the metalloid creatures were ferociously hot, at least one thousand two hundred degrees, Leandrial’s full-spectrum analysis revealed.

The Amethyst Dragoness formally requested the Foam-Riders’ help in crossing the Rift, which immediately split them into visibly argumentative groups.

Several raised their arms threateningly, shouting, <?Kill-confusion?> and <?See-other-four-paw-cross?> Other grey beings intervened, clearly seeking to protect the unflinching Amethyst Dragoness. The two groups spat gobbets of molten metal at each other, shouting, <!Clarify-first!>

<!Bad-bad-evil!> roared a group of Foam-Riders.

<!No-kill!> Aranya returned. <!We-go, you!> Drat, can’t get this … <!You-stay, we-leave!>

<?Concept: Ride-far?> asked the Foam-Riders.

Another creature kicked Aranya’s tail with its foot, making her jump. <!Danger: Storm Elementals. No-ride-far!> This provoked a chorus of agreement.

<?Clarify?> asked Aranya, flinching as all of her friends, including Sapphire, piled in to shout questions about the reference to the other ‘four-paws’–which had to be Shurgal or Thoralian, or both. Ardan uncharitably decided the Amethyst looked as if she had wasps in her ear-canals, shaking her muzzle about. Angrily, she cried, <!We-friendly-no-trouble!>

<!Chief-fires-decide!>

Leandrial flexed her talons against the metal disk. By shielded telepathy, she said, I’m not at all certain I fancy this idea. Be alert, little ones.

With that, the Foam-Riders began to dance in a frenzy akin to the fiery foam their name evoked. Dozens of new Riders squeezed up out of the surface of the great metal disk, an oval Island in its own right, measuring roughly two miles wide by five long. These more silvery Foam-Riders were apparently comprised of an alloy as fine as the best scimitar-steel Ardan had ever seen; faceless, but clearly intelligent, and able to navigate the Rift-Storm.

<!Sweepers-ready!> the new group cried in a single voice.

They raised their arms skyward. <!Heave-sweep-ho!> Pause. <!Heave-sweep-ho!> Quickly, a chant developed that literally picked up their Island Haven and whirled it around the maelstrom, aiming for the western periphery. Ardan noticed Leandrial digging in her talons, able to grip even metal, while she marshalled her depleted magic.

Aye, Ardan thought, assessing his companions’ condition with a jaundiced eye. Aranya was about to drop, Ri’arion sported new, grim lines at the edges of his mouth, and even Sapphire’s wings drooped. His own magic was dimmer than a badly-trimmed lamp.

What new adventure would they face this day? And what by the fires of heaven itself was a Storm Elemental? Was the Rift not deadly enough already?

Chapter 15: Promises

ZUZIANA WRIGGLED OUT of Ri’arion’s grasp. “Let me go! I am not letting Aranya have all the fun.”

“You’re in a foul mood,” the monk observed. “Is matrimony so disagreeable?”

Despite the ornery fires boiling in her Dragoness-hearts–which Zip did not understand at all–she melted into goo at his woebegone expression. Her indignation swelled, but she gentled her response into a discomfiting leer. “You’re the best monk I ever pocketed for my bridal chest, my dearest man-blossom. I’m disappointed you aren’t content to settle for being purely ornamental baggage in my life.” She caressed his cheek with her knuckle. “Mercy! I think I’m having a lustful contemplation. Oh aye, deeply wicked thoughts consume my Dragoness-hearts …”

Get a private room, you two, Ardan chortled. I can hear Ri’arion’s sizzling from over here.

Ri’arion belted the Dragoness’ flank; then he hopped about, squeezing his hand between his knees as he mouthed a few words that definitely had nothing to do with spiritual contemplation.

Zuziana of Remoy, Azure Shapeshifter Dragoness, flipped herself off Leandrial’s tongue and joined her best friend and fellow ex-criminal, the Dragon-Princess of Immadia, perched upon a glowing metal oval in the midst of a volcanic storm as hot as the back of an angry Dragon’s throat.

“I thought I smelled trouble,” Aranya greeted her.

“That precise odour emanates from the royal gas-producer of Immadia,” Zip returned cheerfully. “So–oh. What are they doing?”

Aranya shrugged her left shoulder. “Sweeping, methinks.”

The silvery Foam-Riders scooted ahead of and around their Haven in neat formation as if dancing to an unheard tune, perhaps the melody of the Rift-Storm. Their arms made horizontal gestures at shoulder-level with every long, balletic step upon the foam, as if they sought by main force to smooth the path ahead. The dance was perfectly synchronised. The Haven chased after its masters as if propelling untold tens of thousands of tonnes of metal was as simple a matter as a butterfly’s leap from one tasty flower to another. As they were protected from the immediate impact of the destructive magic, the companions enjoyed an unexpected rest–relatively speaking. Zip tasted the air with all the guile of her phenomenal Dragon senses, and concluded the Rift was still insidiously leaching away her Dragon-magic. Meantime, Aranya explained that the Havens stuck to a narrow, very particular range within the Rift-Storm, but when she evidently noticed her friend was listening with less than half an ear-canal, she said:

“What’re the boys up to, Your Scary-Scaliness?”

“Figuring out from Leandrial’s data, how to save our hides,” Zip informed her bluntly. “I was thinking about how best to protect our teensy companion–”

“Metal armour?”

“Shameless embezzlement of another’s inspiration is wholly unbecoming in a Princess.”

“Ooh, you’re confusing me with all these big words this morning,” Aranya cooed. “And here I mistook you for a simpleminded, underfed waif from a rustic trout-fishery somewhere south of–” mid-insult, Zuziana began to take a nip at her friend’s shoulder, hesitated, and then decided Dragons had the right idea after all. Snap! Aranya’s wings flared in startlement “–ouch! You little vixen, you plucked a scale!”

“Aw, you broke my fingernail,” Zip teased right back.

The Amethyst Dragoness’ wild answering snarl suddenly morphed into peals of belly-laughter. To the Azure’s amazement, the supposed Immadian icicle fell off her paws laughing, thumping down on her flank. There she writhed in glorious indignity, gasping and hooting.

Zip tickled her friend’s chin with a talon. “Funny-bug bit you, Amethyst-eyes?”

She clutched her stomach. “Ooh, that hurts!”

Sane? Or insane? She chuckled along with Aranya, wondering if laughing at fate was actually a deeply authentic, rational response to the unknown dangers that still faced them. Slowly, she realised aloud, “It’s Hualiama’s gift, Aranyi. I didn’t understand before. Dragons roar and fulminate, but there’s a curiously … Human … power in laughing at fate–isn’t there?”

The Immadian Dragoness squirmed back onto her paws, as wild of eye as Zuziana had ever seen her.

Zip said, “Dragons are all ‘noble strength of paw! Mighty fangs and mightier deeds!’ You know–even your inner Dragoness insists upon it. Humans laugh. It’s a Human-power, as great as any Dragon fire or Storm or Lightning.”

“But how–I’m expected to laugh at this?” Aranya’s paw touched her ravaged cheek.

Zip shook her muzzle. “I … don’t know, Aranyi. Because of? In spite of? How can I put words to such grief? Yet I know–” she moved forward to place a gentle kiss upon that brutally scarred Dragonflesh “–I do know the greatest damage was wrought in your heart. And it’s your heart that’ll defeat Thoralian. Only when your heart rises; I see …”

She shivered, staring unseeing into the fiery orange-red wall across the maelstrom, tasting eerie clues and fire-stoking whispers upon the desiccated breeze.

“You see what?” Aranya prompted.

A White Dragoness reborn! Zip heard herself cry. Then, darkness seized her.

* * * *

Four and a half hours saw them traverse the maelstrom. With the Azure laid low by her own paw, Aranya rode the metal disk into the upward-pouring fires around noon. The Foam-Riders worked unstintingly, while she stood alongside the crook of the first knuckle of Leandrial’s fore-talon, and tried not to think of how that joint alone was longer and wider than a fledgling Dragoness. The others rested and talked through Zuziana’s proposal of creating metal armour for Leandrial; later, Aranya debated the conundrum of the Rift-Storm’s Balance or Imbalance with her companions.

Now, even Zuziana was given to prophetic utterance?

At least, she harboured new hope …

We will return for your shell-daughter, Great Fra’anior, she said suddenly. We will find a way.

Thunder crashed at the fringes of her awareness.

The swirling curtain of lava-fire parted before them, crimsons and oranges and yellows playing with incendiary abandon, similarly to the inside of one’s eyelids when a person turned their shuttered eyes to face the noon brunt of the twin suns. The Haven pressed in. A pale orange mist played around its nose and sides, as the metal heated up to a furnace glow. The motion changed, swaying and trembling as the screaming storm slowly enfolded the metal disk. No Foam-Rider shirked its duty. Aranya had learned they had no gender. New creatures budded off the old in an organic process decided by the ‘Chief-fire’, who seemed to be a caretaker or god.

To Balance the Rift-Storm as she had immediately imagined, thereby wiping it out, would destroy these creatures. How could it be right to destroy life, even life that thrived amidst perverse magic? And if the Rift vanished by some miracle, where would all this uncanny power … go? It must originate from somewhere–for could she imagine that there might be a world beyond her own mountain-enclosed Island-World, these trapped fires finding ways to burst forth out there and destroy all life, whereas via the Rift-Storm their abominable taint was contained or dealt with in some manner beyond her ken …

She shivered so hard, Aranya lost another two scales. They had been loose. Va’assia said that some scale-turnover was normal for Dragons, but too much was unhealthy.

She whispered, Balance is so problematical.

Leandrial replied, Aye, little one. Balance is the simplicity of a petal, and the complexity of the Universe’s own song. It was Fra’anior himself, your grandsire, who did say, ‘The more I learned of Balance, the less I understood.’

If the Great Onyx himself could not … Aranya fell silent, feeling crushed.

In response, the great Dragoness bent that massive digit a little more, clumsily stroking Aranya’s flank. I wish thou wert mine own shell-daughter, little one. I did once mislay the Pygmy Dragoness. Never again, did I swear. Never again!

I am in mine hearts, the Immadian responded impulsively. Thou art mother, teacher, comforter and friend, Leandrial; mine staunch right paw. No Dragoness could ask for more in this life.

All between them was an absolute accord of fires.

Presently, the great muzzle bent until the light of Leandrial’s single eye burned upon the Amethyst Dragoness. In that glorious wash, light sang to light and sonorous tones played within melodies within threnodies, until the infinitesimal attained the infinite and what could be known was only the song of a moment, and each fleeting moment could but hint at the far greater, ultimately ungraspable tessellations of eternity.

So Aranya meditated; the day flowed into the past, and the companions slept in a protected haven amidst the ever-fires of the Rift-Storm.

By evening of the following day, the Dragons estimated they had travelled roughly three hundred leagues westward from the maelstrom. The enigma of their destination seemed no closer to revelation. Each time Aranya inquired, the Foam-Riders cried, <!Further!> or <!Patience!> But they were willing to answer such questions as she could fashion about their environment–so she learned that the Rift-Storm grew wider the further West they travelled, and that there were many Havens. The Riders believed that the fires were generated by the Storm Elementals they had named before, creatures which dwelled beneath what they described as dark, solid earth–rock, she assumed, in the world’s core-fires. She teased out of them that Thoralian and Shurgal had both passed through; Shurgal’s passage was enshrined in their legends as forged by a fiery kernel of white-magic in his possession that ‘burned fire itself’–unquestionably a description of the First Egg–and Thoralian on the wings of ‘evil, life-stealing non-magic’. Urzul.

Although Dragon-senses measured time without need for reference to suns, moons or stars, evening in this environment was hardly worth the name. The fires only appeared to burn brighter as the ambient light, somewhere above and around the Rift-Storm, faded. Indeed, the Foam-Dwellers had a word for darkness which translated as ‘the absence of fires’, apparently, a source of great agitation or fear.

At last, Aranya stirred, sensing excitement amongst the Foam-Riders.

Aye, said Leandrial. Her companion’s shields coalesced at once. You sense rightly. Many presences surround us and ahead, a mighty Fire of Fires … such as even I have never encountered. A majestic being of yore.

Aranya regarded Leandrial with wonder. Aye?

Observe.

The awestruck quaver in the Dragoness’ voice triggered a simultaneous lurch in the Amethyst’s three Dragoness-hearts.

The Haven nosed out once more into a place where the Rift-Storm had become divided in a complex pattern that originated somehow in the rock-formations she saw ahead and far, far below, at the limit of her Dragon sight–in the vertical dimension! Her talons tightened painfully on the Haven’s edge. As they passed over this illimitable abyss, demarcated at its edges by fountains of pearlescent, rainbow-hued fires, she saw Ardan and Zuziana similarly taking a better grip, even if it was on metal impenetrable to their talons, but entirely penetrable by Leandrial’s special Land Dragon magic.

Aranya caught her breath. Here, the Rift-Storm revealed at last its inner beauty–a terrible, soul-crushing beauty that cast into insignificance the reality one had taken for granted. The colours hypnotised. The scale dwarfed even Leandrial. Every fibre of her being thrilled with the knowledge that only an ancient, magnificent and even holy creature must claim such a setting for its habitation.

Ri’arion exclaimed, “Look at all the Havens!”

Many, many metal Havens peeked out of the storm-fires as though neatly shelved by a gigantic paw in regular rows, stacked perhaps a mile apart vertically and horizontally. Aranya counted thirty layers from below to far above, where the Rift-fires bent inward to obscure what might have been a view of the stars. Even here there was no respite. Leandrial laboured to extend her shields around them, especially Ri’arion, who was far more vulnerable to the heat than any of the Dragonkind.

Zip added, “The pattern strikes me as a Dragon’s paw-print. Look. Three peninsulas of rock out there. There are two behind us divided by the fire we’re travelling upon right now–three forward and two rear-facing. Structurally, a classic Dragon’s paw.”

“And a central column of fire arising from the Dragon’s palm,” added Ri’arion, patting his Dragoness approvingly.

Zip purred, “Aye, but I wouldn’t want to meet the Dragon whose palm print was ten leagues wide and twenty long, not counting his talons. He’d make even Leandrial look like a hatchling.”

Leandrial vented a decidedly muzzle-out-of-joint snort.

“See, we can’t always be the biggest in this life,” sniped the Azure, with a cheeky glint of her fangs.

Aranya growled at Zip, Don’t press your luck, Remoy.

“Perhaps I should investigate how big a splodge you’d make on this metal if I stepped on you, little one?” suggested the behemoth, with suitably expansive dignity.

As the disk slowed at the apex of the fires sandwiched between the two eastward-pointing ‘talons’, the great column of fire facing them grew rapidly brighter, as though infused with a presence from within. The orange fires brightened toward intense, suns-bright golds and yellows. Ri’arion shaded his eyes, while the Lesser Dragons’ secondary nictitating membranes filtered the glare automatically. Aranya checked with Sapphire, but the dragonet stood firm upon the flight-muscle of her right shoulder, her fire-eyes gleaming bravely. Upon the periphery of her vision, shiny grey Foam-Riders budded out of the metal Havens in their thousands. She saw some smaller ones among their number, perhaps family groupings or children …

<!Engineers!> declared the Foam-Rider nearest them. <!Genuflect-fires-now!>

<!CHIEF!>

Thankfully, Leandrial anticipated the mental cry of thousands and dampened the psychic wash. Still, Zuziana clutched her head and Ri’arion swayed in his seat upon her back. The fiery column swelled, filling the ‘palm’ of the Dragon’s paw, coalescing and streaming in new and beguiling patterns as an overwhelming presence began to solidify within. Aranya found herself thankful for their perch several miles from the phenomenon, for the heat escalated rapidly to thousands of degrees, visibly melting the fringes of their metal disk before the Foam-Riders began their dance once more, spreading the heat to mitigate its effect. Further, given the size of the beast forming within the flames, they could not have viewed it properly from close up.

Eyes of vermilion-and-white flame, swirling like a Dragon’s orbs, formed amidst the lustrous fires–tall and slit like a cat’s pupils, partially flanking a muzzle that reached four leagues below their position. The eyes themselves had to be two miles tall, Aranya heard the monk mutter. Of course, Ri’arion was making calculations while the rest of them just goggled in stupefaction.

We stand in the presence of majesty, the Princess of Immadia told her friends, spreading her wings and lowering her muzzle in a draconic obeisance.

Ardan, Zuziana and Sapphire copied her, while Ri’arion stood between his Dragoness’ spine-spikes to execute one of those ridiculous Fra’aniorian productions she would never quite grow accustomed to–twelve distinct hand twirls, seven deep bobs of the head, the whole ralti sheep.

Still the creature coalesced within its flame-column, assuming presence and detail by the moment. Ear-canals. Limbs. Scales–although all appeared to be the substance of pure flame, perhaps draconic flame coursing along conduits of metal or lava, Aranya could not tell. She touched Ri’arion’s mind briefly to check his body temperature, but so far, their shield was protection enough. A flaming paw rose from six leagues below. One digit advanced, itself longer than Leandrial’s entire frame. Aranya realised the creature moved with consideration for the tiny ones it addressed, but she was nonetheless discomfited to be the talon’s eventual target. It hove to perhaps seventy feet from the centre of her forehead, the heat now like a physical blow.

An earthquake shook them. ISTARIELA, I KNEW. ART THOU HER TWIN?

A-A-A … Aranya gritted her fangs. Aranya, noble Dragon-Spirit.

FRA’ANIOR PROPAGATED OFFSPRING?

The Amethyst Dragoness spread her wings a second time, holding a deep bow. I declare my ancestry. I am Aranya of Immadia, shell-daughter of Izariela the Star Dragoness and shell-granddaughter of Istariela the–

HO-HO-HO!!

Much more laughter and the creature would flatten the Rift-Storm on its own, Aranya thought crossly. As it was, their Haven rocked violently as the flame-beast’s laughter battered it backward half a mile; Leandrial corralled them in her paw as the Foam-Riders rapidly stabilised their home, seemingly unconcerned. The laughter thundered over them for over five minutes, drowning out everything, even the ability to think; hammer-blows of sound buttressed by a psychic storm.

AT LAST, I UNDERSTAND THE FATES! roared the creature.

GENTLE THE SPEECH, I BEG THEE! Leandrial boomed back, only she sounded like an echo’s echo in comparison.

Again, the laughter belted their entire Island backward through the fiery wash. ASK WHAT THOU WILT, O LEANDRIAL, THOU WILD-HEARTED WANDERER!

But just as Leandrial had been able to modulate her telepathic Dragonish, so this creature constrained his mighty power. Now, his speech was only as a thunderstorm breaking directly above one’s head, and each syllable, a drumroll of thunder. I am Infurion Abytharr Fireborn, little ones, a fellow-traveller with thy Fra’anior when this world was young. His mighty paw it was that welcomed mine spirit from the egg, for aye, I was born an Ancient Dragon but he was the Firstborn of Dragons, may his magnificence be honoured throughout the ages! Thy grandsire is mine elder by a mere thousand years in thy reckoning. He embodied, while I did not, preferring to make mine dwelling-place in the fires deep beneath the habitation of thy diminutive fire-kin. Aye, I am Infurion, ruler of the inner world. Who are these, thy companions?

The most sulphurous blessings of Fra’anior himself be upon you, noble Infurion, said Aranya, with another deep, formal bow. We are honoured to make thy acquaintance. Then, she introduced each member of their group by name and title.

These are my people, responded Infurion, gesturing broadly–in an Ancient Dragon’s parlance, that movement described a ten-mile sweep of his fire-dripping paw. Once, I sought to mimic Fra’anior’s creative genius. Thou might say, I was jealous of mine wing-brother. Aye, but in the best way, for the doings-in-life of these mine beautiful creatures have accorded mine heart-fires great joy. The slit eyes narrowed upon them. A strange companionship thou art, of Human, Land Dragon and Lesser Dragon–and this brave beauty, the miniscule yet unutterably joyous expression of Dragon fires.

In response, Sapphire trilled a word in Dragonish Aranya did not understand.

Aye, little one. For thy sake. The talon-tip shifted, again settling upon Aranya as if Infurion intended to etch his words upon her body and mind. Mine Foam-Riders inform me of thine conversation regarding Balance. Know that every kind of magic exists in Balance. This that troubles thee is called Earthen-Fires of the Dragonkind; thy magic is Sky-Fires of the same Dragonkind, yet juxtapose the two …

Infurion’s mouth simulated an explosion. Aranya held firm as golden streamers of fire burst toward them. She leaned appreciatively upon Ardan’s sturdy presence in her mind, for rivers of multihued fire sheeted over their shields for long minutes.

The Ancient Dragon’s voice swelled, battering them like rocks churning in a whirlpool of lava. Thus, what is inimical to thy kind is boon to mine. Magic is Balanced, Star Dragoness–for in thy paw and the result of thy contemplation, lies a mortal danger to all Rift-dwellers and indeed, to all Dragons who exist in these fires of the uttermost Deeps. Yet there is also interdependence, wherein do exist the greatest mysteries of all draconic fire-life. Do not misunderstand the Balance, little one! Do not act in haste!

His thunder rolled over them and washed into the Rift-Storm, shaking its eternally-upwelling columns of fire. Aranya clenched her paws and endured, thinking: Her existence threatened an Ancient Dragon? Only a lifetime’s royal training kept the Immadian Princess’ jaw from sagging toward her scaly toes. Star Dragons were this powerful? Oh, Izariela, what wisdom she required to wield such power! For she knew what was to come. Infurion would act to protect his kind and his own survival. The nuances of his Dragonish expressed that as clearly as a shard of crysglass.

A third time she made obeisance, saying, I shall be guided by those greater than I.

Guidance is no substitute for oath-magic, little one. It is not the destiny-shaping oath-magic of a Star Dragoness. I SHALL HAVE THINE OATH!

Ardan growled, Don’t you bully her!

Infurion’s column flared unbearably. Mine is not the way of bargaining with lesser creatures! Be glad I do not extinguish thy miniscule lives forthwith!

Yet you fear her power. Ardan had no qualms expressing what Aranya had wished to hide. Ruddy direct Western Islanders! Her hearts sank toward her paws as he added, Let us deal openly, mighty Infurion. For all wish to live the days given to us beneath the suns, and our quarrel is neither with you, nor is your quarrel with us, I suspect. We seek the rightful return of the First Egg and the breaking of Thoralian’s power. And if all you seek is assurances, even the oath of a Star Dragoness, then I am a beetle and no Dragon. I humbly entreat you, Infurion–upon my honour as a Dragon–to speak plainly. May we aid your cause? Be it in our power, we shall. Gladly would I give my own oath upon this word, but I shall not put words in the Star Dragoness’ mouth.

To Aranya’s surprise, the fires of Infurion’s wrath appeared to simmer at a whiter temperature than before. Perhaps he liked outspokenness, or saw truth in Ardan’s words. The flaming eyes regarded them fiercely, great lakes of white-fires so intense, she shuttered her gaze in response, but could not thus shut out the Ancient Dragon’s power. At last, the great voice spoke not in thunder, but in a hypnotic melody like a thousand flutes playing at once.

Infurion’s Dragonsong washed over them to the unknowable beyond, O Fra’anior! Must so great a task rest upon shoulders so frail?

Aranya heard no reply, but the Rift-fires themselves seemed to shiver.

Even more softly, the flutes sang, I see thine hearts, Aranya of Immadia, kin-Dragon of the Great Onyx. For mine part, I propose to place into thine heart knowledge of the resting-place of the First Egg in the realm of the S’gulzzi, deep in the cracks beneath the Island-World, and into thy understanding, the nature of the corrupting urzul, which by the First Egg’s power, holds even mine might at bay.

Aranya froze. She heard Zuziana give a tiny bleat of shock; Leandrial’s muzzle immediately turned toward the Amethyst Dragoness, her eye-cannon brightening.

Trembling from wingtip to tail, she ventured, And for mine part, great Infurion?

First, an explanation. Once, the traitor Shurgal travelled the Rift-Storm by the power of the First Egg. The result of his trespass was the creation of Storm Elementals, the creatures that plague mine Foam-Riders and even me; corrupt creatures that damage our pure earthen fires and destroy mine peoples with indiscriminate glee. Twice, a Lesser Dragon traversed our territories–the one you named as Thoralian. I know him only as a master of urzul, and by the power of urzul, did he consume many Foam-Riders. Having stolen their magic, he succeeded with ease where thou hast bravely struggled.

Aranya shared a loaded glance with Ardan and Zuziana. So it was true–and vile. Thoralian travelled the Rift by cannibalising the magic of those who dwelled within its fires!

But Sapphire chirped, What urzul, Infurion? What my Aranyi do with urzul?

Thirty miles tall he was, but the entire column of Infurion’s fires heaved a sigh. Of the seven primary types of Dragon fire, only two exist in our Island-World–Earthen-Fires and Sky-Fires.

And the Nurguz creature? Aranya asked. What type of fire-life–

Dark-Fires. Another type of Dragon-fire entirely, from whence is derived the misleading Dragonish expression of using ‘dark-fires’ to describe an emotional state. Dark-Fires are an anti-fire in their simplest manifestation, a precise inversion of the nature of Sky-Fires … I digress. Earthen-Fires are the fundamental fires of entire classes of Dragons unfamiliar to thy kind–I speak of the Theadurial, S’gulzzi and mine Foam-Riders as the prime exemplars. Even thou, Land Dragon, thou burnest brightly with the beauty of thy Sky-Fires, for dost thou not fly in the heart of thy preferred environs?

Leandrial inclined her head. How mine fire-life is honoured. Reflected-honour be thine, o Infurion.

Majestically, Infurion’s explanations continued to rumble forth, Each type of magic has its opposite; some, as thou hast discovered, are mutually destructive. Importantly, for our discussion, each type also has corrupt forms, usually forms originated in the works of evil Dragons, such as Dramagon the Red. Urzul is a corruption of Earthen-Fires. Ruzal was the corruption of Sky-Fires.

Was? The Azure Dragoness queried for all of them.

Ruzal disappeared around the era of your Dragonfriend, said the Ancient Dragon. Aranya sucked in her lips. Alright, giggly, dancing Hualiama–she had questions! Infurion continued, The dominance of the Theadurial over Land Dragons is rooted in the power of urzul. Augmented by the First Egg’s power, they grow mighty indeed. Their ambitions know no bounds. Therefore, to your part, Star Dragoness–

Wait, Aranya frowned. What of the corruption arising from the Rift-Storm, Infurion? What of the poisons of the Cloudlands–what form of magic is that?

Nothing magical, he replied.

Nothing–what? gasped the Immadian.

Not magical in nature, but clearly magical in origin, said the Ancient Dragon, his voice rising with testiness. Many times, I have tried to trace this contamination to its source, without success. I thought these poisons might originate in our Earthen-Fires, or be transported here by some current of the molten fires deep within the crust of this world, but I was mistaken. They simply … arise … by no process that I understand, and only since the last six centuries of thy reckoning of years. Aye, even the Ancient Dragonkind do not grasp all aspects of Balance, little ones–remember this lesson, and remember it well!

Leandrial and Ardan shielded the companions from the furious firestorm of Infurion’s frustration. When his liquescent fires had sloughed off of their pneumatic shield and sheeted off the Haven in rivers, she turned to the Amethyst Dragoness. What might we offer the majestic Dragon-Spirit, this Fire of Fires?

Unforeseen consequences, Aranya thought. Shurgal had travelled the Rift-Storm via the First Egg’s powers and generated a new terror that plagued even Infurion, to this day. Ruzal disappeared from the Island-World, and a new contamination arose from the Rift almost simultaneously. Could the Dragonfriend’s actions unwittingly have spawned this new problem? Well, new as in a mere six centuries old?

Almost inaudibly, she muttered, “Aunty Dancing-Paws, this Amethyst guppy and you need to talk.”

Swiftly having assembled her thoughts, Aranya responded, Together with these, the best of companions, most noble Ancient Dragon, we commit to regaining possession of the First Egg and returning it to its rightful place. We shall not misuse the Egg’s power. If we must breach the Rift-Storm to create a way for Land Dragons to return to the North in order to speed our world’s restoration, we shall do our utmost not to destroy your peoples in the doing. We will not change the Rift’s Balance without first consulting you. And, we promise to strive to the uttermost frontier of flesh and spirit to defeat the scourge of urzul, for the sake of Land Dragons and Rift-dwellers alike. This, I gladly swear, with all my heart and soul. Are you with me, friends?

Aye! roared Ardan, Zip and Leandrial, while Ri’arion and Sapphire added their assent.

Infurion’s gaze, turbulent and inexpressibly profound, measured them for the length of thirty individual draconic heartbeats. Then, he said, Thy truth is the freedom of mighty fires, Star Dragoness. Knowledge shall be thine, and mine blessing shall I confer upon thee. May thy service be efficacious, thy hearts pure, and the right paw of thy justice, uncontainable.

Aranya abased her fires before him. In service are we blessed, mighty Infurion.

Chapter 16: Escaping the Storm

ARANYA ROLLED TO her knees, groaning, “You’re a beastly monk.”

Her intensive training with Ri’arion, while the Foam-Riders built flexible metal armour upon Leandrial over the course of three days, had certainly been beneficial–and painful. After several further hours’ discussion, Infurion had departed for his happy and undoubtedly scorching home far beneath the Island-World. Now, they planned to travel on the following morning, but the monk had wanted to use the time wisely, which translated into walloping his companions, to Leandrial’s evident amusement.

“I’m the beast who’s teaching you to stay alive.” Ri’arion extended his right hand graciously. He did not look even slightly flushed or sweaty, unlike the Immadian. “Get up. Once more, Princess.”

Zip’s sniggering nearby did not help. They had all taken turns in being trained by the exacting, untouchable monk, even Ardan, because the famed Fra’aniorian open-hand martial arts techniques could be applied just as well in Dragon-form as in Human guise.

Aranya stood, easing her thrice-bruised left shoulder gingerly. No excuses for her. She was slow, and she knew it. She was little better than Ri’arion’s personal punching-bag. But why should a Shapeshifter Dragoness be constrained by her Human form? Hualiama’s scrolls had spoken of channelling her Dragon powers even while in her Human manifestation, as Aranya was now; had she not lifted Ardan one-handed, and used her healing powers on Zuziana?

“You punch like a girl,” the petite Remoyan catcalled.

Aranya gritted her teeth, at least managing a Dragoness-worthy growl. Anger would summon her powers. Only, she wasn’t angry with Ri’arion. He was granite, but a nice sort of granite. He had pulled his throw enough to prevent her breaking any bones on Leandrial’s upturned palm. Sweet. Strength alone would not defeat the monk. But what if she pictured Thoralian, or worse, that vile palm-licker, Garthion? What if she used her artist’s mind to paint him in the colours of Zuziana’s blood and the screams of her torture …

Aranya pleaded with her inner Dragoness, Help me, second-soul. I need to learn what you’re capable of, how we can work together.

Dragoness-Aranya stirred within her breast. Her hands hardened into blades, every muscle and ligament taut yet loose, as Ri’arion had taught her. Power flooded her muscles as Aranya settled into her fighting pose, turning slightly side-on in relation to the monk, her left foot advanced.

Not by strength alone, Dragoness. I need Dragon-reactions. Controlled power. Aggression.

Feel our passion burn! snarled her inner life.

Ri’arion’s depthless blue eyes appeared to flash as he mimicked her pose. Did he sense what she did, the dark flame curling within, while purpose flowed simultaneously into inner concentration and outward into preternatural awareness? Her blighted lungs laboured to flood her arteries with oxygen. Aranya rotated her stiff neck. If only she could be as battle-ready as a Dragoness.

With a windroc-like cry, the monk swirled gracefully into the attack. Rapid-fire chops targeted her torso and kidneys. Aranya defended compactly with her forearms, absorbed his cunning low kick with a flexion of her right knee, and by way of appreciation, hammered a lightning-fast thrust-kick into his sternum. Ri’arion twined her left leg in his arms and lifted sharply, breaking her balance, but this Shapeshifter was ready to fly. Leaping perfectly in concert with his heave, using his strength against him, Aranya craned her head backward and flung her right leg into a furious axle-kick that came within a whisker of breaking the monk’s jaw. Only his reflexive head-jerk saved his blushes, but his right cheekbone still collected a mighty ding from her heel.

She completed her somersault, landing neatly in her ready stance.

Zip gave a shriek, clapping her hands to her mouth, while Ardan grunted, “Well, top of the dawn to thee, Dragoness-Aranya!”

Ri’arion touched the split skin next to his eye. “At last!” he exclaimed, the sight of a smear of blood drawing a rajal’s snarl of delight. He beckoned with both hands. “More of that, Aranya! Test me–”

Had he waited for this moment? Fury washed her world to flame-whiteness. Dragonsong raged behind her ears, a torrent that threatened to peel her scalp free of the bone beneath. Dance. Wrath. Power united with flesh; a fusion of Human and Dragon. This was her Dragonsoul. Two, but one.

With a wild, bleak cry, Aranya fell upon her tormentor-friend, intent upon savaging him. All that was Dragoness blazed through her now, unstoppable; there was thunder in her mind and a storm in her fists and elbows, knees and feet. She knew only the simplest techniques, the basic forms which were taught to toddlers and children upon Fra’anior, but the purity and speed of her execution was enough to pummel the monk with a relentless flurry of kicks and blows. Thrice, she flattened Ri’arion, only to see him rebound each time. She pressed his defence to the uttermost. Dragoness-Aranya forced the monk to retreat across Leandrial’s paw; each time he tried to launch a counteroffensive, she smothered his attack or thrust it aside, stronger and faster than ever before.

The monk’s reaction was pure joy. Focus. Disciplined vehemence. His blows escalated in power as she tested him exactly as he wished. Twice, he had to resort to psychic buffets to prevent her close-up punches from rearranging his nose upon his face, his techniques expanding in range and complexity as she turned the fight and they stormed back toward her companions, scrapping like feral rajals. Panting. Hissing sharply. Aranya landed a perfect blow to the nerve of his elbow, extracting the first yelp of pain she had ever heard from the monk, but his answering side-thrust kick twisted her right knee. Still, the Dragoness within had the shrewdness to whirl with the blow, bringing her left foot up and over in a looping counter-strike, slamming into Ri’arion’s temple as he tried to duck away.

“Break!” shouted Ardan, shouldering his way between them.

Aranya stopped herself with a wrench. She doubled over, wheezing, her lungs afire.

The monk wobbled into a decidedly unsteady ready-stance before shaking his head with a great laugh. “Bravo, Aranya! Oh, bravo indeed!” He held out his hand. “Peace?”

“Like a volcano,” she coughed, gripping his hand in return. “Mercy, Ri’arion. Were you holding back?”

“Not this time–well, with the exception of lethal techniques. Unlike you.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? Don’t be ridiculous. What’s to be sorry about?” Bless his shaven head, the monk practically glowed with satisfaction. “Remember this, Aranya–and all of you. What you saw today cannot easily be taught. This is the place where flesh becomes the willing, subordinate tool of a fighter. Technique can be honed to a point. After that, what matters is the spirit within, and that is what ultimately separates the good from the great. Fantastic match, Aranya. I think the one who was holding back, was you.”

“Such high praise from Ri’arion?” asked Zip, hugging Aranya with an impish laugh. “As we Remoyans say, the stars really do swim in our terrace lakes.”

* * * *

In her dream, Human-Aranya climbed a mountain peak. Such a peak, she had never imagined. Mile upon mile of sheer, unrelieved grey-speckled granite speared into the night skies, attaining a ridiculously slender pinnacle wreathed in storm clouds. Lightning played constantly above her, while water sheeted down the rough, stippled surface, but Aranya clung to the damp stone like a determined gecko as she inched her way upward, toehold by toehold, and from one fingertip hold to the next. How many hours she had been climbing, she did not know, but her movements seemed mechanical and tireless.

Wind moaned around the isolated peak, teasing her unbound hair. Aranya shivered, although she was not cold. Her outfit was wholly inappropriate–just a thin white cotton sleeping-shift, thigh-length. She was barefoot. Neither daggers nor sword adorned her waist, nor was there sign of Sapphire. The place from which this mountain rose was a vast, atramental abyss. She saw nothing else in any direction, neither land nor moons nor clouds, apart from those encircling the peak, and stars. Myriad stars hung invitingly close, like shining fruit waiting for her hand to reach out and pluck.

Hualiama? she whispered. Fra’anior? Where am I?

The fragrant, playful breeze spoke no word of an answer.

The near-complete darkness gave rise to the illusion that she climbed upside-down, descending toward the skies. Aranya focussed on the lightning-shot clouds. Those were her goal. Up there … she yearned, burned and hoped for whatever lay ahead, unseen and unattainable by any ordinary exertion of her physical body.

Only the mountain existed.

Left hand. Right. Toes moulding to the warm granite, as warm as her heart. Her hair tugged upward. Aranya clung, trembling, as the wind buffeted her and the thunder voiced its gruff disapproval, like Ardan warming up his throat when facing an enemy Dragon.

Sha’aldior? Even he gave no reply. Where was her oath-magic now?

What if he remembered his past? What if his loved ones had escaped the Sylakian scourge? Could she ever be the one he needed if they both harboured doubts? So much lost. Damaged beyond a Star Dragoness’ power of repair. Aranya pressed her forehead against the rock, trying to deny her weeping, but her emotions billowed like thunderheads–or perhaps they hearkened once more to her grief–and the lightning played about her now, the clouds enshrouding her ravaged body like the softest of blankets. Blindly, she climbed, careless of the electrical potentials in the storm.

Perhaps from the top, she might simply fling herself into space and fall … and fall …

And abdicate responsibility for her life and the Island-World’s future? The horror! May she cry, ‘Never!’ She had never been suicidal–had she? Perhaps, facing the long, dark halls of soul-deep despair after her Shapeshifter pox had changed her, and made her think the unthinkable. Perhaps she was not as strong and heedlessly self-confident as she had been before.

Perhaps she should learn to dance.

At this thought, Aranya’s hands seized the rock so hard her fingers cramped. Hualiama! How dare she intrude … or did she? How could she be certain of anything anymore?

She must climb.

Infuriated beyond rational thought, Aranya climbed through the storm, stretching her aching body to seize handholds recklessly. Lightning? Who cared. Winds? Let them blow! Thunder? But the blustering of a noisy giant; it could never shake her loose.

She ascended. Hours passed. At last, her bloodied right hand grasped only air. Gusts raged around her spent body as Aranya pulled herself over the edge, her legs yet dangling in space as she arrested her movement, never more shocked. Only her fingers clawed upon the stone, holding firm.

A ravaged whisper escaped, Dragonsoul? Is it you, Dragonsoul?

My precious Humansoul, said the Dragoness.

The voice was Dragonsong over misty terrace lakes; the Amethyst Dragon facing her was perfect in every detail. In her Dragon form, Aranya was a slender female fledgling, her scales having a mesmerising, semi-translucent gemstone quality about them, as though amethyst had unaccountably become infused with Dragon scale-armour–Aranya had never seen herself from quite this perspective. Separate, but one. Here but also there. Every hair on her head, every note of her heart’s Dragonsong yearned for that other-manifestation, yet what burst from her mouth was distressingly inane.

You can’t be me. You … you’re–

The Dragoness’ eye-fires mellowed to a rich yellow. We are what, Aranya-of-my-soul? Not what we expected?

You can’t be perfect! This isn’t real! This isn’t me–I’m wounded, broken, ugly …

The Amethyst Dragoness reached for her. Oh, Aranyi, if you would only believe–

Fake. Fraud! IMPOSTER!!

Her battle-roar blasted Human-Aranya backward. She tumbled into space, screaming, Dragonsoul!

The muzzle peering over the mountaintop was that of a Yellow-White Dragon. I’ll help you, Aranya. Huge, pale wings spread against the storm, another ghastly blow to the pit of her stomach. Come to me, little Dragoness.

No …

Thoralian dived into the void, yet he was in no hurry to catch the flailing, plummeting Princess of Immadia. Call for your Dragoness, he jeered. Expend your pitiful breath, you wasted, accursed fool. I’ve stolen her just as I will steal your soul …

No!

Endless falling!

Screaming, wailing–Ardan!

Aranya woke in the heated cage of a Dragon’s paw, pressed against his muzzle! She landed a wild, shattering blow upon the side of his jaw.

“Flaming windrocs!” growled the Shadow Dragon, reflexively casting her aside with several added execrations for the punch.

Transforming mid-fall, the Amethyst Dragoness caught herself with a wing-snap. Another set of clothing fell in shreds around her. She had slept inside Leandrial’s newly armoured jaw. For the first time since entering the Rift-Storm, the drain upon her magic seemed greatly diminished.

“Stupid woman, I was only trying to comfort you,” he added, feeling his jawbone.

“Sorry–aye, I’m sorry!” Aranya hated the tenor of his gaze. Did he fear her lack of control? She began to turn away, then steeled herself. “Did I hurt you, Ardan?”

“No!”

“Well, I definitely hurt myself,” she said, wringing her paw.

“Let me guess. Bad dream? Like having Kylara try to sharpen a scimitar upon my head? Curse it, Aranya, I think you did–something’s loose.”

He did not flinch, but neither did he bend from a posture of stiff-legged outrage as Aranya reached up with her paw. She tried not to touch him too tenderly. Even so, the oath-magic arrived in a flash of lightning that sparked from her palm to his face.

Hairline fracture, she whispered.

Thou art yet my Dragonsong, he replied.

Wretched Dragon! All three of her hearts set off on a crazy gallop. Aranya stuttered, A-A-Ardan … I’ll … heal you. Aye. Hold still.

His wing curved over her back. What does holding still gain a Dragon?

A Princess’ undivided attention, she returned pertly. And, no more undeserved punishment. Sorry.

He drawled, The thoughts I’m having about you right now, Amethyst-eyes, you should punch out a few fangs in the bargain. You know, it doesn’t entirely fill a Dragon with confidence when the Fire of Fires, the most ancient draconian earthquake-muncher himself, says his farewells with the air of glumly shooing us off to the executioner.

You felt the same? she asked. She could not trust herself to say anything more in the face of his ardour. Why would he not just stop? Leave her alone?

Aye. Armour or no amour, I suspect we’re in for it this time–not that we have any choice in the matter, do we?

Aranya champed her fangs at nothing in particular. According to dear Aunty Dragonfriend, we’ll just dance our way through, rainbows over the Isles–

–Shadow chasing Starlight. His fire-eyes gleamed down at her.

For a gruff old warrior, you aren’t half the sappy old balladeer sometimes, she returned, rolling her eyes to express droll humour. Dampen the oath-magic, ignore its seductive call … she asked, When are you planning to turn properly barbarian on me, you bone-chewing, muscle-popping Western Isles popinjay?

When I first see dawn gild the skies over Immadia–if I might safely compare thee to an Island, Immadia! Her expression triggered guffaws from the Shadow Dragon. He said, Somehow, I feel my paws tread unsafe ground …

Their laughter woke Ri’arion, Zuziana and Sapphire. Aye, it was dawn. Time to fly the Rift-Storm.

* * * *

The beat of Leandrial’s tail chased them urgently into the fires once more. The Foam-Riders had brought them as far and low as they dared. Turbulent titian waterfalls buoyed the Land Dragoness on the final leg of their journey through the Rift, one hundred and thirty leagues to the relative safety of the impossible deeps beyond.

Encased in flexible metal armour, the disruptive magic was muted almost to nonexistence within her mouth, but Leandrial’s sight showed them metal already beginning to boil off her muzzle and flanks. Not boiling physically, Zuziana noted aside to Ri’arion, but magically. Perhaps degenerating or decomposing was a better word, his mind suggested. They understood the process better now, but even with magical shielding imbuing the metal with additional cohesive factors, there was no way they could halt the process with their Sky-Fires-based capabilities–unless they developed a taste for urzul, Ardan muttered darkly.

Zuziana lent her strength to Ri’arion, who sat cross-legged beside her in a meditative posture, concentrating deeply on the mind-meld with Leandrial. Slight change to slipstreaming, he directed. One percent improvement.

Leandrial accelerated, the beat of her legs changing fractionally according to the monk’s instruction. He had no need to help her with his developing Kinetic ability at this stage. Instead, Ri’arion focussed on power output and reducing friction. The Land Dragoness’ mighty furnaces roared higher as she charged as if into battle, at maximal output, even shutting her eye-cannon so that she could focus every iota of effort upon swimming the storm.

An hour passed. Two. The fires grew choppy, knocking them about severely, tossing them a mile upward before dropping the Land Dragoness into an abyss beyond.

Zip said suddenly, You’re like the ultimate Dragonship engine, Leandrial. We’ve heard meriatite furnace engines aplenty, haven’t we, Aranya? You’re a living engine, magnificent and powerful beyond imagining. So fly, Leandrial! Fly!

Rough laughter spread through Leandrial’s being. Aye, little one? She surged through the billows with renewed strength, her legs pumping in concert. Like this?

They swooped. Aranya-Ardan locked in as planned, lending the Land Dragoness wings of white-fires. She encouraged, Strength to your paw, Leandrial!

Even Sapphire joined in, her presence a tiny spark of light.

Leandrial ploughed through a mighty upwelling at her top speed, sheeting streamers of crimson and green-blue fire from her flanks like a leviathan breaching from a terrace lake. Through Ardan’s Shadow they watched the outer world seething with greater and greater violence, colours painted now in livid tangerine and sheeting rufescent flame, explosions coming thick and fast, searching with every sense for what they knew must come.

Aranya cried, Corrupt Storm-power–there!

Flame took form and oriented toward them. Semi-embodied, Storm Elementals were draconic creatures of fire and Earthen-magic lightning, lacking all but the most rudimentary intelligence, but what minds they possessed turned to one channel only, the annihilation of all life. Limbs of tawny, curiously furry fire churned the torrents ahead into a boiling vortex. Half-formed muzzles and throats tossed amidst the tumult bellowed new notes of thunder, changing the voice of the Rift-Storm into a chilling, hostile battle-roar. The storm lumped together and smote the invaders, pummelling Leandrial with fists like monumental, red-hot granite blocks. Lightning flared continually, striking incandescent white-purple sparks off their shield. Leandrial responded with sharp, directed blasts of her eye-cannon, finding a pitch of her Harmonic magic that fragmented the Elementals.

Let us join in battle! the Shadow Dragon howled, throwing his strength behind Leandrial.

Grimly, she forged through a howling sea of Storm Elementals as they re-formed and pounded her from every direction, with waves of semi-solid scarlet fire and pugnacious blasts, shaped lightning bolts and bone-shaking peals of thunder. Barely came a second’s respite and a new voice joined the fray, for each Elemental added a distinctive note to the Rift-Storm’s booming. Suffused with the awesome natural force of their environment, they joined together to assault Leandrial, rolling her over and over with massive, co-ordinated blasts, but the Land Dragoness simply gritted her teeth and swam upside-down.

Zip and Aranya joined their strength to flex the shield, shooting pneumatic jolts at a Storm Elemental pounding Leandrial’s back with its fists. Thunder! Shuddering! Explosions! The Dragoness groaned loudly and long, forging through the storm for three fraught hours, but Zuziana sensed her strength, and that of the Shadow Dragon, fading. Ardan hid their group in Shadow for minutes at a time, but allowing the Storm Elemental magic free reign to wash through their Shadowed beings was an imperfect answer, for even his magic was vulnerable. Strips of armour peeled off, exposing Leandrial’s hide. The Shadow Dragon raged. Every moment of his exertions proclaimed his desire to be battling with tooth and claw rather than the weapons of mind and draconic will.

The Dragons fought in tandem, wielding every weapon at their disposal. Every league won was by wild combat; every Storm Elemental braved, a victory. In the battle’s heat some Elementals even turned upon each other, shooting fire against crimson fire and pounding fist against muzzle, splattering the Land Dragoness with ultra-heated globs of lava strung together with Earthen-fire magic. Yet their numbers seemed unending.

We have to turn back, Ri’arion gasped. I can’t hold any longer!

Strength, cried Zuziana, trying somehow, anyhow, to relieve his pain.

Deep explosions resounded beneath Leandrial’s belly as a group of Elementals attacked from below. They surged through the seething flame-sea as a group, smiting the Land Dragoness so powerfully that the Dragons inside her mouth staggered, before driving her high, high into the storm’s flame-streaked, tempestuous heights. The Storm Elementals fell back at last, and Leandrial began to drop.

Deploy wings, Aranya. Ardan cried. We must fly!

Already on it, Shadow, she gritted out.

Shouts and cheers rang within Leandrial’s mouth as her falling momentum transformed into acceleration, sweeping her over and away from the Storm Elementals on star-fire wings. Fiery billows and peaks swarmed beneath them like the surface of a rapidly-boiling pot, giving chase, but the Land Dragoness’ impetus was enough to make her soar beyond them.

Sapphire said, Ari, big Dragon hurt. Hurt bad.

Ardan cursed softly. Zip touched Aranya’s flank at once. Help her. Can you see to her injuries?

The Amethyst growled, Trying. Leandrial, where does it hurt?

Everywhere. Something’s damaged in my bowels, a few ribs caved in, but my lower heart-cluster … here, little one. Let me show you.

Aranya stiffened beneath Zip’s paw. Oh, Leandrial!

The Land Dragoness gasped, Keep us flying, Aranya. We have to fly. Save your strength.

Zip said, Quick, Aranya. Don’t listen to her. You have to make essential repairs.

The Amethyst Dragon clenched her jaw, already faraway in her mind as she focussed on closing the rents the intense battering had torn in Leandrial’s hearts and circulatory system. Zip sighed. Then, Ardan pointed a claw ahead through the faint outline of Leandrial’s jawbone, voicing an incoherent cry.

* * * *

Fire confronted them in a shimmering, many-pawed battlement that reached the heights of the Rift-Storm, its colour a sickly, greenish-orange, like copper cast into a furnace. The Storm Elementals they had defeated seemed like gnats before this broad-shouldered mountain, the grandfather of their brood.

“Oh, ruddy roaring rajals!” groaned Ri’arion.

Star-fire! gasped Leandrial. Aranya … come back to us. Aranya!

The Star Dragoness reeled, white of eye, as the Land Dragoness leaned to starboard in an attempt to adjust her flight path. Towers of flame crashed upon them. BOOM! BOOM!

Ardan threw his whole being into the shield. I’ll hold!

KAAABOOOM! Ri’arion dropped as if struck by a flying boulder. Ardan shuddered, screaming at the force that overwhelmed them now. The towering Storm Elemental gripped Leandrial by the waist in two monstrous, flaming paws, and squeezed. He had never felt pain like this. Ardan Shadowed desperately, but the Earthen-fires of this beast maintained their grip despite his Shadow-power. Blood burst loose in her body; Ardan tasted his own blood in his throat as his body convulsed with the supreme effort of holding the Storm Elemental at bay. His strength was adamantine, torn from the unknowable depths of his Dragon’s resources and his will to survive. Fire! Vermilion-green fire sheeted over his vision, over them all, searing holes in Leandrial’s flanks …

Desperate, beyond rational thought, he reached for Aranya’s power. Aranya! Help me!

Aranya was faster. Dipping with a hummingbird’s speed into his strength, through the oath-connection that bound them so profoundly, the Dragoness leaped out of Leandrial’s cheek-pocket and onto the middle of her tongue. For the barest fraction of a second, Ardan spied a star standing four-pawed upon the broad carpet of Dragonflesh, thrusting back the darkness with her presence.

Her clarion voice resounded through his being, and destroyed all hope.

Leandrial! Spit me out, now!

* * * *

Ardan howled, No! Aranya!

Protect our friends, Sha’aldior! Aranya cried, as the Land Dragoness launched her out of her mouth like a catapult-shot. She had no need to spread her wings. Heat smote her. Fire. Gasping, terrified, she remembered she had forgotten to shield. No time for that now.

ARANYA!

His despairing cry washed over her as the mighty Storm Elemental turned the hammer-blow of its regard upon her. The creature’s breath was an open furnace, the strength of its gaze, a crucible of reaming, caustic Earthen-fires magic that washed over her scales like acid, before her inner white-fires flared in instinctive protection.

Trust me, Sha’aldior, she pulsed, not at all certain if he heard her or not.

Aranya had clarity of vision, but no clue if her idea would work. All she knew was that this was the only way. She had leaped through the crowd to save Zuziana’s life. Now, the Amethyst Dragoness summoned her sketchy knowledge of that moment, calling upon every power she had ever imagined. Onyx strength. The light and beauty she remembered of her mother. The physics-defying dance she had danced with Hualiama. This was her heritage which spanned the aeons of time itself, and reached beyond where the white-fires of all substance merged into one, and the reality of imminent death could be cheated if a Star Dragoness dared to attempt the impossible.

Reaching out, she leashed Leandrial with a thread of her own white-fires. Then, she drove forward with the utmost, failing strength of wing and muscle. The white slingshot stretched. Stretched further, the tremendous tension felt as a stabbing pain in her mind. Aranya’s approach had taken her dangerously close to flying into the enraged, looming presence of the Storm Elemental when she stopped and pivoted, anchoring herself with the air of Fra’anior clutching an Island and her grandsire’s legendary strength. Applying the impossible acceleration through time and space she had essayed when saving Zuziana, the Star Dragoness employed her impromptu slingshot to launch Leandrial over her right shoulder.

BEZALDIOR!!

Her shriek of ultimate effort snuffed out the Rift’s fires but for a moment.

A mile and a half of Land Dragon rocketed away as if blasted from the mouth of a massive volcano. As Leandrial shot by, Aranya infused her friends’ shields with the last of her strength.

Starlight meets Shadow, she whispered, enfolding them with her presence.

The Land Dragoness hurtled into the leagues-tall mass of churning Earthen-Fires, piercing the Storm Elemental like a spear flung on a low trajectory. She travelled so fast, Aranya belatedly heard a booming concussion following the Dragoness as she parted the Rift-Storm’s most hazardous fires and blew a hole through the titan’s churning breast. At that speed, she realised, Leandrial would traverse the remaining leagues of the storm in a matter of minutes.

Hopefully, no Islands stood in her path.

The storm washed back, great incendiary rivers of blood-red, fibrous fires pouring toward Aranya with a staggering screech of rage. Far from being defeated, the Storm Elemental seemed roused to greater excesses. Its fires clumped together in champing fangs, pouring out of muzzles and over proto-limbs as if the creature vomited volcanic fire and detritus from every pore. Heat mounted upon heat, attaining temperatures in excess of ten thousand degrees. The Elemental’s primal magic sang a soul-shattering, injurious song. Now she was a Lesser Dragon cast adrift in the Rift-Storm.

Tugging. Making headway? Aranya realised she was still connected to the Land Dragoness by her tenuous magical thread. Her jaw cracked open. Oh no …

The pale white thread drew taut like spider-silk trembling at the first caress of an impending storm. The Storm Elemental’s paws swept upward to gather her in, but the Amethyst Dragoness rode that tide. The blazing surge jolted her onto a new trajectory. Brutal acceleration drained the blood from her head as the tightening connection forced Aranya’s flight to arc upward. In creating an arcane slingshot for Leandrial, she had unleashed a relative imbalance of momentum that now squared her tiny weight against her friend’s massive tonnage. There could be only one result.

Desperately tucking in her wings and paws, the Amethyst Dragoness blazed a skyward comet-trail through layers of gritty, sulphurous smoke lashed by sizzling whip-strokes of ochre and vermilion fire.

The thread-connection propelled her mile upon mile into the darkening sky, through a region of roiling heat and blue-hearted flame, into churning billows of malodorous smoke that clung to her fangs and throat like charred, gritty ooliti wood smoke. Still the terrified Dragoness continued to accelerate to a phenomenal velocity, drawing a long, fiery jet-stream from the Rift-Storm’s upper reaches into a new realm of cool, clean air, her scales and wings aglow with the speed of her passage. So powerful were the winds she generated, her lips and eyelids fluttered madly and the Amethyst distinctly felt her wing-membranes tearing in multiple locations. Aranya held on only because she knew she must see her friends safe. The only way she could know assurance, was to see them pass through the Rift-Storm’s infernos. Every throb of her complex draconic hearts-beat was for them–a stream of nurturing, protective magic pulsing down the thread.

Still, their passage was a fearsome rending of Storm Elementals reluctant to release their quarry.

Aranya curved her neck toward her breast, peering through slit eye-membranes at the Island-World below. The Rift meandered like an orange river seen from a height, with sickly dark tentacles of poisons spreading to either side reaching deep into the Cloudlands. She saw for the first time the legendary Island-archipelagos of Herimor stretching to the southern horizon, like flotillas of green and brown Dragons floating above a carpet of rolling white. Did she spy darker rifts and canyons breaking up those faraway cloudscapes? She could barely focus against the windstorm’s force. Now her gaze shifted, lighting upon endless mountains to the East. Tan, many-fanged mountain ranges clawed the sky’s very throat, rising so high above even her elevated position, surmounting multiple, pink-hued strata of cloud, it seemed to Aranya that just as Ri’arion had mistaken the Rift-Storm, so the world had tipped upon its side and what she beheld was the backbone of a vast Island lying prone against the darkling sky.

The air’s thinness seared her lungs. She was cold, so very cold.

Her speed abated. Should she not be alarmed? She had ascended many leagues above the Rift, now. Far too high for ordinary Dragonflight.

There! The Star Dragoness screamed in victory as she saw a tiny fingernail of fire break free of the thick orange ribbon, almost immediately vanishing beneath a murky, poisonous layer of smoke. She knew it to be Leandrial, holding her friends secure in her mouth. Deftly, she severed the white thread with a final prayer of speed and protection for her companions. It sloughed away into the Rift-Storm, and vanished.

The panorama viewed from this altitude was so serene, she could almost imagine there was nothing amiss with her Island-World–and if she dreamed of tranquillity, and her wings unfurled so delicately upon stillness that she heard the subtle hiss of blood flow through the arteries feeding their agile surfaces, why then did the Dragonsong of her soul sigh like hot, heartsore rain into the emptiness?

So far was she above any sound, she heard the very starlight chiming upon … impossibility.

Aranya whirled. Mother?

Izariela’s spirit hovered nearby, as white as fresh-blown snow upon the beloved peaks of Immadia. She said, Softly to me, petal. By your selfless defence of your friends, you’ve placed your being in mortal danger.

So I chose; so it must be.

I know, my precious eggling. I know. Now, will you allow a mother’s forlorn love to embrace–

With a sob, Aranya flung herself across the void.

Chapter 17: Ripped Asunder

EVERY LAND DRAGON must dream of flying. Leandrial could boast that she had flown the Rift, but as she finally slowed, she ground her molars together, creating a sound like an avalanche.

Tentatively, the Azure Dragoness tried to comfort her. “We’ll find Ardan, Leandrial. And Aranya. She can’t be lost in the Rift-Storm. Didn’t we sense her flying upward?”

“No Dragon can overfly the Rift. It is imposs–” The Land Dragoness champed her sentence into deeply unsatisfying bits beneath her teeth. “That Amethyst! She’s what’s impossible! Barely have I finished swearing I will never lose another Dragon as I did the Pygmy Dragoness, and I lose three. Three! Curse this fate, these great paws that cannot for a moment hold that which is most precious to me.” She heaved an almighty sigh, her belly-fires soughing like torrential rain. “She saved us. Surely as Islands reach the roots of the world, Aranya saved us all. We should be thankful, not … desolate.”

“We’ll start searching for Ardan and Sapphire,” Ri’arion mumbled, stirring.

“Move an inch and you’re a dead monk!” snarled Zuziana, rushing to his side.

“Ah … love you too, petal?” he grinned weakly, feeling his head as if he expected to have grown horns or to find the mental strain had blown a hole through the side of his cranium. “Frog-skins, I’ve a headache worthy even of you, noble Dragoness. Mighty were your deeds this day.”

“Frog-skins?” rumbled the Dragoness.

The monk returned, “Long story. Legendary–I will tell it at a more appropriate time, I promise. Is there a chance your Balance power can track Aranya or Ardan?”

“I am … sorry. I dwell on my wounds when I should be thinking of our companions.” The Land Dragoness suddenly stiffened. A wordless cry of amazement escaped her battered, torn lips.

“What?” asked Zip.

“Land Dragons. I hear … I hear my kind!”

Poor Leandrial. To hear the speech of her kind, even from afar, for the first time in one hundred and fifty years! Zip looked up as Ri’arion made a strange sound. Beautiful grief welled in his eyes, matching her own joy-in-sorrow. He dabbed his eyes on his sleeve as Leandrial’s muscles quivered uncontrollably, while the spent magic of her being soughed and tried to rise, only to gutter and fail.

Zuziana whispered, “We shall sing with thee, Land Dragoness. In song is Balance, and in Balance thou shalt find healing.”

“You … understand?” Leandrial whispered back. “There is forage here. Life. I hear life, everywhere, and my soul thrills to its every song, yet my delight is a spent current.”

Zip said, “Leandrial, whatever happened to Ardan? Are we safe here?”

Safe, as long as they scraped together enough magic to protect her wounds while she tried to heal, she averred. When Aranya had released them, the Land Dragoness projected from the relative angles of her own trajectory and that of the magical link by which Aranya had ensured their escape, that she would have been flung upward into the verimost heights of the Rift-Storm. Could she have spread her wings and flown out? Zip immediately volunteered to check. As for Ardan, he had been shielding Sapphire from the waves of Earthen-fire crashing through them, when the release of Aranya’s extraordinary magic recoiled to slap him so hard and fast through the side of her mouth, Leandrial calculated that he and the dragonet might have ended up as much as five hundred leagues distant.

“He’ll find Aranya,” Zip said stoutly. “They’ve their oath-magic. Now, carefully onward, Leandrial. Let’s find safety and a place to rest. I’ll fly up top to search–”

Ri’arion snapped, “Without so much as a sniff of magic to shield yourself? I’ll see your lizard-muzzle pickled for a trophy first, girl!”

“Oh.” The Azure Dragoness waggled a brow-ridge at him. “Shall I transform? Then we can argue properly. Mmm …”

“Inside our friend’s cheek?” inquired the monk.

The Dragoness’ belly-fires burst into mortified life. “Ah … perhaps not.”

* * * *

The Azure’s first two trips above the Cloudlands, on days two and four after their slam-bang arrival in Herimor, yielded nothing of interest whatsoever. In accordance with Leandrial’s memory, this region was barren, and one of the few where Islands apparently stayed put. The vast majority of Herimor’s Islands were migratory after various different fashions–following currents, prevailing wind patterns, moon-cycles and draconic migratory paths, whilst others simply misbehaved for no apparent reason–making any attempt to map Herimor, fraught with ridiculous complication. Zuziana found no trace of Ardan or Aranya. On her third trip aloft, she was almost eaten alive twice over.

Upon returning to the enormous under-Cloudlands hole where Leandrial had necessarily withdrawn to imitate a caveworm for a few days, she greeted the Land Dragoness with a furious yell, “Barren? What the hells is barren up there–it’s crawling with Dragons, Leandrial! Crawling, I tell you!” Zip held up a wing. “Look at this. I’m … holy!”

Leandrial blinked her huge eye slowly, darkening the cavern before returning it to full light. “Ah,” she said.

“Ah?” So maddened was she, the Remoyan choked on her own fire.

Ri’arion leaped out of Leandrial’s mouth, drifting slowly through the thick air to a gentle landing on the sandy cavern floor. His boots float-stepped over to Zip. “She’s also lost plenty of scales,” he commented.

Missilo-ragions, Leandrial said. “Uh, that would be, missile-firing subdraconic lifeforms. Sorry, they didn’t inhabit this region when I left.” At Ri’arion’s forceful ‘humph’, she explained, “They’re pack hunters. Typically, they cluster over a Dragon, then when sufficient are present, they link together to attack it with a rude but powerful multi-mind psychic blast capable of overwhelming most Lesser Dragons’ shields, followed a millisecond later by a concerted discharge of gas-powered fang-harpoons. The swarm then attempts to disable their prey and eat them while they’re still conscious–is that what happened to you, Zuziana?”

“No, I invited them to share a gourd of lukewarm milk! What do you think?”

Leandrial blinked.

“Aye, that’s what happened! Only, stupid me, I thought they were friendly dragonets at first, so I let them cuddle my freaking shield, alright?”

“Are you alright, darling wife?” the monk worried. “Where are you bleed–”

GRRRAAAARRRGGGGH!! thundered Zip. Lightning flashed across the cavern, blowing a decently-sized crater in the nearby wall.

Ri’arion smashed his fist into his palm. “Precisely!”

“I’m fine–sorry, Leandrial. Didn’t leave my royal calling-card, unfortunately. I sort of … fled. Tail tucked between the legs. Rather humiliated and chewed upon, monk-love, but alive enough to be thoroughly steamed.”

“Next time, you’ll show them who’s the bigger Dragon, eh?”

The Land Dragoness said, “She’ll lick a few wounds first, like me. Then we girls will get out there and start kicking enemy hides around the Islands.”

Zip’s lips curled back to display every fang she possessed. “You shake their Islands. I’ll shred any that fall off. Like this! And that!” The Azure aped a few of Ri’arion’s martial arts poses, before tapping Leandrial’s fore-talon with her sadly mangled wingtip. “Deal?”

“I thought calling a Dragoness ‘girl’ was an unpardonable insult?” Ri’arion inquired.

“I was being culturally relevant,” Leandrial claimed.

As the females chuckled, one high-pitched and the other like a proximate earthquake, the monk was left rolling his eyes. He evidently decided that a stint of exercise was the best rejoinder.

* * * *

Using the word ‘steamed’ led Ri’arion onto one of his monkish brain-asides. He had Zuziana practising her water-based Blue Dragon attacks for three days straight, until she was heartily sick of swallowing water. To her relief, Leandrial finally declared her intention to move on. The rest, building on the foundation of the Amethyst Dragoness’ running repairs, had improved the worst of her wounds. Now she required good forage and ideally, medical help and communion with her fellow Welkin-Runners. For Zuziana’s part, she was amazed to note how her Dragon body had already begun to grow fresh membrane to close the fifty-seven holes neatly stitched in her wings by the missilo-ragions, and the exposed patches of hide developed a layer of fresh, diamond-hard scale-armour. Better than ever. She teased Ri’arion about his head needing as much regular polishing as her scales.

“We’ll proceed in the direction we think Ardan flew, as agreed,” Ri’arion stated, with a grin that approved of Zuziana’s joke. “Leandrial will reconnoitre below the Cloudlands and we’ll take a turn above. Safely. No coddling deadly life-forms this time, Zip-Zip–right?”

“Can’t carry you then, can I?” She winked flirtatiously at him.

“And you need to feed your Human form,” he added, not without a newlywed twinkle of his own.

“I’ll meet you at dawn on a direct south-westerly bearing,” said Leandrial. “Did I understand rightly that you two are planning to make hatchlings this night?”

“Wha-wha …” Ri’arion spluttered.

“Kindly poke your Island-sized muzzle in somebody else’s business,” Zip said firmly.

The Land Dragoness’ deep chuckles shivered the Cloudlands as she turned to walk down the side of the Island where she had deposited her companions. She called back, May your roost-love be pure-fires, little ones.

Did she regret never having had the chance to have a mate, Zuziana wondered?

Oh Aranya. Oh, precious little Sapphire … it seemed her every thought was about their lost companions.

The Azure Dragoness flicked her wings restively as Ri’arion mounted up. She stood crouched at the base of a low, mounded Island, one of seven in this small cluster. Six were heaps of rock supporting the barest signs of life–a few spindly bushes, lichens and mosses, and lizards. Similarly to the North, no Humans lived this close to the Rift, for the ambient poisons were too concentrated. Leandrial had singled out two classes of bottom-dwelling, filter-feeding ragions, however, which Dragon scientists had discovered processed many types of toxins through a surprisingly complex physical and magical process, converting them into nutrients. At a depth of five leagues below the Cloudlands, they infested the lower reaches of these Islands in their billions, a living layer of perse Dragonflesh that resembled overturned dinner-dishes slowly waving yellow vacuum-tubes to suck air into their primary stomach-lungs.

The ragions represented the lowest and most generalised rung of the draconic ecosystem in Herimor, Leandrial had taught them. In contrast to the Island-World North of the Rift, Herimor crawled, buzzed and sang with a vast array of life-forms, many of them subdraconic or of lesser intelligence, while thousands were parasites or deadly to Lesser Dragons, having specialised in a variety of creative ways of infiltrating or ambushing Dragons that her academic monk patently found fascinating and Zuziana found … rather less so. Spreading her wings, she caught the soft but rank breeze flowing up the side of the Island and rode it aloft.

Four full moons spread their cheer across the barren Islands as Zuziana winged her monk south-westward into the night. Toward midnight, the Shapeshifter Dragoness landed on a small, mossy Island and transformed into her Human form; after a certain amount of tarrying with intent and un-monkish waywardness, they rested beneath the swelling Yellow Moon. The Remoyan Princess snuggled against Ri’arion’s shoulder as she gazed up at the night sky.

“Soo …” she tickled his chin. “Alone at last. Beautiful night.”

Ri’arion quoted:

Midnight beauty was she; molten silver was he,

Like White Moons and night skies,

Silver darkness intertwined.

Zip chuckled. “That’s a rather risqué version of the Pygmy Dragon’s ballad, Ri’arion. Are you trying to suggest something? Wasn’t she a teenager–”

“Oh, merciful heavens, how I have sinned with thee,” he chuckled. Zip grinned over the fingers she was pretending to bite. “Alright, growler, you’re seventeen, irresistibly gorgeous and of age on all the major Islands. Most records show Pip must have been young indeed–if nothing else, her Dragoness’ purported size declares it.”

“What’s wrong with petite?” asked the Remoyan, archly.

“Nothing …”

“Then prove it, thou despicable Enchanter.”

Zip giggled as Ri’arion floated her above him with a curl of his magical power while he pretended indolence, arms folded behind his head and legs crossed as he looked her over with innocent glee. She covered her ruined torso with her arms, about to protest, when she realised his frown was directed over her shoulder. What? Traitor!

“Oi! You don’t just leave a girl floating,” she said crossly.

“I’ve never seen that star before,” he said, shamelessly ignoring her pout and a come-hither crook of her forefinger. That would not do!

In her most ominous Dragoness-voice, she said, “Ri’arion of Fra’anior, if you don’t start apologising right now for your despicable behav–mmm.”

Shortly, he surfaced for air and a quick gasp, “But Zip-Zip, that star–”

She sealed his mouth with an implacable Dragoness-kiss. “Certain men should learn when to shut the trap.”

* * * *

After a round of apologies that threatened to leave the moons themselves blushing, Zip and Ri’arion returned to their stargazing. “You mentioned a star?” she murmured sleepily.

“Forgot all about it.”

“Sweet liar,” she accused, loving him for the untruth.

His fingers curled a lock of hair at her right temple before he dropped a warm kiss on each eyelid. “Certain women should learn when to shut the trap.”

“Fighting talk, Ri–mercy!” With a yell, Zip leaped to her feet, socking the monk’s jaw with her right elbow by accident. “Where’s that star? Where? Apologies, but … oh great heavens, Ri’arion–noooooo!”

Her scream had barely begun to echo around the small Island when a strong pair of arms encircled her shoulders. “Precious petal, we know that’s impossible, don’t we?”

Shuddering, she snarled into his chest, “Want to reconsider your word-choice where that feckless friend of mine is concerned? She doesn’t … do … impossible.”

Salty tears smeared upon her lips.

“Star Dragons don’t … become stars, do they?” Ri’arion groaned, never bleaker of voice.

He knew, or at the very least, suspected what she did. Zip’s eyes rose to the smoky grey wall of the Rift-Storm. They surmounted the ash-clouds drifting above that ever-burning realm, lighting upon a strange upwelling … like vast wings of the most insubstantial cloud drifting across the face of the Yellow Moon … a Cloud-Dragon? Such was the legend; such was its ethereal beauty, a girl could only wonder at the boundary between imagination and reality, for the clouds opened oh-so-fleetingly upon a dance of translucent wings backlit by the White Moon, before veils of ash obscured them from sight.

A sharp pinpoint of light hung higher still, over the Rift. A soul-lost shiver caused Zip to wish to burrow beneath Ri’arion’s skin for comfort, like a babe returning to the womb. So fresh and new it was, its light seemed to sparkle with especial meaning for the two pairs of eyes that beheld it from a lonely, deserted Island in northern Herimor that night. That star had not been present when they first beheld the Rift. It hung low against a velveteen tapestry of star-dusted darkness, brighter and more breathtaking than she had ever imagined, yet her melancholy seemed both travesty and injustice as Zip craned her neck to gaze upward, rising upon her tiptoes as though she could imbibe the wondrous magic of starlight.

Amethyst winked into her soul.

She wiped her eyes. “Aranya watches over us, monk-love.”

Ri’arion made a narked noise in his throat. “What, first I can’t cuddle my wife inside our friend’s cheek-pocket, and now the nights are no longer sacred? Must we hide beneath stones?”

At this, even more a shock to herself than to the monk, Zuziana dissolved into helpless fits of laughter. Eventually she subsided, claiming an episode of moons-madness. Was it lunacy to harbour hope in her breast? She had seen a forty-foot Dragoness whirl on a brass dral to pitch an entire Land Dragon over her shoulder and out of the Rift-Storm. Perhaps the greater madness was not to believe the evidence of her eyes.

Come back to us, Amethyst star, she whispered.

Ri’arion kissed the crown of Zuziana’s head tenderly. Was her oath not to rise again?

They shivered. Oaths were not meant to come true. Not like this.

Aranya’s star had indeed risen.

* * * *

Over the course of the following week, Zip, Ri’arion and Leandrial swam steadily out of the Barrens into the Northern Kahilate region of Herimor, where they tarried for six days with a nomadic group of Flash Stellates who had wandered far from their usual foraging grounds two thousand leagues to the south. Zuziana knew that Leandrial had been hurt more severely than she cared to admit. She was a venerable four centuries old. Even Dragons did not heal as easily given such great age.

The peace-loving Stellates were ambulatory fortresses, very similar in outward body structure to the giant land tortoises Zip had once seen at Telstroy Island, but they boasted one thousand two hundred legs per beast. They walked with a centipede-like rippling motion. Their carapaces were perfectly circular mountains up to a league in diameter and half a mile tall, sporting fantastical spiked gardens that supported entire ecosystems of unique life-forms atop the back of each and every Stellate. Many shell-denizens aided the Stellates in one fashion or another, such as providing cleaning or defensive services, or even foraging for special titbits to supply the ever-busy beaked maws of such massive beasts.

It was special to Zip and Ri’arion, however, to observe how respectfully the Stellates treated Leandrial. Every utterance to her was punctuated with ‘o voice of ancient wisdom’, their honorific for a Dragon Elder, while the eleven youngsters of their Clan, mere mites sporting shells eight hundred feet in diameter, were far too overawed to speak with her, at first. Instead, they sang over, communed with and fed the great Land Dragoness. Then, they healed her with touches of their unique Flash Stellate power, an amber flare of Harmonic magic that emerged from the tip of each point of their stellated shells, and bathed Leandrial in a restorative light-aura. The technique was a very different branch of Harmonic magic to Leandrial’s, but apparently no less effective. Then, they offered their same services to the Azure Dragoness. She could not refuse.

Afterward, she flew aloft to meet Ri’arion on an uninhabited floating Island, which had already moved three leagues from its position at dawn, sixteen hours before.

She found the monk doing handstand press-ups on a flat, West-facing boulder. Shirtless–scrummy! The suns-set burnished his torso into lean planes of muscle. He was all hers to slaver over. The Remoyan Princess clicked her jaw shut before she started dribbling fire too shamelessly.

The suns-set diffused richly through the constant ash-clouds in these northerly latitudes of Herimor, making the twin suns resemble open meriatite engine furnace-windows, the fired-glass portholes that gave a view of the inner furnace. Hazy yellow-orange striations formed by the differing densities of airborne particulate matter lent the scene the air of an artwork roughly brushed by an enthusiastic artist, but the overall effect set her Dragoness-hearts a-dance. Gorgeous. Just look at the flame-burnished effect on Ri’arion’s granite abdominals!

She purred blissfully.

Sweeping into a compact landing on the boulder-strewn slope near her monk, the Azure Dragoness cast another glance at the Rift-star, as she and Ri’arion had dubbed the new phenomenon, which now lay low upon the northern horizon, above the storm’s dark smudge. The star twinkled cheerfully. Perhaps four hundred leagues from the Rift, life had finally taken hold, and ran riot on the Islands. This unnamed archipelago boasted some fifty-two small Islands which at their orbital apogee approached within two hundred leagues of the Rift; this showed in a dense layer of mineral-rich but apparently toxic ash and dust which supported its hardy plant-life. Leandrial said that these Islands orbited a magnetic core deep inside the Island-World, returning to this position once every eight years. Zip’s nostrils tested the scents of damp ash–it must have rained–and the cloying honey-like scent of the clumps of carnivorous, violet skortik-flowers, the plant ubiquitous to this archipelago. The next archipelago would boast a different variant of skortik, Zip understood.

Oh, the joys of draconic science–what a load of twaddle and paw-tickling piffle. The Azure leered at the monk, finding him far more diverting.

Descending smoothly to his feet, the monk said, “Does draconic romance always come accompanied by fifty gleaming fangs and a curl of smoke?”

“You make my furnaces purr,” Zip pointed out throatily, then giggled more like a girl than a Dragoness. “Oh dear. Sorry. This Shapeshifter life takes some adjusting to, doesn’t it?”

“I’d better bathe before my man-stink offends those sensitive nostrils.”

“Mmm. Monk-smell.”

Ri’arion’s pulse leaped in his throat. “Alright … is there something different about you?” He cocked his head to the left, a mannerism that always accompanied an inquiring mind, Zip had learned. She stood still, but her paws clenched with sudden hope. Could it be? He said, “You stalk me with apparent intent, Remoy, but the tenor of your fires strikes me as pensive. And–”

He stumbled forward to lay his hand upon her lower chest, at the height of his shoulder. He touched the scales with a soft, knowing hiss.

“Aye,” Zip choked out.

“Thou wert ripped asunder, precious petal.” Ri’arion bit his lip, gulping awkwardly. “It … it is not … restored. Not entirely. The Flare Stellates sang for thee?”

“How perceptive thou art, monk-love.”

Zip wanted to chuckle as her Dragoness immediately copied his archaic speech, but the moment was too precious, and too fragile, to be defiled. He ran his fingers over her throat-scales and along her powerful chest and flanks, making Zip shiver as though a fey breeze had tickled her sensitive Dragon-nerves. As his magic prickled oh-so-gently, Ri’arion muttered, “Better.” His thumbs tested the surface and edges of her scales, tracing the whip-scars patterned so faithfully upon her azure hide. “Aye.” Ridges as deep as a man’s thumb. Twisted scar tissue. Yet he touched even the worst blemishes. “Definitely improved.” He caressed them. And just when she was on the cusp of transforming to kiss the man who cupped her third heart in his hands, he growled:

A bane upon the loins that spawned the coward who scarred thee, Zuziana of Remoy!

She stared at her man. “Ri’arion …”

“What?”

“That’s just plain creepy.”

Unfortunately, her thoughtless remark triggered their first married fight.

* * * *

Fortunately, there was kissing and making up. Oodles of delicious kissing, followed by various regrets and confessions, and barrel-loads more kissing. So much kissing, indeed, that the monk laughingly claimed to have pulled a muscle in his jaw the following morning.

Human-Zuziana perched her hands on her hips. “If some people wouldn’t keep throwing oath-magic about!”

“If some girls wouldn’t insist on being so overwhelmingly draconic.”

“Uh … sorry about the sparks. And the spontaneous lightning-bolt which singed your backside. Are these your only pair–”

Ri’arion smirked, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Laughing happily, Zip reached for his trousers. “Maybe I’ll just tear them off.” Rrrriiiip! “Oh! M-Mercy, I-I’m sorry, Ri’arion. Look … look, they just …”

The monk doubled over, hooting as one finger wagged toward her, “You should see your face! I can’t … oh … you’re priceless! Oh, Zip! You’re worth a million laughs.”

Zuziana flung the scraps of material at him. And a lightning-bolt, which thankfully, he was wise to on this occasion–a Nameless Man shield saved his blushes. Then, she twigged. He had cut the stitching of his ruined trousers beforehand … but how? When? Fury roiled in her belly, bubbling together with grudging mirth. Mad-monk! Grr!

“How?” she seethed. “How did you know what I’d do?”

Ri’arion smiled sweetly, “I’ve two words for you, Princess. Completely predictable.”

Even more galling, now he mimicked exactly how she’d baited Nak! Her Dragoness wanted to belt him right off the Island. The petite Remoyan settled for a snarl, “Oh, Mister Monk is so clever.”

He shrugged. “The trousers were done for.”

“Joker.”

“Learned from the best,” he claimed.

“The sight of you in a loincloth has always steamed me up,” Zip said roguishly. “That first time, we were interrupted by a Dragonship. But today, I must admit to harbouring despicable designs upon the scanty remains of your outfit.” She plucked his loincloth impishly. “What say you–”

“Dragons! Jump!”

Chapter 18: Ardan’s Harem

WHEN THE SHADOW Dragon came to, it was to startle at a blaring chorus of Dragon-challenges, and to groan at a fleeting recollection of Amethyst power slapping him so hard across the Isles, he could barely remember his name, let alone guess where he was.

What he knew was that he had barrelled into the midst of a large Dragonwing. They were vexed.

Capture the Black! bellowed a powerful, female voice. Alive!

Other draconic voices barked, At once, Marshal! We obey! Seize the Black! Take him!

Dazedly, Ardan began, Now hold on a stinking …

He was distracted by a tickling sensation in his left palm. Ardan’s curled fist unclenched to release a flash of sapphire-blue scales, but his immediate attention was fixed on the cruel paws gripping his body, his legs, his wings. These Dragons were all grey-green monsters, his size or up to a third larger … Ardan punched his first captor instinctively, a mighty fisticuff driven by fear and anger. KEERAAACK! One down. Maybe they’d show respect–no.

Shadow!

His being flickered, confusing them. Dragons grabbed each other, champed down on fresh air, cried out in surprise and even panic as Ardan un-Shadowed and lashed out with his tail, claws and fangs. He was a Dragon-warrior. He’d teach these slugs!

Ardan snapped left and right, Give me space! Back, thou worms!

Now he was channelling Rider Nak?

What fun!

Low, vicious Dragonsong burbled out of his throat as Ardan swirled through the heat of battle, all Dragon-reactions and ire. He crushed a Dragon’s windpipe with a bite. Ha-ha-harrrr! He whirled, striking with a combination of open-taloned slaps. Wham! Bla-da-bam-bam-bam! He tore bloody, fifteen-foot stripes through a Dragon’s primary starboard flight-muscles and found an eye-orb stuck to his talon.

Tasty! he grinned, popping the morsel into his mouth. Actually, it was vile. He spat it at another Dragon, who ducked in surprise, perhaps expecting a fireball. Have at me then, you puny butterflies.

Take him alive, you worthless sons of slugs! roared the female. What do I pay you for, Hor’tax’tix? Get in there before I skin you alive! Morons! Null-fire jumbuki slugs! Fight!

Curse it, he had no magic! His Shadow power guttered like a dying candle, just enough to slide him through the fray for a half-breath, tricking the enemy. Attack a Dragon without exchanging pleasantries? Ardan caved in a Dragon’s ribs with a mighty back-kick, smashed the bone of the outer third of a wing with a cunning flick of his tail, and tossed another hulking hundred-and-thirty foot female over his shoulder with a monk-inspired twirl that bodily slammed that tonnage into two of the brute’s friends.

KEERAAACK! Ah, the sweet snap of breaking bones.

For the Onyx! roared Ardan, trying to rouse his fires. Not a whole lot of fireball inside, either. What did a Dragon have fangs for? Decoration?

The Shadow Dragon corkscrewed between three converging fireballs, deliberately deflecting one off his belly into the face of an attacker. Oddly, these Dragonkind were all the same unsightly Grey-Green colour except for the Red, the vast female who commanded this motley gang of four-pawed bandits. She cursed up a colourful storm as Ardan took pleasure in thrashing her Dragonwing, making mistakes and taking a severe beating himself, but they were hampered by this crazy desire to capture him, while he had no such reservations. Four Dragons had already dropped to the … floating Island! Freaky!

Ardan smashed a hopeful Grey-Green across the nose. Down, you bleating lamb!

What–floating Islands everywhere? He must have taken a harder blow to the skull than he had imagined.

Execrations flowed in a foul river from the Red. Must I do everything for you scum-born, null-fire dimwits? He did hear one thing, however. A phrase in a strange, twisted dialect of Dragonish. Power drain!

His strength evaporated.

Unholy windrocs! Ardan gasped as the sky tipped up and he dropped like a stone.

Fourteen Dragons shepherded him down to the nearest Island, a jade-green, verdant mass of jungle vegetation that reminded him favourably of Naphtha Cluster. Ardan’s eye-orbs slowly rolled in his head. Islands above. Islands below. A Dragonwing at least fifty strong trailed the commanding female. Peculiar draconic creatures swarmed all over the base of each Island. Millions of sparks of life. Where was he? And more importantly, where were Aranya and Leandrial and the others?

The Dragons holding him dumped Ardan onto his nose in a meadow of blue grass and unfamiliar yellow flowers that smelled, incongruously, like Aranya’s magic.

He surged–Power drain. Power drain!

Ardan slumped.

Landing, the Red Dragoness stalked him with a limber flexion of her chunky body. Her eyes were shaded with the green of draconic avarice. Oh, he’s a fighter, this unknown Black, she purred. An unexpected boon for our House. Which lineage is his? We shall find out. We shall have plenty of time to know each other, Black.

He could not lift a wingtip. How had she stolen his magic? Ardan’s head lolled aside. He spied Sapphire lurking in a stand of bushes nearby. By shielded telepathy, he cautioned, Be shrewd, little one. Stay hidden.

The Red loomed over him, her strangely spiky scales standing out against a cloudless noon sky. Noon? Where had the time fled? All he had was useless questions.

Come, Black, wheedled the Red Dragoness. I am Yar’nax’tix, or Tixi, which is the last word my enemies breathe across their perishing lips. Enough fighting. You’re my captive and I shall place you in my harem for safekeeping–Changu! A collar from the supply-depot. Triple-strong, for this one.

At once, Mistress.

Wings beat the air.

Her Dragonish was harsh upon the ear, all unfamiliar gutturals and nuance-indicators Ardan did not understand. A harem? What was that? He stared upward, held splayed upon his back by eight Dragons as the Red looked him over lasciviously.

I like taming strong Shapeshifters, she continued. Your glamour is unusually powerful, so unique! I shall taste your magic and have it for my own, o Black. You shall give it up willingly.

How did she know he was a Dragon Shapeshifter?

Ardan began, In your dreams, you yapping cur–

Sleep, she said, touching his neck delicately with two extended talons. Sleep, and wake as a man, Black Dragon.

* * * *

Waking, Ardan found himself trapped beneath a Dragon’s paw. His day had just continued its descent into the vortex. He was a man. Naked, and furious. He stirred.

Lie still, or I’ll squash you like a bug, growled the fifty-tonne Grey-Green Dragon standing on his chest.

Power–cried the Red Dragoness.

He appeared beside her, and snapped her jaw shut with a perfect right cross. By way of rejoinder, she swatted him so hard with her clenched knuckles that Ardan’s flying body cracked the rib of a Grey-Green standing guard nearby. Ardan bounced, shook his head, and charged the shocked Red. She belted him again. Instinctively twisting in the air as a male Dragon tried to snap him up in his jaw, Ardan the man landed instead on the Dragon’s tongue. The mouth ground closed, trapping his foot between a set of age-chipped fangs. He put his fist through the Dragon’s upper palette.

Spat out together with a gobbet of golden Dragon blood and a furious fireball, Ardan found himself snaffled by the Red, away from the flames. Power drain, she commanded, and flung him onto the sward with a snort of disgust. Hold the bastard son of a goat, you weaklings!

Ardan fought off two Dragons.

Power drain. Ruddy power drain–so strong, Black? snarled Tixi, as he kicked about in their grasp and then, with a flexion of his arms, pounded two disconcerted Dragons together above his head. Power freaking drain … better. Power drain! Where the poxy hells is that collar? Get me that thrice-accursed collar!

How does he yet fight? asked one of the males.

Another Dragon, standing on Ardan’s left arm, growled, A skin-hardening glamour, Kuratarr? And not only illusion, but teleport–

Shut your blaspheming tongue, Taragarr! snarled the other, shifting his grip on Ardan’s legs. The effect must have been achieved by mass hypnosis. Killed five on his own–and not even a full-grown male, the foul scale-biting Nurakik-slime!

Shapeshifter secrets, hissed Taraggar, making a superstitious clucking noise with his tongue.

Yet Ardan detected nuances in their manner he had very seldom observed in the Dragonkind. A grin touched his lips. Fear.

Summoning up the hard-learned lessons of Ri’arion’s mental disciplines, Ardan tried to section off whatever the Red’s magic had done to his ability to resist, but he could not find a clear path. The suns slowly tracked across an eggshell-blue sky as he lay in the grip of three Dragons. Every so often, Tixi snapped her power-sucking command and whatever of his power was available, including his physical strength, seeped away. He was not about to be tamed by anyone. He’d made the mistake of pursuing a relationship with Kylara before. Ardan could not even grind his teeth together–freaking Red! Suddenly, insight dawned. She was a Shifter–she had to be, for the way she eyeballed him left no possible doubt. If she desired a toy, Tixi would learn the hard way he was for one Shapeshifter Dragoness only.

Perhaps an hour later, Changu reappeared, flying at high speed–most probably, he didn’t want his backside shredded by his larger leader. In fact, Tixi was easily the biggest, most dominant Dragon of a physically impressive crew. How large did they grow these grubby farmer-Dragons in Herimor?

The sight of that collar in Changu’s paw put the freakish shivers into his bones, however. Ardan had no other word for it than evil. There was nothing externally noteworthy about the three-stranded, braided metal circlet that he should feel this way. The metal was a silver-gold alloy, with no visible clasp. It was a fine piece of workmanship, fine enough to pass for jewellery. Yet when Tixi clasped it in her paw, the metal appeared to stretch. Ardan eyed the thing with horror. Its aura! Darkness, dominance, a brand of magic he immediately wished he had never sensed …

As the Dragons’ hold intensified, Tixi reached down. He screamed, Aranya!

There was no answer from his oath-magic, not from anywhere in the Island-World. Devastation crushed his spirit. No. No! She could not be gone. The fight deserted him; Ardan slumped as the Red Dragoness worked the circlet down to his neck. For the first time in his life, his Dragon vanished. He had never realised how close that second-soul was, but its absence left a frozen void. Gone. Snuffed out. The hateful collar clasped his neck delicately, so cold it made him shiver. He gripped it with his hands, and the jolt he received knocked him flat on his back. Ardan tasted blood.

If I were you, I wouldn’t try that again, said the Red Shapeshifter, clearly well contented with her capture. Take him to the lair, and enclose him in my harem. I’ll question the Black later.

Aloud, Ardan croaked, “What the sulphurous hells is this thing?”

He dared not touch it again.

“You fool, it’s a Lavanias collar,” she replied scornfully. “It suppresses Shapeshifter powers. I look forward to interrogating you later, Black. Once I find out your bloodline and your powers, I’ll have your oath of service. And if you keep resisting, that will be … interesting, for me. Excruciating for you. I’m sure you’re well aware of the ways that a Lavanias collar can be used to break the mind. I almost hope you don’t cooperate. Almost.”

He shuddered at the malice in her tone.

* * * *

The Dragonwing took off with Ardan ensconced in Kuratarr’s right paw. The Grey-Green leaned in close to hiss, “You’re a dead Shifter!” Tixi overheard, and promised to flay his scales if he harmed so much as a hair on Ardan’s head. Suddenly, it struck him. He could see Dragons speaking to each other telepathically, for the shade and nuances of their eye-fires changed as they communicated, but he heard not a sound. The collar had even cut off his ability to hear Dragonish. This boded ill!

His head swivelled surreptitiously, looking for Sapphire. Would she understand? These mangy windrocs would not hesitate to squash … the dragonet casually hitching a ride on Taraggar’s shoulder, two hundred feet aft and below! His eyes popped like a land-snail’s roving eye-stalks. Clearly, he had underestimated the mite’s resourcefulness by a mere thousand leagues. Instinctively, he tried to focus his eyes, but he was reduced to Human sight now. Nonetheless, he checked Sapphire carefully; she seemed unharmed. Aranya would never forgive him if–he clenched his fists–if she were still alive.

Ardan went through the motions. He could not ignore his warrior heritage. His eyes roamed his surrounds, cataloguing, checking, forming hypotheses relentlessly, even as his sundered heart bled. O Amethyst! O Immadia!

The Dragonwing flew two compass points south of due west through a varied terrain of Islands which floated on thin air, clustered and clumped together in groups for no apparent reason. Some were linked by foliage–perhaps vines–or bands of long, thin yethiragions, a subdraconic life-form Leandrial had described to them as ‘Island-binders’. They hung like purple hawsers between groups of Islands, twined together in strands up to fifty creatures thick. The Islands floated courtesy of the gas-producing hentioragions swarming on their undersides. There were literally thousands of different types, all of which apparently enjoyed the singular distinction of producing enormous quantities of lighter-than-air gases for flotation purposes. Ardan could not remember the major subclasses Leandrial had described, for he might have been guilty of not paying much attention at that point of her lecture. He saw other pod-like Dragonkind drifting between the floating Islands, and smaller types of Dragons that flocked like birds, boasting wingspans of twenty feet or more, and worm-like, flightless Dragons that lived in and quarried caves on the lower sides of Islands.

No dragonets, however. His gaze returned speculatively to Sapphire.

The Islands themselves came in every conceivable shape and size, thickly overgrown with trailing, fernlike vegetation characterised by very fine leaves, some types sporting leaf-blades over thirty feet long, and thick sprays of tubular flowers. Insects abounded, most of species he did not recognise, but far too many of the annoying flying midge-types seemed to wish to investigate the back of his throat. Higher up on the Islands, he saw forests of succulents and even a few white-striped barrel cacti in the driest patches of exposed, russet-coloured sandstone, enjoying the ferocious heat that simmered relentlessly over this peculiar archipelago.

No single Island stood where it should in the Cloudlands. His Western Isles sensibilities crawled beneath his skin like an infestation of maggots. What manner of realm was this, where Islands sailed the skies and Dragons all boasted a single colour–apart from the Shapeshifter Red? Interesting. So, his sooty black colour had instantly marked him for a Dragon from one of Herimor’s noble lines. He chuckled softly. Noble-blooded Ardan–a noble warrior for a noble Princess. Could he turn this to his advantage?

They said there was a first time for every hand and paw.

They flew on for five days, traversing four such floating clusters of Islands, and even a few that stood in the Cloudlands for variety’s sake, it seemed, for despite his light-headed state, Ardan was convinced he saw one of them slowly drifting southward. Impossible soaring Islands! This place was like a distorted mirror, toying with his sense of reality.

Escape was impossible. Aranya’s continued silence ravaged his hopes–yet he refused to mourn. Not yet.

As the shadows lengthened on that fifth day, they came at last to a place patrolled by many Dragons, and the military man in Ardan sat up to take notice. Tixi the Red commanded some one hundred and ninety able-bodied fighters in her Dragonwings. Patrols were thick in the air for leagues about her fortress, a state of alert that placed them on a war footing, he judged. He noted two Red Dragons that bore a familial likeness to Tixi, who was hailed as ‘Marshal’ or ‘Mistress’ by the passing Dragons, with palpable respect. She ran a tight operation. He approved of the way her eyes assessed her troops and their deployment, around a single, dense archipelago he estimated to be two leagues tall, four wide and ten long. Some Islands had clearly been turned to farming or animal husbandry, mostly ox-like creatures with a quadruple set of broad and wicked-looking horns, and the workers he saw were Humans, small and tan-skinned like the Southerners around Remoy, but with uniformly dark hair and slanted eyes that reminded him of Doctor Chikkan. Ardan also noted heavier, unintelligent-looking Dragonkind that appeared to serve as transport. He goggled at their triple pairs of wings and the additional, vestigial set of legs tucked up near the base of the tail.

As Marshal Tixi took reports on the fly, Ardan listened closely. She had recently sealed alliances with Marshals Yuxor, Sabara and Hatuzzar; they requested Dragonwings to protect against the advance of ‘the old Marshal’, who had invaded five Island-Clusters and defeated two Marshals in battle with powerful psychic attacks, before seizing their Islands, Dragonwings and resources. Ardan’s neck prickled. If this was Thoralian’s work, he had certainly wasted not a minute since crossing the Rift. In fact, as the reports and rapid discussion continued, Ardan worked out that the Yellow-White Dragon would have had to travel through time to accomplish all of these achievements. A mystery.

Yet he had no more time for contemplation.

Tixi snapped at Kuratarr, “Take him to the harem. Bid them secure him to the house wards.”

“Aye, Marshal,” growled the Dragon.

“And tell the Curator I want him kept for me alone. Any shim-shamming with another shall attract an uninhibited ward-punishment.”

Kuratarr’s grin twisted into an evil leer. “You are cruel, Marshal Tixi.”

“Cruel and selfish,” she growled, so deeply that Ardan was left in no doubt as to her intent. It only remained to see what his captivity would be, but the Marshal had already staked her hegemony over his life. He ground his teeth until his jaw ached.

The Grey-Green Dragon flew swiftly down to the entryway of what he assumed was the Marshal’s dwelling, far more an armoured fortress than the descriptor ‘House’ suggested. The great, shimmering brass doors stood fully open to the Marshal’s environment. The pillars housing those massive, sliding outer doors stood one hundred and twenty feet tall and were liberally decorated from top to bottom with inset friezes depicting Dragons in battle. Warm sandstone corridors delved deep into the rock of the Island, but not before Ardan saw that four further layers of armour encased the house itself–natural rock on the outside, then more metal, a space holding thousands of unfamiliar, subdraconic cave-dwelling lizards whose cherry-red eyes burned upon him with dull, monotonous hatred, then a further double-layer of rock and metal which he estimated to be two hundred feet thick. What did this Marshal fear?

Within, the House was lavishly decorated with fanciful, swirling artwork in earthy ochre, tan and cream colours, and bright chequered hangings, all set within a surprisingly airy layout of vaulting ceilings and broad hallways, staircases and vestibules. They passed barracks and bathing facilities for Dragons, a fully-equipped infirmary and a circular meeting-chamber large enough to hold a hundred Dragonkind–or perhaps, to host single combat before an audience, he wondered–before ascending a sandstone staircase that curved past a row of marble sculptures depicting Tixi’s relatives or ancestors, according to the inscriptions chiselled on their bases. Each statue stood thirty feet tall. On the landing above, they passed more Human-sized accommodation. Slave quarters, he suspected, sized for thousands of workers. All wore metal collars similar to his, but of a less elaborate design; each stamped with a rune he did not recognise, which Ardan assumed denoted House ownership. Charming. A slave culture. This level was redolent with fragrant oils and tasty odours wafting from a kitchen complex, while tall brass braziers billowed the smoke of a complex incense that made his eyes water.

Kuratarr stumped past vast storage chambers for grains, dried fruits and herbs, and up a third staircase, this one guarded by a trio of bored-looking shell-brothers, hulking Grey-Greens who visibly stiffened as they looked him over. Hmm. Thoughts of escape would have to entail a better disguise than everyone instantly recognising him for a Shapeshifter.

Observing the subtle signs of deference accorded to his captor, Ardan noted their scars and mien–the Grey-Greens were not battle-ready. A lame wing, paralysed hindquarters … one was blind. His lip curled unconsciously. House-Dragons. Low growls and a warning snap toward his head modified Ardan’s expression. Vicious threats followed him up the staircase as Kuratarr took the steps ten at a time, clearly impatient to complete his task. Even he had to knock at the fifty-foot wide doors at the top–again, gorgeously decorated brass relief-work touched with artistic tints worked into the metal in ways beyond his knowledge. Aranya would have been delighted.

A faint prickle upon his skin warned him of magic. Ruddy spitting cobras, so the collar had not removed all sensation–or more likely, it was the extraordinary power of whatever wards guarded the House here. He knew enough of ward-lore to be extremely wary. Often, Dragons renewed wards over the years, creating a layering effect of power upon power that was almost unbreakable if one did not possess the key.

With a low rumbling of well-oiled rollers, the doors cracked open upon a new realm. Living and entertainment quarters. And a girl.

Ardan’s eyes popped at her costume, a silky blue negligee that hid–well, absolutely nothing at all. She looked him over with prurient curiosity enough to make the most hard-bitten warrior blush.

“Ooh, fresh meat for the table, Kuratarr?” she drawled. “You’re far too kind.”

Fresh meat? Ardan tested the lay of his molars once more. Pretty, but as hard as the blade of Kylara’s scimitar, if he was not mistaken.

“Fetch the Curator, Shizina,” Kuratarr growled, not relinquishing his Dragon’s-fist hold on Ardan for a second.

“Alright, mighty Kuratarr,” Shizina lisped, making moon-eyes at him over her shoulder, “keep your gorgeous scales on. Your wish is forever my bidding.”

Ardan’s scarified eyebrows crawled as the woman blatantly flirted with the Dragon! What the hells? That tone would have earned a fisticuff from Ja’arrion. She sashayed away in a trail of cloying perfume, to the tinkling of the tiny golden bells on her indecent clothing. Ardan could not help but stare.

A talon flicked his head. “Enjoy looking, Shifter, but no touching or the wards will zap your worthless hide to cinders,” growled the Grey-Green. “Since you pretend ignorance of Yandoon Archipelago customs, allow me to elucidate. The harem is where Tixi keeps her personal menagerie of Humans to entertain her guests–male and female, old and young, fat ones, dwarves, whatever takes their fancy. The Curator is your god, your master and the hand of life and death behind these doors. You’ll learn obedience, and fast.”

“When I escape, I’ll stuff your wings down your throat and choke you with them, Kuratarr,” Ardan replied politely.

A twitch of Kuratarr’s paw caused Ardan’s ribs to creak. He bit back a groan.

“Kuratarr. Orders?”

The Western Isles warrior saw a short, round woman clad in enough silk to robe a Dragonship. Yellow, catlike eyes appraised him–the eyes of a predator. He’d underestimate this one at his peril, Ardan deduced immediately. Dark curls framed a face that might have been sweet, save for the burning eyes. Dragoness? Almost certainly.

The Curator waggled her be-ringed fingers in his direction. Ardan felt unseen magic pluck the ring upon his neck. Cold speared into his breast. “Alright, the initial wards are set. Name?”

Ardan clamped his jaw shut.

“Any special remarks?” the Curator asked coldly.

“Kept for Tixi alone. Full ward-punishment. She will interrogate him later,” said Kuratarr, unconsciously mimicking the Curator’s blunt style of delivery. “He’s a Black Dragon Shapeshifter wearing a triple-strong Lavanias collar. He has unique powers to modify his body shape and nature. Be wary of this one.”

The fingers waggled languidly once more, but at greater length than before. Ardan shook his head as a sensation like a borer wasp dug into his skull. Meantime, Shizina mooched up behind the Curator, openly ogling Ardan with her dark, moody gaze and an inviting pout pasted on her painted lips. Both of the women wore their curly black hair very short and heavily oiled. Ardan pictured an Amethyst Dragoness in his mind.

“Oh, is she the one?” the Curator said playfully. “Mistress Tixi will have the truth out of you in two shakes of a hummingbird’s wing. There, nameless man, you’re all set to join our happy little brood. By way of welcome, I think we should test the wards.”

Without any warning whatsoever, the woman’s left hand shot forward to clasp Ardan’s groin!

A yelp had just begun to form in his throat when lightning struck him fifteen feet across the hall. The warrior barely felt his body strike the ground; his skull rang as if he had been blasted by an Aranya-style blue-hot fireball. The Curator eyed him coldly. “You’ll find answering my questions by far the easier option, Shapeshifter Dragon. Name?”

He gritted his teeth. “Dragon.”

Her eyes, however, flicked to follow Sapphire’s entry to the harem. “What’s this? A dragonet?”

Kuratarr purred, “Goes with him, apparently. Good luck, that is.”

The woman’s eyes gleamed with draconic interest. “I’m well acquainted with superstitions regarding dragonets, Kuratarr. His pet can stay for now–we’ll see if dragonets are as beneficial as everyone says they are. Shizina, help this wretch understand what’ll happen if he tries to step beyond the ward’s bounds.”

Ardan had struggled into a sitting position, his limbs trembling like leaves in a strong breeze, when Shizina knelt before him. Freaking windroc of a woman! Fear churned his belly as her lips pursed … he jerked his head away, but the plush lips brushed his earlobe.

KAAABOOOM! Ardan felt his body convulse as though he were caught in the throes of a violent epileptic fit. Darkness pounded him into oblivion.

Chapter 19: Hair and More

TRANSFORMING SO HARD and fast that the air snapped away from her with a sharp whap! Zuziana plucked her flying monk away half a foot above a boulder and jinked speedily, her hasty mind-meld allowing them to anticipate and avoid the attack.

Superheated orange fire hosed across the rock they had just vacated, blasting the ultra-dry skortik-flowers into oblivion and giving Ri’arion’s trousers an undeserved cremation.

My sword! he pulsed.

The Azure asked, Go back?

At the speed of thought, they agreed. Zuziana folded herself almost in half, deftly using her lithe fledgling-size to outmanoeuvre their stalwart Grey-Green attacker. He thundered by, striking with his talons and lacerating only the air behind her smartly departing haunches.

GRRROOAARR!! the Dragon howled.

Amidst the smoke and ruin, the Azure Dragoness caught sight of a wink of metal. Ri’arion’s favourite sword, the massive two-handed weapon he favoured in combat. The rest of their effects had safely been deposited in one of Leandrial’s increasingly handy cheek-pockets, and a boon that was too, since the massive male had spared no iota of his powerful Dragon fire blast. Zip snatched up the weapon, tossed the monk into the air, and landed him neatly between her spine-spikes.

Feral! he gasped.

The Azure Dragoness briefly eyed the monster as he braked smoothly and swivelled on a wingtip, returning for his quarry. Strange how she could pick out the qualities that marked the male as feral–strangely fixed crimson elements in the eye-orbs, an unblinking stare and the stiff flexion of his talons–but her eyes were drawn more urgently to a Dragonwing arrowing down from the south-eastern quarter, barely a mile above and closing fast. They could not fight twenty-two adult Dragons, beasts closely matched in size and power, each one fully a third larger than Ardan. Only the leader stood out, a bright, belligerent Green.

She broke for the Cloudlands.

Stop the feral one! roared the Green. Halt, strangers.

Halt? Ri’arion scoffed.

Zip said one word, Opportunity …

The monk nodded, understanding at once the flow of her thoughts. Zip-Zip, get us close to the feral Dragon. I’ll try to turn him. Watch that the others don’t cut off our escape.

Close? Too close? The Azure squirmed out of the path of a fireball, plucked a stunning, twisting somersault out of the bag of tricks she did not know she was capable of, and practically landed on the outraged feral Dragon’s back. Whoops.

Aye, touch him! cried Ri’arion.

Gripping the strange Dragon’s spine-spikes briefly with her talons, Zuziana’s hearts jolted as the massive power of the monk’s psychic command surged through her paws and into the Dragon beneath them.

The powerful Fra’aniorian Enchanter bawled, Desist, mighty Dragon, and remember thyself!

The Grey-Green blinked half a dozen times, very rapidly. I … remember.

Declare thy name! demanded the monk.

I am Tux’tarax! he growled, shaking himself from wingtip to tail. I thank thee for thy rescue, strange sojourners. What is thy Name and Line, Dragoness? And which Archipelago canst claim thy fame? Thou art of one mind with this Human?

He is my mate, Zuziana said without thinking.

However, the Dragon only performed an unfamiliar genuflection of his eye-fires. He is almost a Dragon in power. Now, here comes my mate, the peerless Suk’itarix of Ralladoon. Do tarry, that we might share fresh kill together, for the Dragonsong of thy praises shall be my cry.

By which, Zuziana deduced that the incoming Dragonwing might be friendly, and he intended to compliment Ri’arion by comparing him to the Dragonkind. Tux’tarax spoke an exotic dialect of Dragonish, if she understood the context-indicators and shades of his speech correctly; thus, he must also instantly identify her as a foreigner. Would these Dragons side with Thoralian and his ilk? They had not the first notion of Herimor’s political situation. Could they turn the act of succouring a feral Dragon to their advantage?

Ri’arion’s presence enfolded her in strength as the Azure Dragoness sideslipped slightly away from Tux’tarax, a draconic politeness. His orientation bespoke calm. Her Dragon-sight read the indicators with preternatural speed–checking the set of his muscles, the slight smile revealing his fangs, the sheathed talons, the speed of his breathing and the dull rumbling of his belly-fires. This Dragon worked to calm himself from full battle-readiness, and was manifestly delighted to see his mate.

Suk’itarix, the fragrant smoke of my soul, he bugled powerfully, making the Azure’s wings twitch. I am hale once more.

Tux’tarax, mine unshakable right paw, she sang back. Flying at once to her mate, the Green exchanged swift wingtip-touches and a fond nip that clashed against his right shoulder. Mine fires sing an ode of Dragonsong–for roost-less we might be, but none the poorer for each other’s company. Who are these you attacked, mine third heart?

Many fire-eyes turned upon Zuziana and Ri’arion as Tux’tarax said, This noble Dragoness and her Rider succoured me from my feral battle-state, but I know them not. Shall we become acquainted?

Suk’itarix added, The fruit of our hunt is yet unplucked, yet we would share fresh kill with thee, strangers, for my mate’s sake. But first, tell us–who are you for? And how came you to the Northern Kahilate?

Zuziana consulted Ri’arion, but neither of them could deduce from the Dragoness’ manner what an honest reply might gain them–friend or foe?

Finally, Zip said, We seek a Marshal of old called Thoralian. We heard he travelled from the North.

As one, the Dragonwing stiffened. Fires rose to battle-pitch. The Azure back-winged to keep a few Dragon-lengths between her and the encircling Dragonwing.

Wait! cried Tux’tarax, flapping hard to position himself protectively in front of the Remoyan Dragoness. There is no glamour about this fledgling.

The Green snarled, Or, her protections are so perfect, we cannot detect her glamour.

Ri’arion meantime fed Zuziana a highly compressed account of his reading the Dragons. Each mind was protected with ward-like magic he concluded must be the mysterious Herimor ‘glamour’, which he pictured as a shifting multi-layered set of veils like silk blown in a breeze. They had seen her chestnut locks and thereby knew she was no denizen of the Kahilate, for Humans and Shifters had tight black curls. Long hair provoked their minds to taboo-shades, which neither of them understood. Would they trust Zuziana at all? When he penetrated one of the weaker Dragon-minds, but for a millisecond, the monk saw they had been in a battle with a Dragonwing perhaps sent by Thoralian. Good.

Their mental conversation was so rapid, the Grey-Green was still busy interrupting his mate when Zip and Ri’arion reached their conclusion.

Not even a breath of glamour-magic? snarled Tux’tarax.

At the same time, a grizzled female in the Dragonwing snarled, But the Human’s unusual psychic probe has penetrated our thoughts. See? He’s the true danger.

At this, the Azure Dragoness’ belly-fires roiled thunderously. Was she always to be the little one, discounted, unremarked amongst her more illustrious peers? She snapped, The truth? We’ve no love for Thoralian! Oath-bound, we have journeyed from afar to seek his demise. I am Zuziana of Remoy and my companion’s name is Ri’arion.

While many of the Dragonwing raised growls and bugles of approval, the Green eyed them with palpable fury. REMOY?

Remoy, Zuziana repeated. White-fires truth, Dragoness.

I know my histories, even if you do not, little one, the Green snapped, all acid in keeping with her colour.

The Azure lifted her muzzle, riled beyond any possible politeness. Then accuse me of a lie, Suk’itarix. Did you not see my hair? Where in Herimor would you say I hail from, according to your extensive knowledge of the histories?

You crossed the Rift? The Azure ducked as acid spit sprayed out of the Green’s mouth, but Suk’itarix was not apparently aiming at her. Thoralian–

Crossed from the North, three to four weeks ago. We hunt him, said Ri’arion, as bluntly as his Dragoness. If you would like, we will open our memories to you to prove our heritage. I am a native of Fra’anior Cluster, once their Nameless Man. Now I am Zuziana’s Dragon Rider and … roost-mate. Ri’arion reddened as he found no equivalent in Dragonish for ‘husband’. Very recently, we … uh, well. And–he pulled himself back from a clear case of distraction–we defeated Thoralian and his forces in battle, but he escaped South across the Rift.

As he spoke, the Grey-Greens of the Dragonwing exchanged disconcerted exclamations and glances, but Zuziana also observed a certain lack of surprise in their manner. They knew Thoralian. They hated him. But what was this telepathic whispering among these draconic behemoths? Most were four times her size; the older Grey-Green who had detected Ri’arion’s mental probing, she estimated at a perfectly colossal hundred and fifty feet from muzzle to tail. A Lesser Dragon of greater stature, Zip had never seen. Her thighs were comfortably thicker than the entire girth of the Azure’s torso.

The Princess of Remoy said, It is worse than you might think, for we believe–

Worse than the Thoralians reunited? snarled Suk’itarix, spitting more acid.

Ri’arion voiced a startled expletive.

Thoralian–uh, what the plural hells? gasped Zip, fluttering her wings as she inadvertently stalled. Her breath rasped in her throat like Aranya’s poor impaired lungs, but Ri’arion steadied her with a warm mental hug.

Easy, petal, he soothed.

I believe you may have just proven an old legend of Herimor, the elderly Grey-Green stated. Addressing Suk’itarix, she added, Tari, my shell-daughter, the brave Shapeshifter fledgling speaks only white-fires truth. Let us act accordingly.

Haste. We should speak out of sight, hissed the Green, approaching the Azure precipitately. Her eye-orbs flared orange-yellow, indicating alert interest. A Dragonwing of Thoralian’s command hunts the remnants of our wing-brothers and sisters, for we hid our young before the battle. If you bring information, we shall return every favour fire for fire. Allies?

Zuziana regarded the Green’s forward-swept wingtip with a spontaneous burble of delight. Dragon-direct! One thing about the Dragonkind–while they loved subtlety and nuance, when it came to action, they did not wait for rainbows to form over Islands.

Aye, whispered Ri’arion.

The Azure Dragoness touched wingtips with a pert flick. Allies, for the price of a story.

* * * *

Ardan’s new world was perfumed perversity.

He had never imagined himself a prudish man, but what he saw enacted in the halls and bedchambers of Tixi’s harem–a sophisticated brothel–stretched his forbearance beyond any sane or conceivable limit. The consorts, male and female, made him welcome by sneaking in quick kisses when he least expected them, even when he was asleep, to trigger the House wards. Hazing, he could handle. Their antics with each other, he could not. They turned his stomach.

Any and every act of disobedience was penalised by the Curator or her two assistants, with levels of pain he could not believe. The Lavanias collar ensnared him like a noose secured around the font of his life, squeezing, repressing and moulding in ways he loathed. The promised interrogation from Marshal Tixi did not materialise, for she immediately flew off to war once more, but his ‘breaking in’ to harem life was more than enough degradation for a Western Isles warrior. Even his assigned outfit seemed a calculated provocation–how Aranya would have blushed at the sight of him wearing skin-tight, diamond-encrusted burgundy briefs. Or, she would have jilted him faster than the shot of a crossbow quarrel!

The consorts bathed in the cool interior pools four times a day, at dawn, noon, mid-afternoon and evening, which was a blessing given the stultifying heat. The balance of the day was divided between mandatory exercise, eating a strict diet of fruit, vegetables and lean cuts of meat Ardan did not recognise, and indolence. Endless hours of indolence for the consorts to torment him, the relentless heat to drain his energy, and Ardan’s mind to turn over the problem of Aranya over and over until he wanted to scream at his ill fortune. He spent the cooler morning hours in the garden chatting to Sapphire and teaching her Island Standard, such as was spoken in the Western Isles, until the dragonet’s cutesy-baby voice started to take on a blunt, flat accent in keeping with his heritage. They chuckled over this together.

Oddly, if Sapphire touched his collar, there was no effect. She spent hours trying to pick it apart with her talons as he rested out of the afternoon heat, sweating and cursing his inescapable fate. In the evenings he returned to the garden to watch the flotilla of Islands endlessly following its quadrennial course according to a Blue Moon cycle. Essentially the rooftop of Tixi’s fortress, the outside garden stood atop the Isle upon a small but fertile butte, divided from the rest of the Island by a three-foot wall. No more was needed, for the wall demarcated the line where the House wards took effect–thus, a barless cage held him. He could gaze longingly at the ragion-floated Islands and boulders slowly wheeling through the sky and on all sides, and dream of flying away.

The Islands never bumped into each other. The ragions apparently exerted a mass-effect that made this impossible. What if a storm came, he wondered?

On his seventh day in the harem, Ardan woke to find two pre-adolescent boys sharing his bed.

Yelling incoherently, he charged up the circular stairway to the gardens, sprinted for the wall and dived headlong over it.

BLAM!

Ardan woke with an Island-splitting headache, back in his bed. One of the boys adjusted a cool towel on his forehead, the other was patiently stitching a four-inch, bone-deep cut on the warrior’s left elbow with a fine needle and gut thread, his slim fingers working dextrously at the task.

“We didn’t mean to cause no trouble,” said the first boy, changing the cloth on Ardan’s brow. He was short and chunky, with a softness about his frame that Ardan had learned some of the men–perverts, one and all–prized.

“You’re jumpy,” said the other, tightening a stitch.

Ardan scowled at them through the lights playing havoc with his vision. “Get out.”

“I’m Bane,” said the first boy. “Lurax here thinks–”

“Get the hells out of my room!”

“Strike my soul, you’re scary, warrior-Dragon,” said Lurax, blinking his long, curling eyelashes as he made a strange flicking gesture with the fingers of his left hand. With high, slanted cheekbones and wide, soulful eyes, Ardan knew he had been chosen for his looks–the curse of a pretty face. “Blessed be, you’ve a dragonet.”

“Lucky, aren’t I?” said Ardan. His neck hurt as though a Dragon had taken care to rearrange the bones into an artistic sculpture. He could not even raise his head off the hard pallet, which rather left him at the mercy of Bane and Lurax.

Lurax asked shyly, “Are you a Granite Dragon? A Shapeshifter?”

“Not Granite,” said Ardan, wondering what a Granite Dragon was. “My power is Shadow.”

Bane chipped in, “You’re not like the other men. You treat us nice.”

“Like we matter,” the other boy whispered.

Suddenly, Lurax’s beautiful eyes brimmed with moisture and Ardan’s heart channelled molten fury. Curse it! He should have kicked them out faster. He felt the collar reacting, cooling against his skin as the magic responded to the core of fire within him. Somehow, the circlet’s magic sensed his Dragon’s subdued presence. Mercy! The Lavanias collar did not break a Shapeshifter’s soul–it only changed his ability to manifest or to use his magic. It could be resisted! Hope! Sweet hope pitched its tent within his heart.

Ardan squeezed his eyes shut, but felt tears leaking out anyways.

Prick, prick went the needle. Thud, thud, beat his heart. He groaned, “Alright. What the hells do you kids want?”

“Not what you think,” Bane stated.

Bane was always very definite with his opinions. He growled, “Oh? What should I think, finding you two in my bed?”

“We seen you walking these halls like you want to be blindfolded,” Bane said doggedly. “They say you’re a Dragon and a warrior; you’re restless, like a wild bird, caged. What’s it like being a warrior? You strong. They’ve hazed you like nothing else and you never react, never beat up the women, never talk less than polite-like to the Curator.” He shivered. “You don’t use us kids. We seen your eyes, warrior-man. Lurax’s right. You’re scary.”

“Good-scary,” said Lurax, bending his dark head over the task once more. He was almost as dark as Ardan himself … he jumped as the needle pierced his skin once more. “We’re sorry you gone feral like a Dragon on our account.”

“I need my personal space,” Ardan growled.

“Space? You call this your space?” asked Bane, suddenly transformed into the wisest nine year-old who had ever lived. “You ever belonged to another, bone and blood, warrior-man?”

“Aye. Twice, if you count this period of slavery; thrice, including love,” Ardan replied gruffly. What business was it of theirs? They were only boys–harem boys. Who was he to judge? Easing up on the tetchiness, he said, “Tell me what you want, please. Be honest.”

“We’ll keep off your pallet and you’ll keep off ours,” Bane said. “You teach us how to be warriors. Real warriors.”

Ardan hated having his mind read so accurately, but he had to admit his behaviour had been more than revealing. He must be smarter, not angrier. Did he smell opportunity? “Very well,” he said. “I’ll need you to go into battle for me, though.”

“Battle?” they chorused.

“Aye. Help me petition the Curator to grant me access to the library–”

“After today?” Bane snorted. “You mad, warrior-man?”

“Aye.” He grinned fiercely at the boys. “A warrior never gives up. I need knowledge. A wise warrior never stops training, and he uses his brain–unlike what I showed you today. If you’re willing to give your all, I’ll train you as best I know how. We might not have weapons, but we can make use of what we find here in the harem. Deal?”

The boys glanced at each other. To Ardan’s surprise, it was shy Lurax who replied, “Only if you promise us something else, warrior-man.”

“What?”

“Promise us that when you escape, you’ll take us with you.”

Ardan gave them his fiercest, most searching gaze, “You sure? Out there, there are worse dangers than the Curator.”

A voice from the doorway said, “Aye, so there are. Marshal Tixi is back. She wants to see you, Dragon.” The Curator laughed horribly. “I’m sure she’ll be pleased to hear you’ve been playing with the boys. Up, nameless man. This is the Marshal’s hour.”

Talons of ice sank into his neck.

* * * *

Barely had Zuziana touched wingtips with the Green Dragoness, when Ri’arion hissed, Dragons incoming! Can’t see them, but I sense–

You sense glamour? snapped Tari the Green.

There! Dragon fire! cried several of the Dragonwing. Our younglings!

With me! Tari bellowed.

In a mad scramble, the Dragonwing accelerated away. Zip belatedly trailed them. With the benefit of Ri’arion’s special perception, she saw cohorts of Dragons hunting among the floating Islands. Forty Dragons broke through a mile-wide series of waterfalls to the North. Another Dragonwing came in high, also forty beasts strong. Still more Dragons, upward of a hundred, the monk estimated rapidly, approached in a wide, sweeping arc from the East. Each Dragonwing had a Red leader. Not good. They were outnumbered six to one. Perhaps more.

Tari’s command jinked rapidly between the floating Islands, sprinting for the point where they had spotted the unmistakable orange spurts of Dragon fire. The Green leader marshalled her force with the ease and urgency of long command, pointing out the forces attacking the cavern where they had left the fledglings, hatchlings and egg-clutches under guard. Where she indicated, Zip saw Jagok lizards, squat, powerful subdraconic beasts with armour tough enough to survive a direct blast of Dragon fire, and Heripedes, the centipede-like creatures which were Thoralian’s preferred weapon for penetrating cave-systems. Vicious carnivores with a particular fondness for Dragon eggs, they grew up to twenty-five feet in length and sported highly noxious paralytic or necrotic bites, depending on their subspecies. Charming, Ri’arion muttered.

This was all the briefing they had time for. The cavern-mouth was a mad scramble of beastly madness as Dragon tore into Dragon and dozens of Heripedes made merry. Zip saw nine Jagok lizards–the six-legged violet nasties down there–tearing into an adult Dragoness’ abdomen as she blocked the cavern entrance with her bulk. The Heripedes poured over her like torrents of molten metal, their flexible segments allowing them ease of movement over almost any terrain, including Dragon scales.

There’s a gap above her, Zip pulsed to the monk. Heripedes inside already.

Do it, Ri’arion approved.

ATTACK! The Azure Dragoness launched herself into a wing-straining sprint, using the shaped aerodynamic shielding they had perfected beneath the Clouds to help adjust her path between the Islands into screamingly tight turns and powerful acceleration. She easily outstripped the startled Dragons of Tari’s command.

Ri’arion melded neatly with her mind. They pinpointed the narrowness of the cave entrance. He took four running steps over her shoulder and leaped into her upraised paw as Zuziana approached the narrow but tall cave-mouth. Leaving the battle in the gully leading to the cave for the other Dragons to deal with, Zip tucked in her wings and half-rolled to whip through the remaining space above the Dragoness, taking four Heripedes with her on the nose of her shaped shield. She body-slammed them into the side-wall with a borrowed flick of monk-mind power before Dragoness and Rider burst into the main cavern, a long, sandy space surmounted by many stalactites and downward-hanging crystalline formations.

The Azure had eyes only for the scrimmage on the cavern floor. Fledglings wrestling with Heripedes. Tiny hatchlings mewling in pain. Four adult Dragons brawling near the entrance. Jewel-like Dragon eggs cracked open, their egglings spilled out and partly eaten …

Thinking to see crimson, Zuziana found her vision sheeting white-blue. Her breast stung as though she had swallowed a bushel of spears. Even as she obeyed Ri’arion’s instinct to fling him at one of the enemy adult males, her Blue Dragon power surged so violently out of her throat, Zip thought at first she had turned her stomach inside-out. Lightning coursed out of her throat in a single, endless blast, dividing at the speed of thought as each jagged branch unerringly picked out Heripedes and Jagok lizards and fried them in their own juices.

GRRRAAARRRGH! thundered the petite Remoyan Dragoness.

Spitting and sparking with power, the Azure became her own storm as Ri’arion dealt with a Grey-Green Dragoness and three Jagok lizards in double-quick time, his massive blade spinning and winking back the radiance of her lightning-strikes. Then the monk fell to levitating lizards and Heripedes in her direction, pitching them low and hard as if for catching practice. Zuziana’s Dragon-laugher belled over the fray, still notably soprano compared to the lower register of bigger Dragons, but no less appalling. She realised belatedly that Ri’arion had used their magical shield in a new way to magnify the punitive power of his blade; it sliced cleanly through Dragon scale armour and hacked chitinous chunks out of Heripedes at considerable magical cost, but great efficiency.

He expected a short battle, but her mind was still on the hunting Dragonwings.

With a united roar, Tari the Green’s Dragonwing descended without, snapping and snarling and blasting. Waves of suffocating heat rolled into the cavern. Ri’arion sprinted between the hatchlings, moving as fast as the Dragons themselves, tangling with three half-Heripedes as their mandibles continued to champ at victims despite lacking significant portions of their bodies.

The two defending Grey-Greens finished the last Dragon attacker inside the cave. They turned simultaneously to watch Ri’arion casting himself into Zip’s paw. He levitated three of the remaining Heripedes; Zip sautéed them with psychically-enhanced spears of lightning.

The Azure shook her muzzle violently. Cooked enemy didn’t smell half bad to a battle-maddened Dragoness.

What? gasped the defending Dragons, apparently twins. Who are you?

Enemy Dragonwings incoming, snarled Zuziana. Gather the hatchlings and eggs. Help me move the Dragoness at the entrance.

General Zuziana, Ri’arion teased as she fell to organising Dragons who were not hers to command. They obeyed with alacrity, perhaps recognising her authority or responding because she was a powerful Shapeshifter, he thought to her.

Shut the yapping and help! she shot back, all blaze and brimstone.

The monk decamped in a heartbeat, running amongst the clusters of eggs and bidding the living and able fledglings and hatchlings to take the undamaged eggs in paw. Zuziana meantime directed the bigger Dragons to help move the critically injured Dragoness, who had given her life to protect the eggs and younglings; bellows and gouts of fire still resounded sporadically outside near the cavern, but Tari alighted, her fire-eyes raging crimson at the carnage within the cavern.

Too many, she muttered. Thoralian’s Dragonwings will shred us if we try to escape with so many young and injured. I have failed … but we must try, or we are no Dragonkind.

I can see you safe, said the Azure Dragoness.

Suk’itarix the Green snarled furiously, How can I trust a Dragoness I met but a half-hour ago?

I am Brityx, said her shell-mother, her bulk obscuring the suns. I say her fires burn white. What is this idea, little one?

Zip grinned fiercely. I propose to snaffle you away below the Cloudlands, in the mouth of a Land Dragoness.

Chapter 20: Defiance

AFTER HIS FIRST interview with the Marshal, four servants dumped Ardan inside the harem’s doorway. The proud warrior of Ur-Naphtha tried to arrest his slide against a wall, but fell against an ornamental plinth. A priceless golden vase by a Fendoon Master toppled. “No!”

Lurax caught the vase, averting disaster. “It were bad?”

Ardan spat blood. “Piece of sweetbread.”

“Bane. Bane!” called the boy.

Shizina and four other small, dark women emerged from a nearby chamber to ogle at the source of the commotion, but they turned at once and disappeared, giggling–as usual. He tried not to blush. Shizina had loudly proclaimed her opinion of the contents of his briefs the previous evening, during dinner, and exactly what she would like to do with a muscled warrior. Grr. He was admittedly a head taller than any of these Herimor men or women, and probably twice their body weight, but that exacting commentary on all of his dimensions made him squirm like a rat trapped in a python’s grasp.

“I’ll walk,” said Ardan.

Lurax helped him stand; it took three tries just to find his feet. Ardan wobbled a few steps before Bane ran up and shoved his shoulder beneath the Western Isles warrior’s left armpit, saying, “Being a warrior mean acting more stubborn than a hunk of week-old flatbread?”

“Aye. Crust like granite.”

“Mistress didn’t like your answers?”

Ardan laughed painfully. “I think it was when I said I’d rather pillow-roll with a scabby windroc’s regurgitated breakfast–”

“Pillow-roll?” puzzled Lurax.

Bane translated, “Shim-shamming, like you refused us last time. That what you mean?”

“I don’t–curse it, I’d rather slit my own throat than do that with children!”

His horror only made the boys look downcast. In silence, they helped him to his pallet, where Ardan collapsed. Bane brought water to wash his blood-gummed mouth; Lurax fetched a cup of spiced hoosik-milk yoghurt from the cold store. Ardan had the impression a hoosik was some kind of hexapede related to the common goat. He swilled water and allowed the tart yoghurt to cool his throat.

Finally, he said, “I’m Ardan of Naphtha Cluster.”

The boys clasped forearms with him, although they clearly did not know what the gesture meant. Herimor culture–at least in the harem–appeared to major on different kisses upon the cheek, ears or shoulders, which was rather unfortunate, since even a casual kiss triggered his wards.

Tixi had found out his name, but only that much. She had demonstrated, at length and in sadistic detail, the ways in which the Lavanias collar could be used to torture a Shapeshifter Dragon.

More gently, Ardan said, “Mostly, in this Island-World, children are allowed to be children. At least, they should be. The stronger should protect the weaker, not take advantage. In my culture what passes in this harem would be beyond taboo. It’s unthinkable. What happened to you, Bane? Lurax? How did you enter the Marshal’s service?”

Bane said, “I was the spoils of war. Started here when I was five.” He laughed bitterly, Islands away in his memories. “I thought I was meant to sing nicely for the Marshal’s guests. Fool I was.”

Lurax added in his sweet, piping voice, “My family were in debt to a landowner. One day, a trader came by. He said, ‘A pretty price for a pretty boy.’ Took me to the back room to … to check the goods. My father told me not to cry. But I cried a lot … ’cause … and my father were ashamed. He beat me for making the trader drop his price.”

“I guess your body get used to it,” Bane reflected.

“Your soul don’t,” Lurax put in, rubbing his eyes fiercely with his knuckles. “Tears? As Bane says, tears are for fools.”

“You think boys like us got souls, warrior-man? After what we done?” Again, Ardan squirmed at the knowing sneer in Bane’s voice, an old man speaking from a child’s mouth. “In this House, we’re nought but toys and baubles. We sold to the spirits of volcanoes, man. We’ll burn forever.”

Ardan looked from Bane, all bitterness and fire, to the haunted depths of Lurax’s eyes, and he wondered what he would not do to rescue such as these.

“Take my hands,” Ardan said, reaching toward them. The boys flinched in concert. “See? You’re afraid I’ll drag you down right now. I can say what I like, right? Promise you the five Moons, and you still wouldn’t trust me after what you’ve been through. Never mind I couldn’t rise off my pallet lest you tied my nostril hairs to a passing meteorite.”

Silence trembled between them.

With a snort of laughter that sounded agonised, Bane touched Ardan’s hand with his. He seemed ready to bolt. After a moment, Lurax did the same.

Gazing at their linked hands, Ardan said, “We all have souls, but none of us is perfect. I wish I could teach you that there are different kinds of touch to what you have experienced, and regard that respects a person, even soul-deep. People can love each other without it being about shim-shamming, or abuse. Touch can be precious, true-fires loving and affirming. I know you don’t see that now, Bane, or you, Lurax, but you can learn another way. We can all learn. Dragons say it with different words, but they mean the same. Their young are precious, never to be ill-treated or molested.”

A flash of deep blue scales announced Sapphire’s arrival in his small chamber, barely large enough for a sleeping pallet and a rickety commode. Without pause, she curved down to land neatly beside Ardan, and laid her muzzle upon his chest with a contented sigh. Her eyes shuttered.

What did the dragonet mean by this? The boys were intrigued …

“Love is meant to be true-fires,” Ardan continued, finally, more intent upon impressing his views on his own heart than upon listening ears. “It nurtures and ennobles the spirit. As I said, we all fail to love rightly. But the point is …” Aranya’s smile, her sorrow, her futile horror played through his memory. Ardan whispered, “I will tell you how I have failed. The point is, when we set ourselves heart, soul and sinew to love, we become more. That is life’s greatest and worthiest labour.”

* * * *

I need ten volunteers to fly interference, snarled Tari. The rest, line up with me. Smaller hatchlings? Find yourself an adult partner. Fledglings, you will fly in compact formation. I don’t want heroes, I want you watching each other’s hides. Azure?

Aye, Marshal? said Zip, flaring her wings in surprise.

Lead out.

I’m … honoured.

Her expression said, ‘Shut the trap and fly,’ but the Green Dragoness inclined a wingtip. Then summon us unto battle, o lightning from clear skies!

Zip bellowed, Dragons, let’s burn the deeps!

She beat her wings with rapid quarter-strokes, launching out of the narrow gully. At once the Dragons following the Azure raised a great windstorm of wingbeats, rising into the air as they formed up around the fledglings. Those carrying hatchlings and eggs flew lower in the formation, as the traditional angle of Dragon attack was to dive from a height.

The compact Dragonwing broke out of cover from the side of the floating Island, diving in a low, shallow arc almost directly southward to give the illusion of fleeing for the next archipelago. Meantime, ten Dragons drove skyward to engage the Dragons wheeling above. The massive Dragonwing stalking from the suns-rise side reoriented immediately, keeping the jaws of their trap tight. Meantime, Ri’arion wasted no time, instructing the Grey-Green Dragons capable of shielding in the arts of filtering poisons. They would have to do their utmost until they reached the safety of Leandrial’s powerful shield.

Only one issue. Zip did not know where the Land Dragoness was. By shielded telepathy, she cried, Leandrial! We need you!

The ochre Cloudlands remained silent.

One hundred and eighty pursuing Dragons did not. The voice of their fury and battle-lust was as thunder shaking the Islands. Ignoring the frantic drumbeat of her Dragon-hearts, Zuziana slowed a little so that she did not pull too far ahead of her more heavily-laden charges.

She yelled with her utmost mental strength, LEANDRIAL!

Ri’arion did not even blink.

Discouraged, the Azure scanned the soon-to-be battlefield rapidly. Those Dragons were too close. Dragon-fire flared in the upper corner of her vision. Zip held course, weaving between the verdant Islands as Thoralian’s Dragonwings belled out their challenges. Grey-Greens lurched as an airstream buffeted them, but Tari’s command held true, flying three or four abreast as they poured between the Islands floating five miles above the Cloudlands like a dark, scaly river. There was no bad weather to provide cover. For the first time, Zuziana appreciated what it meant to be hunted by Dragons. Where could one hide? By all accounts, the Yellow-White Marshal had dispatched his Dragonwings far and wide in the preceding months, hunting … what? A wing-brother? Sign of pursuit from the North? The First Egg itself? Whatever the case, Thoralian’s forces had thrown the entire Northern Kahilate area, the surrounding Vassal States and most of the Southern Kahilate into chaos.

The executions of Humans, Dragons and Shapeshifters already numbered in the tens of thousands, Tari had informed them.

The encircling Dragons were less than half a mile distant. The small covering Dragonwing raced westward, trying to outrun four times their number of fire-belching Dragon-warriors.

She steadied a wingtip. Ready … dive!

Every Dragon in the command tossed their tails up and their muzzles down, and pumped their wings.

Dragonkind plummeted like rain between the great ruddy Island cliffs. Vegetation flashed by. Vines. Burrowing Dragons. Legion greyish ragions holding entire Islands aloft in their limpet-like paws. The Azure Dragoness risked a sideways glance. The chasing Dragons belatedly gave chase–would the gap be large enough? The Grey-Green Dragons surged, taking huge, sweeping strokes of their wings as they evidently realised the sprint was on. They were not quite fast enough, Ri’arion judged within her mind. The slower fledglings would be caught.

Wheeling, Zip said. Azure flashed beneath an Island, so close that she smelled the musty scent of the ragions. Her wingtips brushed their backs.

Stay the course! the monk cried to Tari, his hands clawed as he rose to his feet upon Zip’s back. My magic is ready. Steady, girl. Let’s wake these lizards to a volcanic Fra’aniorian morning!

Multiple billows of Dragon fire greeted the Azure Dragoness as she speared out of cover, one Dragoness assaulting thirty. Ri’arion muttered away like a demented man talking to his invisible friend, making sweeping motions of his hands.

Sensing the power coalescing around them, Zip hissed, Brace for backlash …

Oh, manky windrocs that won’t–I’ve a better idea, the monk chuckled unexpectedly. Watch this.

Sweeping up hundreds of ragions with the shaped shield he had intended to thrust at the incoming Dragonwing, Ri’arion set about firing the bulbous subdraconic creatures across the divide five at a time, then in tens as he found his rhythm, crying, Stick, my beauties! Stick!

The Azure goggled as the ragions, clearly confused by Ri’arion’s overriding mental command, frantically clasped whatever they could catch with their multitude of small, hook-like talons–wings, scales, toes, it did not seem to matter. They stuck like the finest glue–apparently, some subspecies boasted sizeable suckers on their bellies as well as talons, ensuring that they never fell off an Island once attached. The startled, be-suckered Grey-Greens swerved and bellowed and tangled with each other, raising a comical chorus of complaint–Zip occupied herself, however, with repaying lightning-strikes for fireballs with a quintet of enemy Dragons who managed to avoid the irate snarl. Several Dragons, swamped in ragions, floated helplessly up past the Islands, tearing off their own scales in an attempt to loosen the pests.

Zuziana cooed, Creative as well as handsome? What a man!

Her kind of man very nearly lost his head as an unseen Dragon ambushed them from below, driving the smaller Azure against the flank of a small Island. Wing-struts snapped; Ri’arion cursed, holding the Dragon at bay with a swipe of his sword aimed at the searching muzzle. Zip skittered away, running upside-down over the bubbly ragions’ backs before throwing herself into a sweeping backward dive. Furious Dragons roared port and starboard as her abrupt manoeuvre whipped her out from beneath their noses, causing a decent collision between several hundred tonnes of indignant Dragonflesh.

Slobs. Your mothers whelped dim-witted boulders, sneered her Dragoness as the Azure gave them the slip.

Wow, said the Human within. We need to work on our insults, Dragoness.

Freaking Ancient Dragons, this was the time to learn to talk to herself? Zuziana furled her wings and let her superior aerodynamic shape sweep her away from the conflict, meantime panting hard to replenish her oxygen. The hard part lay just ahead.

LEANDRIAL!!

A faraway bellow shook her from tail to wingtips. White flared, together with a gorgeous yet deadly crescendo of Harmonic magic, only Leandrial had somehow contrived to modulate her attack to perfectly wash past the fleeing Azure Dragoness. Crazy. Ragions evaporated. Islands exploded. Boulders and entire chunks of Island came spinning out of the boiling black smoke overhead.

Suk’itarix rallied her Dragons with a fierce cry. Our ally! Be strong, my kin!

Leandrial surged out of the Cloudlands ten miles distant as though she were a freshwater trout leaping for a tasty fly.

Two fledglings bolted and were snaffled up by Thoralian’s Dragons, those neither caught up by the wash nor fleeing the flying debris. The rest drew in tighter, faithfully chasing the Green and her Dragonwing down into the Cloudlands. Fireballs vanished in the murk as the dank clouds closed overhead, and the Lesser Dragons hurtled down into a realm none of them had ever seen, bar Zuziana.

Yet as she descended, she heard one of the Dragons cry out in a harsh, guttural language, Chase them, my kin. Destroy!

Dark, chittering magic surged against her mind, carrying echoes of the Rift-Storm. Ri’arion shouted angrily as their shields guttered; only a massive rallying effort prevented wholesale collapse. He kept their Dragonwing on song with a steely touch of his mind, drawing the command close, warning against predators. Yet Zip was searching ahead with her senses, hearing an echo of urzul from somewhere faraway, below. Mercy. What did Western Islanders say–meat fallen from the spit-roast into the flames was best eaten charred?

They broke into the upper layers to the awesome sight of Leandrial’s paws churning toward them and many huge, shadowy bodies closing in from the South.

The Land Dragoness’ mouth yawned hugely. In here. Quick!

Fra’anior’s teeth, what are those? Ri’arion gritted out, before yelling at a Grey-Green, Hold that hatchling! This is Leandrial.

And those others? Tari snarled.

Theadurial-infested hunters, Leandrial thundered. Deep-Runners of enemy Clans. Now, are you with me?

Her mouth loomed over the Dragonwing, then gently drew shut as the Dragons made their landings on her tongue.

Leandrial declared, Now, I shall show these ugly flatfish that I am not for nought called a Welkin-Runner. The beat of her tail lashed them away, back toward the North and the safety of greater depth.

Zip’s relieved laughter startled more than a few of the Dragons. She said, Little ones, climb into the cheek-pockets for safety. There. Go there. Organise yourselves, Dragons, and place the eggs carefully. Those who are able, join Ri’arion in the shielding. For Leandrial alone, she added, Today, thou shalt succour eggs and younglings by thy mighty right paw, Leandrial. Thus, thou art mother to us all.

* * * *

Ardan’s defiance brought out the Dragoness in Tixi. The Marshal had thought to break him, but she had many other problems, for the war swept ever closer. He endured two more cruel torture-sessions with her before she left for the war, and the boys finally prevailed upon the Curator to allow Ardan access to the library on the third level below the harem living-quarters.

Often, he gazed to the far North, where Aranya had disappeared. How could star-life, or Dragon-life, be snuffed out so abruptly? Surely her fate was not thus circumscribed? The Amethyst Dragoness had always risen before. She possessed a talent for surviving the most improbable adversity, such as being chained to a rock and tossed off a league-tall cliff by that traitorous Jeradian who had dared to court her afterward. Blunder, o Princess. Especially since he was so unbiased in all matters pertaining to the Immadian beauty, and his own history … Ardan gritted his teeth. He believed her beauty would rise like the fabled dawn-star discussed in the ballad he was just reading.

To rise anew.

Ardan himself had risen from the flames of Naphtha Cluster. He still healed at Dragon speed. Whence emerged the strength of Shadow, if not from the Great Onyx himself?

If only Fra’anior would speak to set him free of this bondage.

His eyes flicked back to the scrolleaf. Arm thyself with knowledge, warrior. He must learn the history of Thoralian, but so far, the Curator chose to deny him access to the genealogies. How long since they had crossed the Rift? Three weeks?

Sapphire nosed the scroll, saying, “Hoo-lee.”

“What?”

A dagger-sharp claw rose to tap a precise spot on the text. “Hoo-lee,” said the dragonet, firmly.

The dawn-star rune! Cold sweat pearled Ardan’s brow.

* * * *

For eight days there was little time or energy for detailed discussion. They fled, hunted by the relentless pack of Deep-Runners. Leandrial wanted to break out of the Northern Kahilate through the Vassal States that pinched in along its south-western border Islands, to where she said the voices of Welkin-Runners had identified the rising of a ‘great power from the deep’. From the snippets and sounds of battle she had overheard from thousands of leagues away, Leandrial posited that the Shell Clan Land Dragons had laid siege to the S’gulzzi, seeking the First Egg, while the S’gulzzi employed the Egg’s magic to raise themselves up out of their habitual cracks on the floor of the Island-World, and strengthened their slaves, the Theadurial, for the fight. All-out war raged beneath the Vassal States and the Southern Kahilate, perhaps spreading as far afield as Garashoon, Indaroon with its famously red Fire-People, and The Immovables, an Island-Cluster which six centuries before had settled in a favourable location above the largest gold, diamond and meriatite mines in Herimor, and refused to budge ever since.

Just around the time of the Dragonfriend, Leandrial intoned with inflated draconic inscrutability.

Zip kicked Leandrial’s cheek, despite knowing that in her Human form she could not possibly do the slightest damage with such a gesture.

The Land Dragoness thereupon added that The Immovables were also called the ‘Inscrutables’ for their unique population of Lesser Dragons who excelled at the art of glamour. No living creature knew what the Immovable Dragons looked like, only that any army which had ever tried to invade, had been annihilated and sunk without a trace.

Perfect allies, Ri’arion suggested dryly.

The Princess kissed him until she deemed herself satisfied, leaving a gasping, red-faced, speechless monk in her wake. Ha. Who ruled his Islands?

Besides, she was addicted to mischief-making. Turn Leandrial into a living nursery? Marvellous! The Land Dragoness seemed quite tickled–literally and figuratively–to have seventeen eggs tucked into her cheek-pockets, and fourteen hatchlings playing wingtips-and-tumbling across the breadth of her tongue. They were awfully cute little fire-breathers, Zip agreed; only, some of the adults insisted on treating her as one of the fledglings. At least they were impressed with her scales, her inner Dragoness snorted fierily. And her battle technique. That had sealed her status in the group as just below massive Tari and her even more gargantuan shell-mother, Brityx.

Around Brityx, she was so overshadowed that Zip had an odd impression of being a toddler needing to hug the nearest knee.

Right now, Brityx cracked open an eye right behind Ri’arion and said, without preamble or warning, “Legend has it that Thoralian belonged to a line of powerful Eastern Shapeshifters, hailing from a little-known leeward quaternary pro-cyclical Island-system on a three-decade diurnal Blue-linked migratory pattern, called Sonax, which–”

“Uh … slow down,” said Zip, trying to sort out the little Herimor geography she knew, in her mind.

Leandrial showed her a mental map of the Northern Kahilate. Three-quarters of the way down on its far eastern flank, she drew a flat, intersecting oval with bright arrows. In comparison to the main territory, her demarcation was tiny. Here, little one. This is the basic orbital cycle of Sonax, as best it is understood. The Archipelago crosses into the Kahilate for two years, two months and five days of every thirty years, approximately. This is due to an additional semi-harmonic magical factor which causes the Islands to misbehave … she laughed brightly. Alright, Azure. Little wingflips for hatchlings.

Zip scowled sullenly at Leandrial’s cheek-wall, flicking her long chestnut locks out of her face. Thanks, mighty teacher.

Ri’arion said, “I love draconic detail, Brityx. Can we speak later?”

“Shapeshifters,” sniffed Brityx, clearly underwhelmed by Zip’s reaction, even though she appeared to have a fiery spot for the Azure Dragoness. “Briefly, the Sonaxite star began to wax brightly perhaps two hundred years ago under the leadership of a powerful old Marshal named Thoralian. But the Marshal was betrayed and mortally wounded in battle with his arch-enemy and shell-uncle, Goralian. In the simplified version of the legend, Thoralian returned to a secret clutch and breathed of his draconic fire-spirit into three eggs, each of which hatched a perfect replica of the original Thoralian.”

The huge Dragoness turned to regard her shell-daughter. “Any Dragon worth their wings will tell you Thoralian–be he one or three–was able to evade first deadly nursery battles, then multiple attempts at assassination and poisonings, then the combined ire of other Marshals living on the fringe of the Kahilate. He seemed untouchable. Perhaps six or seven times, entire Dragonwings saw the Yellow-White Dragon struck down and killed, only for Thoralian to reappear in another place, or to apparently fight two battles simultaneously. Unfortunately, the old Marshal ruthlessly destroyed any who knew him in his hatchling or fledgling years, and all records. The legends are fragmentary and confused at best. They say he’s invincible; that he sucks the fire-souls out of egglings–” she shuddered involuntarily “–and inserts his own in their place. So powerful is that spirit, that he reappears in exactly the same form, power and size just a pawful of years later.”

Zuziana squeezed her monk’s fingers. Mercy.

“Having conquered mighty territories over the course of fifty years, Thoralian’s greed waxed greatly regarding the First Egg,” Brityx continued. “It is said he schemed and connived and corrupted Land Dragons to his cause, masterminding the situation in which the traitor Shurgal first retrieved the Egg, then betrayed all of the Dragonkind by availing himself of the corruption of urzul. By unknown means–doubtless great draconic trickery–it was the unremarkable Marshal Re’akka who prevailed in the battle for the First Egg. Harnessing its powers, he devoured his enemies including the Thoralians, and fled across the Rift before any could follow.”

“We can tell you something of that tale,” said Ri’arion. “As best we know, the Pygmy Dragoness defeated Re’akka and his armies of corrupt Dragon Assassins, after they murdered ninety-nine percent of the Dragonkind North of the Rift, but she lost the Egg once more to Shurgal–”

“Cursed be his name for all eternity!” rumbled Leandrial.

“–and the Egg is now back in Herimor,” the monk summarised. “Somehow, we ended up with a Marshal Thoralian North of the Rift–”

“While one or more Thoralians endured and laid the groundwork here in Herimor,” snarled Suk’itarix. “The timing of his renewed rise to power over the last decades is otherwise impossible.”

The companions exchanged troubled glances in the gloomy interior of Leandrial’s mouth.

“Or, once our Thoralian returned, and reunited with his shell-brothers, they became stronger than ever before,” suggested Ri’arion. “Trebly strong. It is a mystery to me how a Dragon could pass on his spirit like that, spawning perfect copies of himself as he wishes.”

Leandrial said, “She who holds the Egg, holds power. We must recapture the First Egg before Thoralian does. He is clearly allied with the S’gulzzi–but why should they gift the Egg to him? What would it benefit their kind, apart from domination of all Dragonkind South of the Rift-Storm? It seems too mean an ambition for a Dragon of Thoralian’s foul ilk.”

“Immortality?” said Zip.

“Thoralian seems to have that conundrum firmly in paw,” the monk snapped bitterly. He massaged his temples, wincing. “Sorry, love. Need to detoxify.”

“How I wish I’d had access to your penetrating insights a hundred years ago, Suk’itarix,” sighed Leandrial. “I can shed fire upon this matter of Thoralian’s proliferation, however. There’s an ancient word in the annals of my people; I know not the Island Standard equivalent, but in Dragonish, we say daimon. It translates as ‘ravaging spirit’, or ‘spirit of darkness’–the exact converse of angel, which means ‘star spirit.’ In draconic lore, angel signifies the eternal light- or fire-spirit of the Dragonkind in a poetic or transcendental sense. A daimon is like the ravaging, unstoppable Nurguz of old–a daimonic spirit which was perhaps the very reason Fra’anior and his brethren fled our Island-World. Regardless, I propose that the Thoralians essentially consume or corrupt eggling-spirits as a vile form of procreation–accursed daimon-spawn!”

Of one accord, every Dragon listening shuddered, even the Land Dragoness.

Leandrial mused gloomily, “Still, I cannot penetrate the nature of his need for the First Egg.”

“It’s simple,” said Zip.

For once, she had the jump on her sharp-as-talons companions and she could not celebrate it. She wrapped her arms around her torso, shivering with a chill that settled deeper than her marrow. No, no, no …

“What? What, precious Remoy?” Ri’arion asked, drawing her against his hard-muscled chest.

“It’s an egg. Consider what’s inside. What would Thoralian most want to daimonize–if that’s the right word–if not the young of the Ancient Dragonkind?”

* * * *

Chained to a dungeon-like wall by manacles at wrist and ankle designed to contain a Shapeshifter’s Dragon-enhanced strength, Ardan faced Marshal Yar’nax’tix. Through bleeding lips, he said, “I am addicted to powerful women, just not to you.”

The Marshal reeked of glamour-magic. She had dressed up for the occasion–filmy silks, perfume, jewelled slippers, the whole seductive approach. The Lavanias collar compressed his mind like the business end of a blacksmith’s vice, promising him realms of endless ecstasy if he would only yield to her charms.

Thankfully, Ardan had learned a few of Ri’arion’s mind tricks. Not that she was a bad-looking woman. She was short, muscular and curvaceous, which the silks made amply clear. Tixi looked every inch the Shapeshifter Dragoness, with a magical spark in her arresting dark eyes, set off by high cheekbones and the longest hair he had yet seen in Herimor, two inches of black curls framing a cruel yet somehow alluring visage. Crudely put, he had placed a vascular restriction on that part of him which she hoped would salute her glamour-enhanced appeal, magnified many-fold by the collar’s power. He clung onto the ward controlling his physiological response, but concealed it behind thoughts of the scrolls contained in Gi’ishior’s library.

How did she achieve that amplifying effect? Did the collar feed off his innate magic?

Ardan allowed a smirk to touch his lips. “Well, this is getting us precisely nowhere, isn’t it, Marshal? Don’t take it personally.”

“I interviewed your boys,” she snarled maliciously.

“You hurt them?” he blurted out.

Tixi laughed mockingly. “No. Nor your dragonet, though I considered both avenues. But Lurax, with some encouragement at the tip of my Dragoness’ fore-talon–” she supplied a crude, universally abhorrent gesture “–told me everything.”

Ardan threw himself against the manacles, screaming every foul curse he knew.

The Marshal let him rage for a minute, before calling upon the House wards. Ardan’s body convulsed helplessly against the manacles as a sensation like a Dragon’s lightning attack jangled his nerves. His teeth smashed together and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. Even when she stopped, his body continued to spasm and twitch for over two minutes.

“I know about this Aranya, this Amethyst Dragoness you hold in such high regard,” sneered the Marshal. “I’m hunting her already. And when I find her …”

Spears of pain pierced his mind, followed by a rain of excruciating fire. His body streamed with sweat, which now steamed off his skin as the heat built beyond endurance.

“I’ll burn her like I’m burning you now. How’s this, Dragon. Feel like a volcano?”

GRRAAAARRRGGH!!

Dimly, faraway, he heard her say, “Yield, Dragon, before you break your own bones.”

Crimson washed his vision; tears as thick as blood; perhaps they were blood, squeezed from his bulging eyes as Ardan fought the pain. Every tendon in his body thrummed under the terrible, wracking impetus of the collar’s untrammelled command of his body and mind; every muscle tried to twist itself around its neighbour. Warmth leaked down his leg. Ardan had thought himself too strong, incapable of ever losing control of his bodily functions, but the agony drove rational thought from his mind, a wedge between body and soul. Tixi bore down even more heavily. He jerked against the manacles over and over, tearing his own skin. He was losing, losing the will to survive, to stand against …

Fra’anior …

His was the final cry of a despairing, broken soul.

Open the fonts of thy power, o shell-son of mine spirit.

I cannot. He must be raving; over the cliff-edge of sanity. Father-mine, I cannot stand … let me die … please.

A keening sound of many throats raised in grief washed his awareness. This maggot torments without reason. You must teach her to fear and respect a child of my spirit–SHA’ALDIOR!

Ardan’s world resounded with the violent roaring of many throats. With a scream of metal, he ripped the deeply-embedded manacles out of the wall. All was dark, leaping flames of fire. Marshal Tixi’s face became a rictus of effort as she plundered the House wards for the strength to keep him from transforming. The collar’s furnace-heart pain battled with the black fire within him. Something had to give. Ardan tore a leg free. Then he ripped down the wall as he started for Marshal Tixi.

SNUFF HIM! she cried, herself turning white as she gave the last of her strength to bolster the House’s ancient magic.

All went mercifully dark, and fireless.

Chapter 21: A Star Descended

ARANYA SMILED AT her shell-mother. Why am I not breathing?

Izariela’s expression had never seemed more inscrutably draconic. The White Dragoness shrugged, drawing her wings up. Though she had no need of physical flight, her spirit-form still mimicked the right actions. Time passes strangely in a Shapeshifter’s soul.

We’re … inside my soul?

In a manner of speaking. We commune. All else is extraneous, as you say. Even breathing.

O mystical mother! Aranya chuckled softly, Or, actually being alive? I’ve heard it’s not the worst state of being. Oh mercy, no …

Her mother’s state was the worst. Trapped between life and death. Aranya hung her head, but Izariela chucked her beneath the chin with a fond talon-touch. No–oh, please don’t look so woebegone, Aranyi. You didn’t mean it that way. You’re alive, petal. Take it from someone who knows the difference. I’ve missed you so. I remember you as just a little girl with a crazy-beautiful wealth of hair. Now, you’re a grown-up Dragoness and you’d take my breath away–if I were actually breathing.

Over Izariela’s musical chuckle, Aranya growled, I’m half-grown, and ugly.

She did not mean to sour their time together. Pain lanced into her breast as Aranya thought upon the years they had lost, the march of time to her seventeenth year; her mother entrapped in that almost-tomb behind the royal palace of Immadia.

Yet her mother’s wings enfolded her tenderly. I believe you will overcome, Aranya, if you’re even half the Shapeshifter Dragoness I think you are. Remember all I have taught you.

I–I don’t remember. Have we talked? How long have I been here, mother?

Not long enough, Izariela sighed mightily. Aye, we’ve spoken all this while. Suddenly, Aranya knew suspicion. Her mother sneaked soft-pawed around fate, around that always-hinted-at ability of Hualiama or Fra’anior or Izariela to speak across time and space, thereby threatening the march of destiny. What exactly had the White Dragoness done?

Aye? Aranya purred back.

Izariela’s eye-fires mellowed into pearlescent beauty. Good, you understand.

I don’t, but I’m almost as stubborn as you, mother.

I love it when you jut out your chin like that, petal. You always did that, even as a girl. Izariela’s gaze was melancholy; so fond and profound that Aranya could hardly bear to face it. You’ve evidently inherited a double portion of stubbornness, both maternal and paternal. How is my Beran?

He’s … good. He married again, Mom. I’m sorry.

He couldn’t have known.

None of us knew. Silha’s a sweet petal, but it’s not the same as … as my real mother. Aranya ran her eyes one more time over the Dragoness, memorising every detail of her slender form and her perfect white scales. I gather sullen teenage Shapeshifters can be more than a little feisty.

I’ll remind you of that one day when you’ve a beautiful brood of your own, Izariela chuckled. Now, it is time for a Star Dragoness to descend from the heavens. It has been four weeks, Aranyi.

Four? But, Thoralian–but I–mother! Four! How could you?

Affecting unconcern, Izariela said, Don’t tell your grandsire, alright?

Don’t tell? Aranya gasped. Fra’anior would strip all the scales off her with his bellowing. Oh, she was so in for a sevenfold roasting this time …

I will be with you, Aranyi. You must grasp that conviction in all your hearts! Fly strong and true, my treasure. She began to fade. Aranya pressed her close, her head pillowed on her mother’s shoulder. You must fly for me, Aranyi. Fly for one who cannot.

Mom. MOM!

Her head rested on air. As her scream faded, Aranya felt gravity reassert its usual place in the Universe. With a surprised gurgle, she began to fall.

Sideways.

* * * *

Tixi and her Dragons took a week to re-establish the House wards, struggling and failing to keep Ardan unconscious all that while. Unfortunately for them, he continued to heal at Dragon-speed. Great weals adorned his wrists where he had broken the allegedly unbreakable manacles, but his injuries were nothing. Lurax, having suffered the Marshal’s abominable interrogation, lay abed on the cusp of death. He was tougher than Ardan could have hoped for, but infection raged unchecked in his body–and who valued the life of a slave-boy?

He swore revenge on his Dragon’s soul-fires.

The Marshal had not interrogated him since, but he daily felt her hatred as a physical force.

Legs splayed, right palm firm upon the ground and the left clenched behind the small of his back, Ardan ground his way through the fiftieth consecutive one-handed press-up with his left arm. Not bad. Ever since he had turned into a Dragon, at some point prior to his escape from the Sylakian genocide at Naphtha Cluster, his physical strength had been growing. And if he was ever to escape this place–and the diamond-trimmed, ornamental briefs that constituted his allowable day-clothing–he would need to be in top form. As usual, a dozen or so of the harem’s inhabitants lazed in the shade or beneath richly ornamented umbrellas nearby. Even in the early evening, the day’s heat was formidable, like a Western Isles hot season shoved inside a bread-oven for additional roasting power. The male consorts sipped iced fruit juices, while the female consorts occasionally roused themselves to a sultry waggle in their scanty finery and lashings of jewels, and made moon-eyes at him over the tops of their fans.

Predictably, giggles followed as he switched hands and set to work on the right.

‘One, two, three for Aranya. Four, five, six for her love,’ he counted silently. ‘Seven, eight … may I be faithful, even in my mind … nine, ten–’

“Look. A shooting star,” said Shizina. “It’s … low.”

The note of alarm in her voice stopped Ardan in his tracks. He peered up past the indolent harem consorts, over the Island’s low, mounded green hills, to the skies beyond. Opaque skies. Storm. Where had those clouds suddenly appeared from, brooding and majestic in their serried ranks, like a dark army gathered to salute the pinpoint of brilliant light that hurtled from the storm’s heart? Curtains of sable swept aside to make obeisance to her, the star descending in the train of her majesty.

Mawkish fool. No way that was Aranya. It must be a meteorite … then why had his heart risen to strangle his throat? His pulse ran wild. He could not breathe. All his world was that star, and the hope it epitomised.

She blazed across the sky from the direction of the Rift. Low, as Shizina had said. Rocketing toward the Shadow Dragon as if expressly aimed at his inflamed forehead. Inanely, Ardan remembered Ri’arion explaining how if a shooting star came in at a shallow angle, it should either glance off the Island-World’s atmosphere like a river-stone skipped across the water, or burn up entirely. There was nothing about that approaching light that suggested a Dragoness, only the wild intuition of his heart. The rejoicing. The mad twitching of his toes.

Sapphire came to him, and he clutched the dragonet against his neck. Habit made him careful not to touch the Lavanias collar, but Sapphire could. He glanced at Bane. Rapt. And why ever not?

“It’s her,” he whispered to the dragonet.

“Ari?” squeaked Sapphire.

Immense speed. Eerie silence. The star drew a white streak across the sky, drawing closer at a velocity that beggared belief. Was it slowing? Trails of gossamer light seemed to hang off the star’s skirts, creating a shimmering silver-white veil that elongated before his astonished eyes.

As the apparition hurtled overhead, unknowable leagues above the Isle of his captivity, Ardan and everyone else watching, ducked reflexively and turned to watch it pass.

A high-pitched whistle followed, then the shockwave. KAABOOOMM!!

Pounded to his knees, he could not have heard a Dragon roar right in his earhole, but the Island swayed violently, knocking up against its neighbour as a tremor passed through the Archipelago. Rocks and ragions fluttered down into the Cloudlands, followed by fresh rivers as reservoirs within the dragonworm-honeycombed Islands cracked and spilled their contents. The shooting star vanished into the distance, below the horizon. Its echoes faded like choleric thunder, lingering far longer than the lustre of her presence.

Ardan found his feet. “Mercy. Was that you, Aranya?”

Then he saw a Red Shapeshifter Dragoness rising into the evening sky, her murderous gaze fixed upon him. He was deaf, but she had clearly overheard.

His brow drew down defiantly. Make of that what you wish, Marshal Tixi.

And tremble.

* * * *

Hold on, Star Dragoness. Keep your cool. Preserve your fires.

Strange, whispery voices surrounded her. Cajoling. Reassuring. Laughing in wild, stormy glissades of sound; caressing her scales with paws of wind.

Stay with us, Star Dragoness. Enjoying the ride?

Aranya tried to open her eyes, but immediately had to resort to squeezing her membranes shut and slitting her primary eyelids to combat the windstorm surrounding her. All was white. Gloriously white, in the way that starlight surpassed understanding, singing directly to her soul. Instinctively, she pressed up a tapered shield and was immediately rewarded by the sight of Islands swishing by. Whap. One Island. Whap, whap-whap. She blasted past them with outrageous abandon.

Another voice chimed in, Clouds are never rough, but she’s travelling too fast for one of her kind. Shake one of their hard little Islands, she will.

The Amethyst Dragoness gazed around her in wonder. Cloud-Dragons, she breathed. Are you–

Of course, sweet low-dweller, said one of the wispy clouds-with-wings, Dragons of the greatest heights are we, incarnate of the winds, blowing where we please. We call ourselves … how may we explain in your dialect? Perhaps, Wisp-Dragons. Wisps.

The Amethyst Dragoness had the barest impression of filmy wings, of insubstantial threads of draconic fire-life, incongruously, speaking to her with chiming clarity. They were as puffy as clouds, myriad lives sporting around her as she imagined Dragons might play together in a terrace lake, spinning and leaping and shooting through the waters. Their speech was as ephemeral as their chosen environment, like a high, tumultuous descant that added musical runs of notes to denote nuances of meaning she could only guess at. Nevertheless, she sensed that they intended to help her.

She began to say, Thank you …

Compress her velocity, my cloud-brethren, came a cry. Compress, shield, bring her down where the Star indicated. Shape her flight.

Aranya blew past many strange, floating Islands, seeing waterfalls tumbling into space off their edges and new forms of draconic life lurking in cave-mouths and lumbering Dragons transporting weapons and floating Human cities and once, on a rocky isthmus, a dark, upturned face–Ardan! She ripped past him so fast that she could not tell through the bright light, even with her Dragoness’ eyes, if it was truly him she had seen. All she saw was a group of Humans flattened in her wake and an angry-looking Red Dragoness, already a speck on the horizon.

She flashed past mountains, hurtling along a trajectory that would have been fatal had she so much as clipped a single peak, but she passed between them by a miracle of precision. Suddenly the Amethyst felt as if she had pitched headlong into a bale of cotton wool. Feathers. Wings brushing her face, bodies folding more softly than the down of the finest royal bed, all around her muzzle and wings, not hurting–assisting. Tearing when they needed to tear, only to reform and leap alongside her with joyful shouts and bugles. Hundreds. Thousands. Together, the Wisps cushioned her headlong rush, and that was for the best, for Aranya flew so low now, leaves whipped her body and Islands rocked in her supersonic wake.

WHAM-BLAM-BLAM! She and her muffling Wisps ripped a canyon of destruction through the forest atop a large Island.

BOOM! She skidded off the surface of a lake, blasting water hundreds of feet into the air.

The water crystallised around her body as a sheath of ice.

More, sang the Wisp-Dragons. Pile in thick, pile her high! More, my wing-brothers!

She felt as if she must suffocate beneath the manifold layers of their presence, but she did not. Where was the heat of her draconic life? She was still colder than ice, so cold, she sensed the air whipping over her left behind a trail of crystals … Aranya tried to gaze about her, but the ice was so dense she could not shift her head. What she saw was as through the thickest pane of crysglass, her gaze fixed upon a great building ahead of her, atop an Island. No, five rows of buildings as large as warehouses … the Amethyst wished to shut her eyes, but could not. They were forced open by the freeze.

The impact was indescribable. Shocking. Battering her body and mind as though Fra’anior himself punched her repeatedly across his caldera. The first building imploded, as did the second. The third closed around her slowly, the fourth collapsed upon her sliding course. Debris rained down, thick beams and stone walls trapping the Amethyst amidst a maze of ice, rubble and ruin.

An unknowable time later, Aranya found herself staring at her left forepaw, counting talons. Five perfect, steaming claws. A whole pawful.

We’ll leave you now, whispered the Wisps. You must change yourself, precious Star. Hide amongst these Dragons for a time. Veil your nature. Hear us? Hide!

Their commands washed upon ears that heeded, but did not understand. Aranya knew she had travelled from a place outside of experience or imagination. She was a star descended to the Island-World, beaten and bruised, and weaker than any hatchling, yet magical fire-life wuthered within her hearts and for that, her soul sang its thankfulness.

Debris avalanched to a standstill all around her. The Star Dragoness had come to rest within the caved-in shell of the fifth building. Nothing smelled familiar. Shards of ice surrounded her prone form, shattered by the impact. Smoke and steam drifted languidly over the scene. Her dulled senses took in splintered beams. A cart-wheel, slowly spinning on its axis. Mounds of rubble lit by flickering fires, juxtaposed with towering shards of ice. She had a narrow field of vision through the debris to an Island-forest that stood riven, as though a mad barber had shaved a path through its hair.

Aranya shuttered her eyes. Izariela, whatever this plan was, I salute thee. And we shall have words when you rise from your tomb–beautiful, aching words.

She wept without tears.

* * * *

Dragon voices roused the Dragon-Princess. Dragons! Petulant, hot-tempered words washed into her ear-canals, cursing the destruction, the fires, the wreckage of the barracks. The speaker was an Orange Dragon of a size that made her brow-ridges twitch, stumping around in the devastation with a furious curl of his lip and lava-like orange fires leaking constantly from his nostrils. Her own nostrils twitched, taking in hundreds of evocative odours. Tropical vegetation. Unfamiliar Dragon-scent. Sulphur. Unknown timbers. And her own scent, like pure starlight …

The Orange Dragon was a bruiser, scarred by many battles, missing much of his left mid-wing near the secondary wing-joint. His helpers were all … Grey-Green? Aranya stared through her narrow peephole. All of them? Weird.

Hide, the Wisps’ last words echoed in her mind. Hide amongst these Dragons for a time.

How was she supposed to hide? She was a unique colour.

Dimly, her mind creaked into motion, as if her body were waking from hibernation–which perhaps, it was. Pathways long unused groaned and tingled as novel sensations spread through her listless limbs and unfeeling wings. Colour? The Dragons were discussing the probable path of the meteorite, eyeing the rapidly melting ice and fires with patent amazement. Mercy, they were all … monsters. Bigger than Ardan, and she had thought him–Ardan!

The Orange Dragon’s muzzle jerked about. Over here! The rubble trembled and collapsed as his massive tonnage pounded toward her. He pounced two hundred feet. KABOOM! A beam dug painfully into her flank. Dig here! I hear hearts. Dig, you scale-less drago-malworms! Curse your sires, your dark fires, the blighted wombs that deformed your eggs …

Hide? When her every fibre screamed from the renewal of blood and fire-life?

Aranya tasted this idea, watching as Grey-Green paws scooped up rubble and tossed aside beams the size of trees. The Orange was certainly feared, his rough commands sparking instant obedience. But if she became just like one of the rest … aye. Magic swelled within her being. That, unlike the rest of her, seemed primed for use. Aranya concentrated on her strange, Chameleon-like power. She must be just like them. Sleeker, perhaps, but exactly the same colouration. Her scales tingled as the change rippled through her body–a shame she could not just Chameleon away her ugliness …

The rubble shifted. Steam hissed somewhere. Her body was rapidly heating toward its proper draconic temperature, now, melting the last of the ice rimed around her legs and wings.

With a heave, four Grey-Greens levered half a roof off of the no-longer-Amethyst Dragoness. The Orange loomed overhead, scowling fit to set her tail alight. He cursed luridly. Dragonish so rough it made her talons curl, beat upon her freshly opened ear-canals. Why, it’s the ugliest freaking piece of windroc-filth I ever did see. Ugh! He spat sideways, a glob of molten rock. Get over here, you spukkuri flatworm!

A massive paw seized her throat and hauled her unceremoniously out of the debris. In a moment, Aranya found herself dangling in the air like a chastised puppy, given as the Orange was four times her size. With the air of a grizzled commander, he vented his spleen upon her at considerable, obscene and ear-splitting volume. His accent was so thick, Aranya understood barely a word in four, but those were enough to singe her ear-canals.

Eventually, a question emerged amidst the execrations. Where did you fly from, you pox-blasted wretch?

The sky, the Amethyst replied before sense intruded.

Bellowing in affront, the Orange shook her like a rat. Fire roared over her, but Aranya was too disoriented to do anything but let his rage slide over a tiny shield she managed to form around her head. Perhaps it was a mercy she was so limp; his ire did not appear to damage anything too badly.

Stupid, fire-spitting bully! Her fires rebelled, but Aranya withheld. She must not reveal any secrets. That was paramount.

When she emerged from a sea of roiling orange-gold flames, it was with a firm chin and steely mien. Aranya eyeballed the Orange, measure for measure, from a distance of twenty feet. The Orange Dragon’s mountainous shoulders stiffened perceptibly, a battle-reaction. Whatever he saw in her, the Dragon was not unimpressed, but he disguised it well.

With a grunt, Huh! Sputum-flecked piece of fodder! he tossed her to one of his minions. We’ve matches tomorrow and one more piece of windroc bait shall serve to fatten the lists. Blasted expensive to buy fodder nowadays. Put her in with–his craggy jaw cracked into possibly the most unnerving Dragon-grin Aranya had ever seen–aye. Lock this gruesome eyesore in with Gangurtharr. A well-matched pair.

His booming laughter hounded Aranya for long minutes as two Grey-Greens dragged her off by the wings, down a wide tunnel, and into their underground lair.

* * * *

The cell door clanged shut behind her tail. Enjoy, stupid fodder.

I’m not fodder! Aranya snapped, stung. What the volcanic hells was it with the name-calling?

The two huge Dragons moved off with mirthful snorts of fire, leaving her behind a locked, Dragon-sized cell door furnished with bars eight inches thick. Grief. At least her fine dungeon was clean. And occupied by the fattest Dragon she had seen since Thoralian’s oversized kin had emerged from their enforced hibernation at Yorbik. The male Dragon’s hide was a horrible mass of trench-deep scars, as though he had been burned by acid in his youth and never recovered. The scars ran over his left eye, leaving it a milky, fireless white.

The other glared at her. Seen an uglier Dragon somewhere?

She did not know why exactly, but Aranya swung her muzzle about so that he could appreciate the bone-deep crater in her cheek. Seen an uglier Dragoness somewhere, Gangurtharr?

He made a noise between a startled howl and a derisive growl. Then, he snapped, I’m napping, dead-meat. Don’t disturb.

I have a name!

Truly shocking. Fodder, was it? Shut your unsightly fangs, witless fodder. His right eye closed; the left, apparently lidless, remained staring at her. Freaky. Aranya had never been dismissed quite so crassly. She had no rejoinder.

In the end, she packed away the huffy Princess of Immadia and her even huffier Dragon Shapeshifter, and pressed her muzzle against the cell’s talon-scored, granite flagstone floor. Aranya breathed in the scents of dust, Dragon blood and death.

Soon, her eyes lidded.

* * * *

Aranya clawed her way up the impossible mountain. Who waited above, Thoralian or … her Human form? She regarded her paws in surprise. This time it was her Dragoness’ turn to crawl up the mountainside, bellying along like a worm? On cue, her fire-stomach punctuated her thoughts with spurts of fire from her nostrils.

She spread her wings to wheel away.

So there was a storm up there–she lurched again, more violently than the snap-catch of her wings against the breeze. A storm of amethyst clouds and distinctly violet lightning. Now what? One day, she really must spend a few minutes trying to actually understand what was happening to her, instead of just flying slap into trouble. Actually, that was the best part. Trimming her wings to an acute angle of attack, Aranya stormed up her peak. If the Yellow-White cannibal was up there, even in this spirit-world, then she would greet him with a fistful of talons and a super-hot fireball up the left nostril.

Storm was her realm. The Amethyst Dragoness did not slow in the slightest as she whipped into the storm. The wind promptly seized her and tried to splatter her against the mountainside.

What? Flying is cheating? she laughed as lightning skittered off her scales. Riding the blast, she looped around the thin column of black rock. The wind changed direction. With a cunning cupping action of her wings, Aranya harnessed its power to launch herself higher. Ha! Want to fight? I’ll just–

Aranya yelped as a violet lightning-barrage smacked her against the cliff. Half-dazed, she fluttered away, only for the wind to seize her by the scruff of the neck and dash her against the rock a second time. Clucking hubris, hubris, o Immadia, to herself, Aranya spread her talons and gripped the cliff once more. Lightning skittered off her scales. Perhaps Dragons needed the odd lesson in humility–something along the lines of keeping their fires honest, or white, or whatever the equivalent saying was.

If she had to crawl to save her Island-World, she would bloody her knees crawling.

If she had to inch along, she would inch her way into eternity.

Perhaps an hour later, or perhaps ten, for she had no way of knowing the passage of time in this place, Aranya’s outstretched paw clutched only a fresh breeze. No more lightning, she realised, tiredly. The wind had vanished. The scent of ozone faded from her nostrils. The Dragoness hauled herself over the edge like a wet hound exhausted from swimming.

“Petal!” A scream!

A different kind of lightning struck her then, a blur of multi-coloured hair and laughter and sobbing and incoherent exclamations. Delicate Human hands touched her scales, caressed her muzzle and then hugged her neck awkwardly. The cinnamon-vanilla fragrance of her own magic tantalised the Dragoness’ nostrils. She was so … small. So Human! A Dragonsong of wonder carolled in her third heart and rippled out of her throat. Was this …

The girl cried breathlessly, “Oh, precious Dragonsoul, I’ve waited for so long. Now we can–”

CLANG!

Aranya screamed in frustration as reality intruded in the form of a large grey foot introducing itself to her ribcage. Get up, fodder!

Leaping to her feet, the Star Dragoness gazed about in shock. Gangurtharr had managed to bestir his indolent bulk to tuck into a tasty-looking–well, judging by the horns, some kind of buck–but he lowered his muzzle and snarled at her over the remains. She stopped, one foot poised ahead of the other.

Time to meet your fate, fodder, snapped one of the guard-Dragons.

Aranya snarled, My name is–

Fodder, said the monstrous Grey-Green, curling his paw around his meal. Alright, he probably outweighed her by fifty or sixty tonnes, all of it blubber. It’s not a joke.

She stared at him. Her stomach wanted to pounce on that buck so badly, it vented a Leandrial-sized gurgle of famishment.

Are you as gormless as you look? continued Gangurtharr. Haven’t you ever heard of the gladiator-pits of Wyldaroon? She shook her muzzle slightly. Your job is to be fodder for the bigger Dragons, warming up our happy customers by your honourable demise. Shake a paw, dead-meat. Combat is to the death. No exceptions.

The guard-Dragon’s claws clamped around her neck, not at all gently. He half-strangled Aranya as he dragged her out of the cell and kicked the door shut behind her. It locked by no mechanism she could detect.

She choked out, Save a haunch for me?

Sardonic laughter followed her down the long, cell-lined corridor. Dead, dead meat. Nice knowing you.

Chapter 22: Gladiatrix

ARANYA BLINKED IN the firelight of five huge braziers arranged around the perimeter of a vaulting underground amphitheatre. The floor was rock. The walls, two hundred feet tall, were solid, unbroken red-speckled granite. Above, a domed metal cage enclosed the arena. She sensed its magic from where she stood. Beyond that cage? Tiers and rafters for the sparse scattering of Human, draconic and … other, spectators. Species and creatures she did not begin to recognise. Many Dragons perched above her on purpose-built metal railings. A low, uninterested murmur greeted her arrival through a pair of metal doors four feet thick and fifty feet tall.

The arena stank of death.

The guard-Dragon cuffed her shoulder brusquely. No rules but one: fight to the death. Understood?

Aranya gazed across the arena at the Dragon swaggering through the opposite doorway.

“Ecuradox the Executioner!” roared an unseen announcer, clearly a Dragon.

Her first thought was neither a pretty nor a Princess-like word. Besides being armoured in solid plate metal, Ecuradox looked as if he ate metal for breakfast–metal stanchions, perhaps, or the swords and shields of his luckless victims, before cleaning his fangs with strips of their flayed hides.

A ripple of approval rose from the crowd. They clearly knew this Dragon; they knew what to expect.

Windrocs could sup on her entrails before that day came!

Ecuradox played up to the crowd, swaggering into the arena with a lithe flexion of his muscle-bound, ridiculously over-armoured hundred-and-forty feet of draconic arrogance. He expectorated a fireball and limbered up his spine luxuriously. Aranya saw through that. He was bored by the whole affair. Ecuradox probably dined on fodder, or dead-meat, five times a week. He flexed his talons, six-foot scimitars compared to Aranya’s razor-sharp but foot-long, upsettingly girlish talons.

She stiffened. What? Where had that thought–

Wake up, Dragonsoul, said a snarky little voice within. We’re about to beat the stuffing out of this thug.

Whaaa … what the–Humansoul?

Glad you know me, the voice audibly smirked.

Aranya’s fires boiled. Stop that.

Stop what? The Human part of her managed to sound exactly like Zip. Just don’t show off too much, alright? We don’t want them to know what an adorable, teensy little Shapeshifter-petal we are.

Infuriated beyond reason, the Amethyst Dragoness saw white. Blistering, pure white. Recognising Humansoul’s unsubtle plan was no panacea for her rage.

Turning slightly toward the guard-Dragon in order to ask him if she would be introduced, Aranya yelped as he gripped her once more by the neck and tossed her out into the arena, thundering, Fight, you cowardly piece of fodder!

She would so slingshot that beast like–

Dodge, Dragonsoul!

Aranya sprang aside, but not fast enough. Ecuradox’s casual passing paw-slap tossed her two hundred feet across the arena; she felt as if she had flown headlong into an Island. Her Human form was distinctly underwhelmed, snapping something about focussing on staying alive being the wing-shape of wisdom. The inner presence immediately merged into her, somehow, lending strength rather than sniping from the sidelines–which might have sparked a raging argument at a better time and place.

The Star Dragoness checked her left shoulder. Three five-foot gashes adorned her hide. She licked the spot instinctively, allowing the rich, complex taste of Dragon blood to galvanise her Dragon battle-reactions. Her hearts-beat surged. Potentials coalesced behind tightly-clamped control valves. Eyes ablaze, Aranya stalked Ecuradox.

He pretended unconcern.

Yet the gleaming, red-tinged eyes watched with a slight gleam. Perhaps being stalked by so-called fodder was a novel experience. Perhaps he expected her to try to fly through that strange magical mesh, or to hide behind a brazier, or to do something fodder-idiotic. Well, perhaps the unforeseen …

The Star Dragoness charged!

Ecuradox whirled in a blur, bringing up his right forepaw to swat her back whence she came.

Unfortunately for him, a deft touch of pneumatic shielding delayed her strike by a quarter-second, ensuring his fisted forepaw swished past her nose-scales by the width of a Human hand. She did not miss. Flaring her wings to aid a forceful landing smack upon his muzzle, Aranya commandeered the insides of his nostrils with her hind talons. Then, she used her perch for a springboard. Her claws gouged golden furrows in the sensitive tissue and muscle. Ecuradox’s instinctive follow-up blow comically clobbered the bleeding point of his own nose. He vented an almighty roar of discontent.

Already having dashed a sensible fifty paces away as the hulking Grey-Green bellowed his injured pride until the stands fairly trembled, Aranya braked on a brass dral and pointed her left wingtip dramatically at her opponent. Channelling her inner Nak, she boomed, “Thou feckless, emasculated cow! Thou weeping excuse for last week’s soggy, maggot-ridden fodder–”

With a staggering roar, sixty tonnes of armoured fury hurled itself across the arena.

Mercy! yelped her Human.

Dragonsoul was more intent on getting out of his way, when Humansoul interjected a cunning idea. Aranya jinked sharply and fled toward the far wall, stopping short before whirling in apparent terror as Ecuradox the Executioner, charging full bore toward her, pounced in a feral, flaming fury.

She ducked at the last millisecond.

It was an intelligent duck, so to speak. A whirl of Ri’arion-inspired martial arts coupled with a half-panicked touch of shielding constituted her riposte right beneath the juggernaut of a Dragon, causing Ecuradox to skitter over her back with a screech of talons against scales. He pounded into the wall behind her like a berserker, striking square-on with the full tonnage of his body behind the collision. His thick neck twisted, and snapped with an audible retort.

There was a shocked silence in which, Dragon Rider Nak would doubtless have opined, one could have heard a mouse break wind. Dead.

The announcer-Dragon blurted out an amplified expletive.

Buzzing so hard she could not even hear the crowd, the Amethyst Dragoness walked back down from the arena with her two escorts, her thoughts a-whirl. She puffed hard to regain her breath. Great leaping Islands, she had done it! Grumbling like a pair of loquacious parakeets, the guard-Dragons booted her inside the cell and clanged the door shut.

Gangurtharr’s good eye cracked open. “Oh, it’s you–dead-meat.”

“That’s live-meat to you, Dragon.”

He flicked a talon derisively, in and out, and drawled, “As I said, truly shocking. What did you do, tickle his belly?”

Aranya’s fires blushed heatedly. “No.”

“Sang Ecuradox an ode?”

“He had an unfortunate accident with a wall. End of fires.” She gestured flatly with her wingtip. With a rough laugh that sounded forced to her ears, she added, “Where’s my haunch?”

Aranya had already decided to make herself sound gruffer and more worldly-wise, like Ardan. Her Princess would have to take the rear saddle position in this strange environment. Besides, she suspected this Dragon was putting on a show to impress the newcomer. She needed to find a way to win his trust, so that she could learn enough to escape and find her friends. Poor Sapphire … and Ardan, had she truly spied him as she blazed across Herimor? What manner of bizarre coincidence was that?

To her surprise, Gangurtharr made her wait a breath or two, before lifting his cupped paw. “I’m fat enough already. Eat, dead-meat.”

She sidled across to him, trying to ooze confidence as she snaffled her meal. “Don’t I get a promotion for my efforts?”

“Oh? Well … aye. I hereby promote you to ‘windroc bait’. Hearty felicitations.”

Aranya swallowed her fury. Heavens and ruddy enigmatic Star Dragons burning in those heavens, she was starving! She bolted the entire haunch without so much as a by-your-leave, and belched afterward with a mental nod of approbation to Nak. Ah, her tutor in all things lewd and uncouth. Awesome teacher; even better friend. She missed him.

Gangurtharr appeared to have nodded off once more.

She said, “My name’s Aranya.”

“Windroc bait,” he murmured, clearly signalling his desire for sleep.

“What is this place, Gangurtharr?”

“Call me Gang rather than that mouthful of cherk-cherbuck entrails,” he yawned, as lazy as a rajal sunning itself on hot bricks. He had a strange accent, very different to her guards or to the Orange who had captured her in the rubble. That yawn also revealed he was missing at least twenty fangs and a large, bite-sized piece of his tongue. “Welcome to Marshal Montorix’s Gladiator Pit, windroc bait, where Gladiator Dragons fight to the death for the entertainment of a diverse crowd of high-class citizens. The Marshal makes plenty of money off the spillage of Dragon blood. Plenty.”

“So I’m a Gladiator?” Aranya asked, smiling at his heavy sarcasm.

Quietly, but with wing-shivering menace, Gang snarled, “The word for a female Gladiator is Gladiatrix, but you will not sully the title with its mention, or I swear on my mother’s egg I will squash you like the bug you are. You are windroc bait, and you’re annoying me. Shut your feckless chattering, windroc bait.”

Aranya’s lower jaw thumped against the flagstones. Doubtless this was his intent, but did Gang have to be such a crusty old bastard–oh, fireballs blast it! The Immadian felt ashamed at cursing like a soldier. Beran watched from the halls of her memory. Yet still, did morals arise from fear of what others might think, nurture, or from within oneself? How could she know the difference? Pondering this, Aranya curled up with feline grace in the quarter of the cell left for her. Gang’s bulk filled the rest. She observed his smoothly muscled shoulders and limbs, so unlike Ardan’s eye-popping striations. Fat, or muscle? She had to wonder. Was it merely her imagination, her desire to think the best of others, that she hoped there would be more to his Island than a bitter, middle-aged Dragon-warrior fond of verbally excoriating fledglings?

She had to work out how she could Shapeshift safely in this place in order to keep feeding her Human form. Why did Dragons languish in a gladiator pit if fights were to the death? What was a gladiator–just another word for a warrior? Was she trapped inside one of Herimor’s celebrated floating Islands? She did not remember seeing Wyldaroon on any map. A den of cutthroats, thieves and shady business-uh, business-Dragons, she judged, from the glimpses she had caught of the purportedly ‘high-class’ punters. And species she had never seen before–an elongated Dragon with four wings whose blue-yellow colouration had been striped like a poisonous reptile, another creature with waving pink tentacles, something that apparently hid inside a blue bush for fun …

Why had the Wisps enjoined her to hide? Was she in danger? Mercy, had she erred in giving Gang her correct name? Thoralian would know it in a heartbeat. Aranya champed her fangs.

Well, she was not in the best shape after her enforced four-week sojourn with Izariela. Which she failed to remember in any great detail! Grr. She should sleep. Missing her companions sorely, Aranya lidded her eyes. Questions could wait for the morning. Doubtless, she would have a few days to find her paws while Thoralian wreaked his merry vengeance on Herimor.

Toasty. Just toasty.

* * * *

“Good afternoon, fodder!”

The guard-Dragon kicked her in the ribs, waking Aranya from her favourite nightmare of Fra’anior–the one where seven pitiless mouths chased her around the Islands as if she were a dragonfly fleeing from a flock of champing beaks. The one where she woke in spine-freezing terror without the slightest inkling what His Thunderous Majesty’s bellowing had been about.

Of course, bruised ribs improved her mood.

Marshal Montorix reached into the cell and dragged the Dragoness out by her neck. The Amethyst fledgling’s involuntary squeal drew a snort of laughter from Gangurtharr. She hung her head as the Orange Dragon indulged in his shake-a-rat routine.

He roared, “You were supposed to lose!”

“Sorry,” Aranya sulked.

He bellowed, “Where did you learn moves like that?”

“Blind luck.”

He raged, “I bet against the fodder, of course! What sane Shapeshifter Dragon wouldn’t?”

Aye, only a madman would bet on a fledgling beating a Dragon four times her size. Or a Star Dragoness. Aranya suppressed a violent urge to turn purple. Not yet. Not before she understood why she was hiding and when was the right moment to emerge. Until then, she would simply have to earn her right to stand with these Dragons. Fodder, indeed. Someone would pay.

Montorix flung her to the ground, wrenching her left shoulder in the process, the one which Thoralian had speared with his ice. “Thankfully, my associate made a mistake! A mark in the wrong column and he bet on you. Five thousand to one!”

The Orange Dragon’s rough chortling rattled bars up and down the underground corridor, which served thirty cells. Eighteen housed Gladiator Dragons. And a couple set aside for fodder. Aranya found her paws, only for his enthusiastic back-slap to summarily flatten her. She wheezed in pain. Yet, could this be good news? Might he set her free?

“That’s a platoon-weight of the sweetest, finest Dragon gold in Herimor, fodder! You cleaned out the entire House of Fadootar!” Suddenly, his muzzle thrust right in her face. Fire bathed her lower jaw. “One way to make enemies. Think you can repeat that?”

“I, uh …”

“Course you can’t! You’re just rip-and-rend fodder, as stupid as you are ugly.”

Well, Montorix certainly knew how to build up a girl’s self-esteem. Aranya surreptitiously checked her colour. Perfect. Encouraged by another kick, this time bruising her right hip-bone, she followed the Marshal up toward the noisy arena.

Even a Star Dragoness could not burn through solid rock. Oh, for Ardan’s Shadow power! Everything was under-Island, save the arena. Could she break through there? The cage possessed an unfamiliar magic, however; her regard through the foot-wide gap in the doors leading onto the arena floor provoked an eerie tendril of unease against her mind. Careful. Aranya knew she must not touch that cage. As before, the smells of death and dry blood made her nostrils burn. Ugh.

“Flamgurtharr Flame-Breath!” howled the announcer.

Imaginative names. Aranya grinned privately. Nevertheless, she wrenched her wayward attention toward the pressing matter of staying alive. Fight! Every nerve in her body buzzed. Her stomachs clenched. The Amethyst grimly cleared her mind with a meditation routine Ri’arion had taught her. Focus. Channel her powers into heightened awareness. Stillness pooled in her mind; fires churned her belly into overheated soup.

“Facing the Flame-Breath today in the first match of a thrilling line-up, is the fodder who triumphed against Ecuradox the Executioner just last night! Bend your burning eyes upon this spectacle, noble Dragons, mighty Shifters and great Chaos-Beasts of Wyldaroon! Who will thunder for the undefeated champion of fifty-three bouts, the mighty master of lava, the awesome, the fabulous phenomenon who is Flamgurtharr Flame-Breath?”

A roar surged around the arena–far more packed than the previous day, Aranya saw, although there were still many benches and rafters left unoccupied–as a massive, visibly smoking Grey-Green Dragon burst through a wall of flame into the arena. His battle-challenge rocked the roof: FLAMGURTHAR!!

Aranya’s hearts leaped into her throat as one. What a beast! Nevertheless, she turned to Montorix. “Hope you made the right bet, Orange D–”

A huge paw curled around her throat. “Remember, the Flame-Breath prefers his fodder well-roasted!”

Banging the doors wide open with his paw, Montorix the Orange hurled Aranya at her opponent. An entrance worthy of a Princess, she thought. Her wings tangled together as the Amethyst tried to sort out her flailing body, which saved her from the brunt of the Flame-Breath’s superheated opening salvo. She fell hard. The Dragon stalked her fluidly, firing fireballs faster than she could either run or fly. Each measured twenty feet across and was a roiling, liquid mass of lava and fire that detonated against her shield with explosive power. Despite her resistance, the onslaught tumbled Aranya head-over heels to the far end of the arena. She fetched up with an almighty head-butt against one of the towering braziers. Smoking, gasping and coughing, the Dragoness tried to find her paws.

A rope-like curl of flame promptly leashed her tail and dragged her ignominiously backward across the stone, talons screeching, as Flamgurtharr set about roasting the Princess’ scaly, tethered buttocks with volley after volley of the hottest Dragon fire Aranya had yet experienced. Shielding frantically, she recognised in horror that he was just warming up, the temperature of his fires rising through oranges and yellows to an ultra-hot yellow-white. His flame could vaporise rock.

But Flamgurtharr voiced a gurgle of surprise as the fledgling Dragoness emerged from his assault smoking from every scale, literally aglow; bruised yet otherwise unharmed.

Pfft! Pfft! Aranya announced her intentions with a double-strike of her own.

Her fireballs burst against his chest and upper left thigh, knocking him awry just enough that the Fire-Breather missed his attempted stomp on her neck. That could have been ugly.

The Amethyst backed up as Flamgurtharr inhaled cavernously, stoking his furnaces. Mercy! The crowd’s roaring washed over her ear-canals like a vast waterfall. Aranya’s talons flexed. This Dragon seemed unwilling to close with her, because …

GRRAAARRRGGH! The Grey-Green let rip with everything he had, a firestorm that chased her around the arena like an animate Storm Elemental, and not just fire, but a blistering wash of wind that swept her off her paws, churning and rolling her in a maelstrom of heat that lapped up to the mesh cage topping the arena and–KABOOM!! Dragoness or not, Aranya felt as though she had been struck by a sledgehammer the size of Fra’anior’s paw. The backlash through her shield stunned her.

Black, white and crimson speckled her vision as she came to beneath Flamgurtharr’s forepaw.

I don’t kill fodder when they’re unconscious, he growled. Ruins the fun.

Aranya tried to writhe against the talons gripping her neck, but she was no match for all that tonnage and strength. Not after an explosion like that. The cage must have amplified the blast. Amplified? Her eyes bulged beneath the pressure as the small Dragoness twisted her neck desperately, searching for an angle. Any angle. Her ears rang with aftershocks.

“Shall I kill her?” roared Flamgurtharr.

The crowd roared back.

“SHALL I KILL THE FODDER?”

Shrieks and strange hoots of delirious joy resounded from the crowd.

Aranya formed a tiny, tight fireball in her throat. She’d have just one shot, or this beast would grill her royal behind to cinders. Bending his neck slowly, Flamgurtharr pursed his lips a mere foot from her face. His throat was the white heart of a furnace, filled with Dragon-fire.

Her own throat-muscles worked. Pfft!

A blue-hot spark shot seventy feet across the arena, whanged off the rounded base of a brazier, raced upward, and rebounded off the cage-magic–exactly as she had planned. The cage was some kind of reflective-magnifying construct, doubtless designed to heighten the entertainment value below. At the same instant, Aranya shielded with everything she had learned from Leandrial, Ri’arion and Va’assia, and even the Wisps–not a hard-shelled shield, but a slightly yielding, aerodynamically shaped shield that would allow her to ride the resulting detonation.

GRRAAA-BOOOMM!!

In a flash, her tightly concentrated fireball, massively magnified, blasted Flamgurtharr’s right foreleg, shoulder and wing off his body. The concussion hurled the Amethyst across the arena in a spray of charred flesh, scales and bone fragments, splattering her muzzle and wings with gore. She fetched up in a heap three-quarters of the way across the arena; the Amethyst Dragoness instinctively flicked the severed remains of the Dragon’s forepaw off her head.

The Grey-Green stared at her. His throat worked. How …

Like a felled tree, he collapsed.

Aranya was appalled.

Roar your victory, said Humansoul, in a small voice. Show them we’re no fodder. We’re a royal Shapeshifter of Immadia, and we give quarter neither to Man nor to Dragon.

This isn’t me, Humansoul.

We know, precious petal. But necessity is a brutal taskmaster. I love you.

I … me … too! She what? Her? Me? Loved herself in a battle’s aftermath? Aranya shook her head in confusion, trying to find a way to balance on all four paws without falling over once more.

Mournfully, her Dragoness howled, GRRAAARRRGGH!

* * * *

Leaving the arena, Aranya came nose-to-nose with Gang. He snorted like a dyspeptic volcano, “Freaking hookworms take it, another promotion?”

A slow wink of his good eye appraised her of his joke, and the fires of his vast, ground-scraping belly were more purr than roar. He was pleased? Aranya kept her reaction well-guarded, choosing to wag a brow-ridge by way of reply.

He growled, “Alright. I dub thee, ‘fresh kill’. Satisfied?”

Aranya bared her fangs at him. “They’re still scraping up the mess I left behind. Don’t step in anything nasty.”

Gang flexed his shoulders, making the strangely smooth muscles roll like wineskins full of soft fruit, as best Aranya could describe it. Clearing his throat, he snarled at the guard-Dragon, “Take this fresh kill to a portal so that she can watch a real Dragon fight.”

The Amethyst Dragoness watched the match from behind a magic-armoured porthole in the arena wall. She had not realised that the Gladiators could watch other fights, but it made sense. Knowledge was advantage. She was soon gaping and wincing as Gang turned his opponent from another Pit into his personal punching-bag. She had never seen a Dragon fight like him, leveraging his bulk with breathtaking skill. By the end, he was swinging the hapless Dragon–who was no stripling, being a fifty-tonne veteran of thirty-nine successful combats–about by his tail and body-slamming him against the walls and floor of the arena to the rhythm of the audience’s rapturous approval. Awesome. Horrifying. Stylish in a way that made her vacillate between admiration and wanting to hurl the queasy contents of her stomach into the nearest midden.

She doubted there was a whole bone left in that Dragon’s body.

Finished playing with his victim, Gang swaggered back down the corridor, grunting, “Hey, fresh kill. Been taking notes?”

Smartly avoiding a guard-Dragon’s kick aimed at her tail, Aranya fell into step with Gangurtharr. She cooed, “Does your shell-mother still masticate your food for you, big fellow?”

With a roar of laughter, he shoulder-slapped her so hard, her teeth rattled in her head. “Good one! I like your spirit, fresh kill. Let’s go bathe. Spoils to the victors.”

Life as a Dragoness was odd. The Princess of Immadia was not exactly accustomed to bathing in steaming pools with five husky exemplars of the opposite gender. Part of her wanted to run to fetch clothing, or slink behind the nearest pillar to conceal her modesty. She chuckled inwardly at Humansoul’s antiphon of glee, ‘who’s a bashful little Dragoness, then?’ She submitted to the indignity of having to listen to various gruff and lecherous comments, fired across the pool with apparent respect for Gangurtharr’s subtly protective manner. Aranya wondered at this. Ardan might have clawed out his own liver in a jealous rage, but amongst Dragons, this communal behaviour seemed normal.

After Gang moved to another room, the vast hot-oil pool, several of the others cracked jokes about his being a eunuch; that she could sleep cosily in his roost without due service. They chuckled coarsely so as to remove any doubt regarding their meaning.

Damaged–like her? She had observed Gang’s scarring, but had no idea his injuries had been so severe. Was that one source of the camaraderie she sensed between them, so at odds with his gruff, socially inept manner? When she asked, the Dragons told her of an abusive Green shell-uncle who had tortured Gang as a fledgling for a period of four years, as part of his nursery hazing, with the avowed intent of ‘strengthening’ a chubby youngster. In Gang’s culture, one of the males added, with dark-fires indicators shading his low speech, excess weight was abhorrent. Somehow, Gangurtharr had survived cruelty, endless physical abuse, and even a deadly attack by five of his Dragon Elders, after which his kin had sold him to the Gladiator Pits as fodder. A dangerous beast, they warned.

Meantime, Aranya observed her environs closely. Where could a Dragoness Shapeshift safely? There were smaller doors for Human-sized servants around the rooms and corridors, and even serving the individual Dragon holding-cells. There was no need for locks, for no Gladiator Dragon could hope to fit much more than their paw through a Human doorway. An option? Yet she sensed much magic about the place. She would have to watch her wingtips.

As her days in the Pit stretched into weeks, Aranya’s patience thinned commensurately. Montorix seemed content to build her reputation by careful degrees, pitting her against Gladiator Dragons every two or three days, packs of spiky red drakes or other fodder, and once, three ‘glamour-entranced’ Dragons which had fallen prey to a mysterious magical illness native to Wyldaroon, that drove Dragons insane. During their periods of mandatory training, Gang taught her how to ‘fight messy’, or inside fighting, as he called it. She learned points where Dragons were vulnerable, and the tricks of a Gladiator who had spent three-quarters of his lifetime in the Pits. Gang described how the cage amplified magic tenfold and how to turn that to her advantage. She also learned how the Pits were built and secured. Few Dragons had ever escaped, because her magical imprint was tied to the House Wards, meaning that the only way to avoid triggering pursuit and protections was to change her fundamental nature. Oh, for Ardan’s powers!

The oath-magic remained mute.

She kept winning. After several weeks, her new friend promoted her to ‘scrap’. Great.

News filtered through their bars like the most excruciating drip-torture. Disturbances among the Land Dragons. Rumours of the First Egg controlling the mighty denizens of the deeps. War swept across the Southern Kahilate, led by legions of Dragons loyal to the ‘old Marshal’. Thoralian, Gang spat. Evil on wings. Yet their area of Wyldaroon was so remote and little-regarded, he saw no reason war should approach them; still, the conversation triggered Aranya’s nightmares. Every night, she suffered Fra’anior’s endless roaring, battled nameless enemies or Thoralian, and for variety’s sake, myriad white-hot flame-drakes nightly laid waste to her soul.

Occasionally, she caught Gang glancing strangely at her, especially after she transformed, sneaked out during one of his fights and returned to their cell with her Human fed and watered. Had Gang sensed something? Aye, she had literally come within an inch of being caught by several servants, but a Ri’arion-special opaque shield had protected her.

She felt so thin inside. Aflame. Friable of mind. What was the matter? Why could she not understand the detail of Fra’anior’s warnings? Perhaps it was that the fate of her friends consumed her every waking moment. She worried herself into queasiness. Ardan. Zuziana. Precious Sapphire–she dreamed of them often. Leandrial had not come for her. All that Ardan had been to her before, was a void, now. Echoing emptiness. Why? Why should she hide while the Island-World teetered on the brink of destruction? What, by the fiery, Island-raising breath of Fra’anior himself, was she waiting for?

Then, there came the day the announcer-Dragon bellowed a new title, and she learned the true impact of her mistake in revealing her name to Gangurtharr.

“Aranya the Assassin!”

Chapter 23: The Thunderous Thirty

ZUZIANA THE AZURE regarded her monk archly in the semidarkness of Leandrial’s cheek-pocket. “So, we’re agreed? No less than fifteen children …”

Ri’arion’s eyes cracked open. “I’m listening. I do need to meditate to keep these poisons at bay, and to try to figure out a way three powerful but essentially isolated creatures can break through the urzul-tainted ranks of Thoralian’s under-Cloudlands army. Still, I’m weary of being beaten, Dragoness-love. I am, quite frankly, bored rigid of running and skulking and having to apologise for my failings to my volcanically gorgeous wife!”

“Who happens to think you’ve nothing to apologise for, volcanically or otherwise.”

He made a gargling noise in his throat.

“I do love your spontaneously pre-planned compliments,” she said, preening while contorting her mouth to make a range of outrageous, come-hither lip-smacking noises.

A grin cracked his oftentimes forbidding visage. “Zuziana, if you know me this well after just a few months–”

“Tremble, little Human!”

“Ah, thou pyretic beauty, that the conflagration of thine eyes shouldst ignite mine heart!”

The Azure Dragoness purred happily, “Ooh, shall I call you Nakarion?”

With studied dignity, the monk unfolded his legs and approached his Dragoness. “I’ll admit, Nak did suggest that phrase as a kind of poetic shield against the depredations of certain sky-blue Dragonesses.”

“Depredations?” Her eyes brightened perceptibly, deepening Ri’arion’s shadow against the wall of Leandrial’s cheek. “A word with a fine ring, I’ve always thought!”

“Dictionary words turn Dragoness-hearts to prekki-fruit mush?” inquired the monk. “Duly noted, you recidivistic rapscallion.”

“Flatterer.”

“Intemperate thermogenic quadruped.”

“Aw, yours forever, witnessed by the people and warranted by fifteen royal signatures and seals upon an official scroll duly lodged in the secret vaults of royal Remoy–”

“How’s about I stage a raid on your vault?” Ri’arion interjected.

“Ri’arion!” The Azure blushed furiously.

“Oh … I didn’t quite mean … uh …” The monk’s entire pate turned a fine shade of crimson. “Mercy.”

Coyly, the Dragoness suggested, “Actually, I rather hope you did. Fifteen’s a big number.”

“Zuziana!”

Once they had finished blushing, and laughing at each other’s blushing, the monk said, “Leandrial and I did make a breakthrough in identifying the mental signatures of Theadurial-infected Land Dragons, the other day. We were able to identify that for all practical purposes, we’re prancing about on the wrong side of an army of ten thousand hostile, parasite-toting Land Dragons and every time we try to break out they pummel us worse than the granddaddy of those Storm Elementals. Our allies lie in the Southern Kahilate and we’re in the North. Stranded. Fabulous scientific advance. Utterly useless. This would be why we’re running for our lives and I’m being more miserable than a monk’s soggy blanket.”

He sounded so despondent, Zip wanted nothing more than to snuggle him–which was unlikely to be received well. She remembered First-mother Yuhina’s detailed lecture on the responsibilities of a good Remoyan wife, the day before their wedding. Good? Be a good little Shapeshifter Princess?

Faced with images of floury baking, flawless hostessing and popping out babies according to a regular schedule, Zuziana snorted, “I should think not!”

Ri’arion patted her neck fondly. “You think not what, o pride of Remoy?”

“Without disrespect to your rather intimidating intellect, monk-love, I fear we might be going about this problem entirely too logically.”

“Logically?” He stroked his beard. “You have a feeling?”

He contrived to iron any hint of sarcasm out of his voice. Zuziana loved him fiercely for that. “I think I do. I think I can test it on Leandrial. Aye. We should test my feelings.”

Gripping her jaw in both hands, Ri’arion peered inside, musing, “Feelings? Indeed, violent inner turbulence. Oodles of sulphurous mischief and a clear hint of future hijinks …”

This time her hearts, Dragoness and Human, leaped about inside of her like overexcited dragonets indulging in aerial acrobatics. Swoon-worthy leopard-man! Her knees were in serious danger of collapse in four different directions at once. The only thing that saved her was a Dragoness’ sense of incipient humiliation, and Humansoul alternately chortling at her and demanding to be let out for some ‘love-birding’. As if!

Quietly, Zip said to Leandrial, Noble Dragoness, during these weeks of running, there was one occasion when you claimed you felt a hint of Balance drawing you somewhere. That’s the place I’m feeling we should go. Do you still feel the same? Do you remember?

The Land Dragoness lay silent for a long time, rocking gently due to the constant upwelling action of the fumarole-ridden area where she had chosen to hide. Hiding an eight-thousand-foot waltzing nursery took some doing. There were Islands smaller than Leandrial. But with Thoralian’s allies patrolling northern Herimor twenty-seven hours per day, the companions had soon concluded that there was a strong reason that Thoralian did not want them to penetrate the Southern Kahilate–or perhaps, he expected Aranya?

Finally, Leandrial said, “The star over the Rift is gone.”

Zip and Ri’arion yelped simultaneously, “What?”

Cue pandemonium. Ten minutes passed before everyone found themselves on the same piece of scrolleaf. In that time, Tari had to shoo away five hatchlings who wanted to play with Zuziana, Ri’arion explained thirteen times to twenty curious Dragons what they were trying to do and Leandrial lost her temper the fourth time the monk asked her to clarify exactly how and when one lost a star.

Finally, Zuziana extracted from Leandrial the admission that there was a Balance-trail which by some fiendishly complex Land Dragon metaphysical speculation led her to conclude that Aranya–if the star had indeed been their friend–had departed her station seven days before, and with a seventy-one point six four three percent probability had ended up somewhere in Wyldaroon, the largest, harshest and most dangerous realm in all of Herimor. Besides, it was also famously inaccessible, being hidden behind a mountain range so massive, it shaped the primary weather-cycles across the breadth of its five-thousand-league, permafrost-capped ramparts.

Zuziana was debating throwing a properly draconic temper-tantrum at this point, when Ri’arion brought the conversation around full circle.

The monk said, “I propose that we follow your Dragon-sense and see where it leads us. Logic is often linked to Balance and as you rightly point out, logic has availed us little thus far. What is needed is a grain of Imbalance, methinks. My Zuziana is just the Dragoness to bring that about.”

“Er … how?” asked the Azure Dragoness, uncertain if she detected a whiff of compliment, or a nasty rodent-like odour beneath Ri’arion’s words.

“Your talent for mischief creates Imbalance,” Ri’arion grinned.

Definitely the latter.

With a dignified sniff, she replied, “The only Imbalance that exists around lies between your ears, my very dear but sadly deluded bipedal life-form of the masculine persuasion. Allow Leandrial and I to bedazzle you with the mysteries of feminine intuition, that most Balance-honouring of all the senses.”

He bowed gravely. “Logic is Balance. Illogic is Balance. How do you propose to resolve this conundrum?”

The Dragoness pursed her lips. “It is only a conundrum to lesser minds.”

“Oh?”

“What is illogical about intuition, Ri’arion? Unless your methods of proof are so rigid as to exclude the admission based on some preconceived notion of testability.”

Ri’arion flexed his neck cheerfully. “Why, a rare woman with whom I can debate philosophy! See, I knew I hadn’t married you solely for your incomparable smile. This is bound to be a fascinating side-trip in entirely the wrong direction to the impassable Mesas. But–” he forestalled Zip’s irascible growling with a hand placed perilously on the fiery end of her muzzle “–I am always open to correction. Grumpy when corrected, naturally, but open to the possibility.”

Thus, they travelled directly westward for five straight days across the northernmost reaches of Herimor, braving an under-Cloudlands storm, a feral Water-Runner and three encounters with Thoralian’s Land Dragon forces, and after much philosophical debate, discovered a situation that made Ri’arion distinctly grumpy.

“What did you call them?” huffed the monk.

“Blast-Runners,” Leandrial clarified. “Foot for foot, arguably the deadliest of the Land Dragon Clans. They’re famously cantankerous. Just like monks.”

To hear the Land Dragoness chortling up an earthquake at her own joke made everyone inside her mouth laugh too.

Ri’arion said, “So we’re just going to defeat the fifty Mist-Runners having a gentle disagreement with said Blast-Runners, make friends and sail on down through the Northern Kahilate?”

As they peered out of the slit gap between Leandrial’s teeth, a brilliant flash lit the battle, showing a swirling melee of bluish Mist-Runners surrounding a tight knot of the much smaller, luminous violet Blast-Runners. A faraway explosion came to ears and ear-canals as a dull thud.

“That’s three less Mist-Runners,” said Leandrial, matter-of-factly.

“What’s the plan?” asked Tari.

“Mist-Runners are biters, with a touch of Harmonic magic, but no eye-cannon like my Clan,” said Leandrial. “I say you little ones go distract them, and I’ll come in fast from below and ambush any you deign to leave for me. We then join together and rescue those Blast-Runners. They’re untainted.”

Distraction or bait, Zip wondered privately as Dragon and Rider stormed out of Leandrial’s mouth, followed by twenty-four battle-ready individuals from Tari’s Dragonwing. Ri’arion helped the weaker Dragons form their camouflage shields.

Seven miles off, pressed against a vast, shadowy escarpment, the so-called ‘minnows’ engaged the compact, salamander-like Blast-Runners as if seeking to cut individuals out of the compact mass. The Mist-Runners attacked in tight groups of two or three individuals, each one and a half to two thousand feet long, but their quarry held together with tenacity that was frankly astonishing, given the disparity in size–almost as if they were one mind. Meantime, Leandrial’s wash bobbed them about as the huge Dragoness dived to take up her position.

Five minutes passed.

Now, said Tari.

The Azure Dragoness took up a flanking position on the Green Shapeshifter’s starboard side, with Brityx to port and Tux’tarax a muzzle-length behind and above Tari. The rest of the Dragonwing formed a dense wedge around them, adjusting to keep clear wingtips and an open field of fire.

BOOM! The Mist-Runners dodged as though slapped by an invisible hand, but not before one lost its head and another, split in half, raised a dying howl that was audible five miles off.

Slow-firing but deadly, Ri’arion commented, his mind filled with strategic computations. Imagine that power magnified? Or focussed upon a different vector?

You’re the one being distracted, not them, Zip sniped.

I promise to ogle thy impertinent haunches later, Remoy, he grinned, drawing a sharp but amused reproof from Brityx.

Tari counted down, Three, two, one …

The Dragonwing shook the torpid air with their powerful challenges. Fighting under-Cloudlands was an idea none of them had ever envisaged, but Ri’arion and Leandrial had taken the time to instruct them while Thoralian’s Dragonwings fruitlessly watched the Islands floating above. They closed in with a steady sweep, not at their top speed, aiming to draw Mist-Runners into the open. It worked. A dozen of the carnivorous lizards peeled away from the battle, co-ordinating their movements with guttural cries and clear surprise at being faced by Lesser Dragons. Fangs flashed in the semidarkness. Harmonic magic probed, but Ri’arion had them shielded tighter than a Dragonship battened down for a storm.

Try not to become a morsel, Brityx said drolly to Zuziana, eyeing the enemies’ fangs with respect.

Mighty Dragoness, I shall slip between their fangs and tear their tongues out by the roots.

I never understood the attraction of having a Rider like the Dragon Rider forces stationed–well, across the Vassal States but especially in Wyldaroon–until I saw the strength of your meld with this Fra’aniorian Enchanter, said Brityx, with a throaty laugh. The Thoralians of old were never enamoured of Dragon Riding, regarding them as a plague or an aberration, and a threat to Shapeshifter dominance of the Lesser Dragonkind. Why form a mutualistic relationship with a species one sees as needing to be stamped out, or at least, held in abject slavery to draconic rulership?

History repeated, said Zuziana, shuddering. I was once Human.

Tari snorted, You were never Human. You’re a Shapeshifter.

I am a Shapeshifter made, not born, said Zuziana, explaining about Aranya’s tears before she thought the better of spilling that secret.

The Dragons around them shook their muzzles in astonishment, and Brityx murmured, Wondrous indeed are the ways of Star Dragonesses.

Aye, but Aranya had Named Ri’arion and bidden him follow her! Zip’s paws clenched jealously. Arrogant Immadia, tromping about in all her pomp, expecting the Island-World to swoon at the merest flash of her scales–only, Aranya’s first thought as a Dragoness had been to save her Remoyan friend from Sylakia’s Tower. Zip hated that wheedling, envious inner voice as much as she hated being little Zuziana, the oft-overlooked. Aranya did not mean to overshadow; besides, she was loyal to a fault. Best friends with a star, Zip? A blemished star …

Battle-cries shocked her out of her cesspit of unworthy reflections.

The Azure held back slightly, shaping a lightning-bolt in her mind as she allowed her powers to taste battle, to imbibe the roaring of fireballs and the air trembling as if in fright as the Dragonwing launched their attacks, to scent Mist-Runner blood and to know the chittering, oily presence of the Theadurial concealed within their flesh, linked to the spinal column and brain-stem of these luckless beasts. So many infected! Leandrial said she had never known such a state of affairs in her four centuries of life.

Zip picked a target. SSSKKIIISSSS!!

A Mist-Runner jerked horribly as his muscles locked up in spasms induced by electrical overload.

BOOM! BOOM!

Light flashed from below, carving up the Mist-Runners before they knew what had hit them. Harmonic shock-waves belted the Lesser Dragons’ bodies, but Ri’arion drew them together with the steel of his mental presence. Tari’s group closed with the nearest Mist-Runner, targeting its head and three eyes. Acid! Fire! Lightning! Brityx’s shaped lava-bolt exploded on impact, knocking out one of the beasts before light flashed again from below, finishing the job in a flesh-vaporising flash.

The Mist-Runners scattered with gruff barks of alarm.

The Blast-Runner group gave them a rousing send-off, pulverising five departing tails with a perfectly synchronised psychic discharge, while Leandrial cleaned up the stragglers. By the time she was done, only two or three Mist-Runners escaped.

Withering cowards! snarled Leandrial.

The Blast-Runners turned with the same peculiar timing as the Land Dragoness approached. Up close, Zuziana thought, they were only a little larger than her. The largest individuals approached sixty feet. Their hides were a perfectly smooth, eye-watering violet hue that almost screamed ‘venomous!’ Certainly, the opposite of disguise.

Then, thirty-one sets of eyes blinked in chorus and Zip’s scales crawled. What?

Leandrial seemed unperturbed. Inhaling so mightily that the Blast-Runners had to backpedal or face being sucked into her nostrils, she cried in audible Dragonish, May the scent of blast-power ever char thy nostrils, explosive kin!

A decent bid to deafen them all.

Thirty-one muzzles bowed as one. I honour thee, greatly aged one. I am the Thunderous Thirty, the most explosive independent troop of Blast-Runners south of the Rift!

BLAST-FIRES FOREVER! roared Leandrial. This time, Ri’arion dampened her enthusiasm. Still, Zip’s wings shuddered as though caught by storm winds.

They fired a thirty-one mind-cannon salute upward, well away from the curious Lesser Dragons. Still, fangs rattled and wings flared in shock. Wow! The Azure observed inquisitively. So, they were a communal mind? Extraordinary, the level of melding she sensed within them–far beyond anything she and Ri’arion had achieved so far.

The Welkin-Runner inclined her muzzle. Who is your Primacy?

One Blast-Runner made a swirling gesture with his left forepaw. Blast-honour scorch your nostrils, great one. You are deeply cognizant of our ways. Are you the Primacy of these kindred species? His speech was given in sharp staccato bursts, like drums rattling to foreign rhythms.

Nay, I am the … federation leader, Leandrial replied, clearly translating with care for cross-cultural clarity. These are federated creatures with loose non-controlling mind-links characterised by shared purpose and practical imperatives.

Except for this pair, said the Primacy, waving a talon toward Zuziana and Ri’arion.

They are roost-mates and mind-mates when they choose, said Leandrial.

They follow the excellence of our model, the Primacy boasted. You are the young-mother-nurturer for all these?

Aye, I am. Opening her mouth, Leandrial showed them the hatchlings tumbling over her tongue. When they noticed all the attention, the tussling hatchlings squealed in surprise and dived for shell-mothers or flexed their muscles bravely, trying to look large and important. Our enemies sought to destroy these younglings and many eggs, and they would have succeeded save for the brave actions of this Azure Shapeshifter known as Zuziana, and her mighty-in-magic mate, named Ri’arion.

What is your purpose here? rapped the Primacy. You saved our Thunderous Thirty. We are not ungrateful.

I would ally you to my federation and heap massively explosive blast-honour upon the cannonade of your future deeds, Leandrial replied directly.

Oh? Describe this blast-honour, aged one. I shall consider your proposal.

Zuziana almost chuckled aloud as thirty-one openly sceptical muzzles spoke like a class of Remoyan schoolchildren reciting their lessons. The huge Welkin-Runner took another cavernous breath, and launched into a rendition of the deeds, exploits and glories of the magnificent quest she had dedicated her fire-life to, delivered in a flowery style suited to the most loquacious, adjective-happy balladeer. Zuziana was the ‘irrepressible Welkin-Runner of the skies’, Leandrial crowned Ri’arion ‘King of the monk-Enchanters of ancient Fra’anior’ and Aranya became ‘the glorious starsong of the heavens’. Beginning with her reasons for leaving Herimor, the Land Dragoness skilfully laid out the history and many trials and triumphs of their quest to defeat Thoralian, return the First Egg to its rightful home at Fra’anior, and restore the Dragon Rider Academy of Jeradia and by extension, the races of Lesser Dragons and Shapeshifters to the North.

Three hours of non-stop story-spinning followed. Zip very badly wanted to turn Ri’arion over her knee for chuckling periodically at her twitches of impatience. Sudden cries of oath-fires and a celebratory cannonade startled her into paying attention.

Oh, time to leave? she grumbled.

O Dragoness of mighty snoozing, her Human chuckled.

I was not snoozing! I am … well, a little more tired than usual. Nothing a decent nap won’t fix.

Ha, said the inner voice. Naps and constant snacking. Must be all this trotting around strange parts of Herimor. Are we a growing little Dragoness?

The Azure flexed her wings as best she could. About ruddy time I added a few inches.

Ri’arion, evidently unawares of this soul-deep conversation between her two Shifter forms, replied, Aye, Princess. Aren’t we glad one of us pays attention to the nuances of protocol?

You don’t pay me for those skills, said the Azure Dragoness, managing to turn her statement into a lewd proposal. Ha. Another day, another monkish tongue-tied moment. She was so good at this. And her Dragoness was so awfully modest.

Leandrial and Ri’arion conferred and quickly proposed a new travel arrangement that suited the slow-moving Blast-Runners perfectly. The ‘Thunderous Thirty’ took up residence in Leandrial’s relatively modest neck-ruff–modest in that it could shelter entire villages–which protected the single-minded Thirty from the wash of her passage. The Lesser Dragons retreated to her mouth. The beat of the Land Dragoness’ tail picked up as she poured southward.

The Land Dragoness immediately fell to interrogating Ri’arion about his strategy.

He said, “Our first priority should be to track down Aranya. The geography, as I understand it, is that West of us lie the Mesas–a messy, broken wilderness which is too high and cold for most habitation, save subdraconic ice-adapted species. There are Icewurms, ice-dragonets, furry Dragons called Ice-Runners, and a host of other legendary beasts. The Mesas describe the boundary of the Kahilate all the way South to Entorixthu’s Cleft, which lies at the end of a kind of pocket called the Sea of Dragons’ Tears. That is one possible route into Wyldaroon. Extremely difficult for Land Dragons, however.”

“Impassable,” said Leandrial.

Ri’arion smiled thinly. “Aye? So, the Mesas then curve in a great ‘S’-bend, first North, then back South past the Vassal States sandwiched on the border between the Kahilates. That route adds a mere two thousand seven hundred leagues to the journey to the Straits of Hordazar, named for the Blue Ancient Dragon. It’s the traditional route into Wyldaroon. The only worm in that fruit is that Hordazar is a perfect location for the Marshal to ambush us. One of him will be waiting for us there.”

“However, the Vassal States are likely allies, besides boasting the largest population of Dragon Riders in Herimor,” Leandrial pointed out. “We’ve no guarantee Aranya landed in Wyldaroon, although my calculations–as discussed–appear tolerably accurate, if philosophically troubling.”

Zip growled unhappily, not for the first time and certainly not for the last regarding the subject of Her Starship the Amethyst Wonder, whom she missed worse than her Dragoness would miss her third heart. Plainly put, they had no idea how Aranya might have survived a trip into low orbit, where she had apparently languished for four weeks before abruptly making alternative travel plans for a region of Herimor that lay beyond the backside of beyond. How she regretted the loss of the gruff Western Isles warrior and his oath-magic link with her best friend! He would know the truth–but where the volcanic hells was that Shadow lurking?

Her Humansoul suggested, Perhaps a Shadow Dragon might best be found by starlight?

The Azure chuckled inwardly. Certainly a romantic idea, Humansoul.

Aloud, she said, “How close do these Vassal States lie to the Straits of Hordazar?”

“Eight hundred and twenty leagues,” said Tari. “Interesting lands, those. The rule of the Southern Kahilate lies loosely upon that fringe. We’d pass your favourite Cluster, the Inscrutables.”

“I’ve my own handbag-sized Inscrutable right here,” said the Azure, patting Ri’arion’s head fondly.

He took a playful, Dragon-like snap at her paw. “Alright. I’ve a plan that shall whisk the art of the inscrutable right out from under the Thoralians’ collective muzzles.”

“Whatever that means,” Zip said tartly.

“Hmm. Upon reflection, I’m not entirely certain either.” The monk rubbed his bald pate. “It’s risky, however.”

At least fifty Dragons snorted fire at this statement.

“Moving swiftly on,” said the monk. “First, we round up the isolated pockets of Land Dragons left scattered around this province of the Northern Kahilate. We charge South as if aiming for the Vassal States. We don’t skulk–I’ve a few ideas about that, and about how best to use our Blast-Runner allies and the Lesser Dragons to help Leandrial punch through enemy lines.” Suddenly, his mien was as fierce as that of any of the surrounding Dragons. “Then, if we’ve gathered enough allies, we split our force, one group to make the dash for Wyldaroon, the other to make a concerted effort to join the allied Land Dragons near the Vassal States. The medium-term plan is to bring the two forces together in a pincer movement–one group striking from the North, while the other makes a reverse pass through the Straits of Hordazar from the West, attacking the underbelly of Thoralian’s forces. We force the Thoralians to fight a war on two fronts.”

On the face of it, Zip found no fault with the broad brush-strokes of his strategy. There was Leandrial’s objection to Entorixthu’s Cleft, however, which remained to be addressed. Her hearts thrummed joyfully in her throat. Anything that took her closer to finding Aranya felt … right. So right.

Ri’arion cleared his throat and rasped, “Consider my words, noble Dragons. Let us put this strategy to the test. Well is it said that he who holds the First Egg, holds power. But I counsel that he who holds the Star Dragoness, holds the best and only key to that power. Friends, I ask you to bind your fires to the hunt for Aranya. Let us forge a new destiny in the fires of this war.”

“To Wyldaroon,” whispered Zip.

“No,” said Leandrial. “TO BATTLE!”

Chapter 24: A Princess Purchased

LEAVING THE FORBIDDING, jagged massif of the Mesas in her wake, Leandrial and her disparate force churned southward with renewed purpose. This area of Herimor was a wasteland, with sparsely-vegetated Islands hanging low above the Cloudlands, trapped in the quaternary sub-cyclical weather system of Northern Herimor, sluggish doldrums confining a churning mass of resource-poor Islands. Many Islands sank below the gritty grey Cloudlands due to that slow churn, making navigation treacherous even for the Land Dragoness.

On the third morning, they ambushed half a dozen infested Welkin-Runners attacking two youngsters, who must have become isolated from the main Welkin-Runner Clan. The parasitic Theadurial drove Leandrial’s erstwhile Clan-kin at once to battle. A brief, sharp skirmish ensued. Those Runners that closed with Leandrial were ambushed by the Thunderous Thirty. Those further afield were harried by Tari’s battle-group of Lesser Dragons; being so much more manoeuvrable than the Land Dragons, they could harass them almost at will, but only the strongest shielding could save a Lesser Dragon caught in the blast of an eye-cannon. They lost four of Tari’s command in the opening salvo.

Then, there was a joyous reunion of Leandrial with her distant kin.

Zuziana paused near Leandrial’s haunches, panting. Oh, I feel … she threw up without warning. Oh dear. Ri’arion, we need to spend some time aloft. Detoxify … gaah, this stomach!

He patted her shoulder fondly. Don’t fret, petal. Probably just a taste of Herimor. I had that vile cold last week, remember?

Ah, the miserable man-fever, she observed, drawing a warm chuckle from her husband.

Having tucked away a few mouthfuls of bitter, thistle-like herbs the Dragons foraged for on Brityx’s orders, Zuziana winged southward with the Dragonwing above the Cloudlands for the balance of that day. To their right wingtips, the relentlessly black, column-fluted massif of the Mesas stretched skyward–the result of recent basalt flows, Ri’arion said, geologically speaking. Soon, Brityx pointed out several live volcanoes perched atop the mighty escarpment, cracked away in aeons past by Hordazar the Night-Blue, so legend told, who had betrayed Fra’anior and attempted to create his own separate Dragondom in Herimor’s far West. The Mesas were still growing.

Ever curious, Ri’arion asked, “What happened to that … ah, Dragondom? The maps never show it.”

Brityx recounted a legendary war between the Ancient Dragons which had sundered Herimor. Fra’anior, his smaller shell-brother Amaryllion, and Immadior the White for whom Immadior’s Sea was named, had trapped Hordazar and his kin-betrayers behind the Mesas and left them to starve. “Dragons don’t take kindly to betrayal,” she finished darkly. “It rings harshly upon the ear-canals now, but we must remember, those tumultuous times were subject to the rule of claw and fang. Fra’anior’s rule was regarded as surprisingly beneficent, even treacherously so, by many of his First Egg Dragon-kin. He famously loved Humans; the Pygmy peoples above all. That you seek to succour this Pygmy Dragoness must generate white-fires to warm every heart of the Great Onyx.”

The Azure yawned, thinking of Aranya’s recounting how Fra’anior had reacted to her apparent betrayal–wrongly, but viciously all the same. “How do you think Shapeshifters came to be, Brityx?”

“By the gift of Hualiama Dragonfriend,” said Brityx.

“How? By her tears?” asked Zip.

The powerful Dragoness regarded Zip with a soft, lemon-yellow tint to her eyes. “No, little one. By the gift of her fire-soul. It is said that when Hualiama breathed her Gift into a person, it roused their inner fires. To adherents of Line-Bound thinking, it is blasphemous to consider that Humans possess fires like unto Dragons, or that Shapeshifters can arise spontaneously, which the monk noted, occurs in the North. Their avowed goal is to procreate widely in order that all Dragonkind and Humankind might become pure–that is, that they might become Shapeshifters like us. I would keep your friend’s tears secret, here in Herimor. To act as the Dragonfriend? That is … heresy. Even, perhaps–or especially so–for a Star Dragoness.”

Hualiama had breathed soul-fires into people? Zip goggled and stretched sleepily. Great leaping Islands! What a gift, even if it might be heresy–and her Amethyst friend clearly followed in those mighty paw-prints.

Brityx added, “Now, you haven’t stopped yawning since midday, Zip. Why don’t you and your monk ride upon my back? I’ve never had a Rider, but considering what you have done for my kith and kin, I would be honoured to bear you aloft. You should sleep.”

Her warm, mother-Dragon manner bore no refusal. Shortly, Zip slept in Human form. She dreamed of her Human and Dragoness hugging each other warmly and doing silly dances all night. How odd.

Come morning, Zip found herself tucked up in Leandrial’s cheek-pocket with a trio of Dragon eggs. So beautiful. She touched their surfaces wonderingly. Like jewels. If Dragon lore held they were so tough that no ordinary force could break through the shell from the outside, how had the Heripedes and Jagok Lizards penetrated them before? Strange.

Where was Ri’arion? Zip stood up, and promptly launched the contents of her stomach over the eggs. Oddly, she immediately felt better. How could she clean up? It seemed wrong to leave the eggs sitting in a messy puddle. Zip slipped out of the pocket and found herself nose-to-muzzle with Brityx.

The Dragoness smiled like a cat, narrowing her eyes as her lips curved upward. “Slept well, little one?”

“Ah, yes?”

“Ri’arion was worried. You slept thirty-nine hours, right through another battle. We have gained six Living Springs. Nice Dragons, but very old, so they aren’t so full of water anymore. But they tell the most marvellous stories.”

Zuziana tugged her hair self-consciously about her body. “Why are you looking at me with that gleam in your eye, Dragoness? Am I not scarred–”

“Not that. How’s the tum, little one?”

“Wobbly.” She grimaced. “Do I have to eat more of those herbs? Mercy, I could eat a whole ralti sheep. I feel bilious but starved at the same time. Is that normal, Brityx? Am I ill?”

“Perfectly normal.”

Zuziana stared at the huge Dragoness. Apricot colours in the eye. Totally unreadable smile. Belly-fires purring like a busy blacksmith’s forge. What under the heavens was she … Brityx was up to something. She touched her stomach self-consciously. She really felt quite peculiar.

“A little bulge there?”

Annoyed, Zip growled, “No, flat as a pancake. I’m a spare sort of girl. Could do with a few bulges elsewhere, but Garthion–”

“Strange flutterings inside?”

“No, nausea.”

“Well, I suppose it’s probably too early for flutterings. But your clever monk could probably tell. Ri’arion! Come here, would you?”

“Tell what?” Zip demanded.

“This mysterious illness,” said the Dragoness, growing less comprehensible by the second. Zip opened her mouth to protest, and promptly doubled over to start retching again. Ugh. Stomach shilly-shallies. Whatever could she have eaten?

Ri’arion trotted over. Brityx had her lie down on her back; Zip tried to ask for clothing but was shushed by the Dragoness. Shortly, the monk was examining her stomach while the Remoyan Princess diffidently rearranged her hair to cover the essentials–one bonus of having Shapeshifter locks. Much more, and she could start selling hanks of hair for spare cloaks.

After thirty seconds or so, the monk’s expression grew considerably more intent than before. Zip yelped in shock as he slumped over her stomach in a dead faint!

“Thought so,” said Brityx, appearing vastly contented.

“He’s heavy!” Zip complained. “Can you help me shift him?” But Ri’arion was already showing signs of revival. She stroked his cheek. “Ri’arion? Monk-love, are you alright? Ri–”

“Whaa!” he spluttered, leaping off her as though burned. She had never seen his eyes appear wilder. “I didn’t … hurt? No? You’re alright, my petal-flower darling girl?”

Zip said acidly, “Has everyone gone stark raving moons-mad? Brityx, explain yourself this instant. Ri’arion, can you stop wringing your hands? Flying monkeys, man, what’s the matter with you?”

Ri’arion spluttered, “She’s p-p-p …”

“Aye,” purred the Dragoness.

He held up three fingers.

“Aye, clever man. No more fainting, alright?” said Brityx.

“No,” said the monk.

CAN SOME DRAGON KINDLY EXPLAIN? roared Zuziana, managing to produce a flare of lightning, and a mini-roll of thunder that silenced every Dragon in the cavern of Leandrial’s jaw.

Brityx was enjoying herself so much, Zip dearly wanted to hit her. Now she knew how Aranya felt when people tugged her hawser. “Hearken, little one,” crooned the Dragoness. “Everyone! Lend your ear-canals to this exciting news! I’ve a mathematical problem for you, Zuziana–add up unusual sleepiness, hunger and cravings, plus a wobbly tummy, and what do you get?”

Zip bit her lip for fear she’d shout something truly regrettable. “Sheer bewilderment?”

The Dragoness rolled her fire-eyes with an exasperated snort. Very slowly and pointedly, she asked, “Doth mine ear-canals thrill to the fluttering of teensy wings in your womb?”

Finally, the twin suns dawned upon her Island. Zip glared at her stomach as if it had risen up to slap her cheek a resounding blow. “Uh … mercy! How did that happen?”

Leandrial’s maw resounded with hoots of laughter and celebratory bugles.

* * * *

Charge!

They charged along with skill, Zuziana thought. Ri’arion was such a bright boy when he was taking orders from his wife. She beamed at him.

The monk sniffed, “Ruddy little genius. Remind me never again to take the deviousness of Remoyans for granted. Telepathic ventriloquism? However did you come up with that Island-slapping, Moons-jangling idea?”

Zip smirked and made monkey noises.

“Right, monkey-mischief,” laughed the most gorgeous hus-bandit in all the Island-World. “Those Theadurial-controlled Land Dragons out there are mighty peeved. Thoralian’s forces are chasing phantoms down every abyss under Herimor or scrapping with each other because they believe they’ve been betrayed, and the good ones join us daily. Two hundred and sixteen allies is the latest count, Snoozy Zuzi. Not counting the nine additional Blast-Runners we picked up an hour ago.”

“Fourteen,” said Leandrial.

“And we have this current sweeping us along at a sweet eleven leagues per hour–”

“Fifteen point two,” said Leandrial.

The monk glowered sagely. “Meaning we cover four hundred and ten point four leagues per day without even trying. We’re outrunning the current at present thanks to shaped shields, and thanks to the Azure Miracle, we don’t even have to fight battles.”

“Except for yesterday,” Leandrial noted.

Ri’arion elected not to lose his rag. “That was a scuffle.”

Clearly amused, the Land Dragoness rumbled, “Tomorrow, we shall split our forces. It is decided that we Welkin Runners, our original Thunderous Thirty and Tari’s Lesser Dragons shall attempt Entorixthu’s Cleft, since the monk has convinced us with his cunning schemes. The balance will try to cut through to reach the allied forces we detected near the Vassal States.”

“Are you alright, Zip?” asked Ri’arion, checking Human-Zip’s forehead with the back of his hand. “A bit clammy–”

“Mercy!” gasped Zip, and threw up over his left foot.

* * * *

Gangurtharr seized Aranya by the throat and squeezed wrathfully. “Fight me! You will fight! This is beyond dishonourable!”

“I will not fight a friend,” she choked out.

He hurled her against the arena wall. Aranya shielded, but the brutal impact still made her see white spots behind her eyelids. “Fight, you null-fires coward!”

“No.”

Gripping her tail, Gang whirled the Amethyst Dragoness around his head and executed his signature body-slam manoeuvre. She rebounded off the unforgiving stone, groaning, but did not lift a talon to protect herself.

The arena was packed. Two powerful Marshals had come to view the fights this day. Montorix had picked an ‘excellent bout’ for her, but both he and Gang had carefully managed not to mention who her listed opponent would be in mortal combat. Now, every creature in the arena booed and hissed and roared their disgust at her shameful display.

Let them. This was wrong.

I’LL KILL YOU! thundered Gangurtharr.

Then I shall die with my honour intact. Let it be.

The oath-magic settled between them as delicately as petals blown on a breeze. The wild, desperate light faded from Gangurtharr’s eyes. His paw unclenched, for his hearts had never been in the fight, Aranya realised. So, let the fates favour the bold, Aranya. I shall not fight you either.

The pitch of the crowd reached a rabid pitch as the massive Grey-Green stood down, genuflecting with his wings.

Aranya’s hide threatened to lift off her skull. Magnificent Gangurtharr!

Suddenly, there was a greater commotion, before silence rippled around the arena. Mentally-induced silence, she recognised.

“I declare the honour of the House of Montorix is a debased, broken vessel!” thundered an Orange-Red Shapeshifter Dragon. Aranya froze. That could not be. A two-headed Dragon? He looked as wide as two Dragons bolted together, which was close to the truth. “By the fires of true Dragonhood, I demand the satisfaction of arena combat against that putrid louse down there!”

His fore-talon picked out Aranya. FIGHT ME, LOUSE!

The crowd exploded in a frenzy of approval. Aranya shook her head. Quietly, to her alone, Gangurtharr said, Well, you certainly pick your battles, Scrap. That’s Tahootax the Terrible, once a Dragon of these Pits, now a Wing-Commander in Marshal Thoralian’s armies–as best I know. He’s probably out recruiting because they like to expend Gladiators as shock-troops. First into battle, first to die. Watch out for his mental capabilities. Beware his meriatite-fuelled explosive attack. It’s deadlier than your fireballs. He’s only the biggest, bloodiest brawler in all of Wyldaroon, so keep your wits sharp and your talons sharper.

He had not seen Leandrial.

The Gladiator-Dragon added, You can defeat him, Scrap. I know you have it within you.

With that, Gang retreated to the observation portholes. Bets raged amongst the crowd. No doubt, Marshal Montorix would be sniffing Dragon gold this day–but would the Great Dragon’s wing tilt for him, or for his enemy?

The two-headed Tahootax was so colossal, he could barely squeeze between the arena doors, and that only by twisting his shoulders sideways. But when he did, he did not wait for the announcer-Dragon to do more than clear his throat before he charged Aranya. She moved fluidly, but the mountain of Dragonflesh adjusted quicker than any Dragon she had ever faced. His shoulder struck true; the impact of her body cracked the arena wall.

Tahootax stood a head taller than Montorix and had to measure a jaw-dropping thirty feet wider across the shoulders, giving room for his two titanic heads. His body-shape made him resemble a squat wedge with two lethal, fang-lined caverns on one end and a powerful tail on the other, but she still recognised the similarly long, distinctive abdomen, akin to Thoralian’s unusual body structure. A relative?

Barely had she thought this, when a Dragon power snatched her up out of the dust and Tahootax whirled beneath, striking a devastating uppercut to her gut, talons fully extended. Her half-formed shield collapsed under a finely-synchronised, overwhelming mental strike. Aranya flew upward in a spray of golden Dragon blood and severed guts to strike the cage.

KAAABOOM!!

The tenfold amplification struck her a concussive blow.

Whiteness. Wisp-Dragons. The sweet flowering of white-fires around her body.

Izariela …

Regaining consciousness with a convulsive jolt, Aranya squirmed to her paws, her nostrils filled with the scents of cinnamon and the freshness of a starlit void. Nonetheless, a mewl of pain escaped her lips. She stood in a four-foot deep crater caused by the impact of her body. Tahootax had strolled off in a celebratory round of the arena, flexing his almighty shoulders and bellowing up a fine thunder.

Aranya promptly slapped him in the buttocks with a lightning bolt. Hey! Aren’t you forgetting something, you … uh, overgrown toad?

Mercy, when would she learn to insult a Dragon properly?

Tahootax whirled, both jaws dropping in astonishment. What?

She grinned like madcap Nak formulating a choice phrase. You dancing fool, are you the local comedian? Aranya flexed her shoulders and impishly waggled her hindquarters for good measure. Cotton-puff kisses are hardly the pith of draconic behaviour.

To her mounting astonishment she felt rattled, but never more alive.

That signature mental power she had sensed so keenly in Thoralian plucked her up again, but this time, Aranya was ready. She blinded Tahootax with a storm of magical petals. Accident? She had been aiming for a real storm, but edgy, low-pitched laughter burbled from her throat as she realised she had no idea what her powers were doing. What fun!

Humansoul danced within her second-soul, free, feisty and furious.

Then, the world seemed to slow. Tahootax charged. His mouths gaped. Her wings unfurled lightly, balancing her on a brass dral. She remembered, with thoughts so languid as to feel pressed through a barrel of sugar bamboo sap, the free dance Hualiama had tried to inspire within a gangly, foot-tied Immadian’s soul. Laughter blossomed. Her wings swished her out from beneath the Orange-Red’s champing muzzles. She somersaulted lithely over a double-fireball so mighty, it washed from the floor of the arena up to the cage. Choking, sulphurous black and yellow smoke billowed like an uncontrolled forge-fire. His talons scythed the air, but the Dragoness folded her wing-struts to pass between them like a speck passing through a sieve, her shaped shield lacerating the webbing of his left forepaw. Tahootax’s aggrieved bellowing rocked the arena.

Aranya bellowed back, and her rage was the sevenfold fury of Fra’anior resounding from one throat. Storm winds blasted the monster backward, opening the Dragon’s wings in an involuntary flaring motion, akin to a draconic surrender. Her intestines spilled out of her gut with the force of her outcry, but Aranya swept them up with the aid of her left forepaw and a hard-pressed pneumatic shield, trying to hold them in. Fire avalanched across the arena toward her, gathering speed even in her hyper-awareness as the firestorm-output of both of his throats mingled into a storm so superheated, it melted granite.

Inanely, she heard Ri’arion’s mental voice pinpointing the blast-temperature of meriatite-extracted hydrogen as exceeding two and a half thousand degrees.

Tahootax possessed so much power. How could she defeat this brute, and quickly?

The cage. It sang of magic.

The Dragoness rode the thunder of Tahootax’s insane battle-rage, slipping like pollen between the avaricious talons of his mental power, borne aloft by the fierce thermals generated by his flaming. His flame stopped for a breath, for him to gather the contents of his stomachs. Aranya sensed the extraordinary heat of those fires, fuelled by meriatite while being both contained and augmented by magic. She drifted on the thermals, plotting.

Four fire-eyes bulged beneath her as the massive Orange’s necks swivelled, orienting him for a strike at her vulnerable underbelly. Tahootax hesitated, searching for the ruse, for the reason Aranya would expose herself. Mentally, she hunkered down behind a veil of deception. Agony flared in her wounded belly. Desperation. Fear, even, of the greater Dragon.

With a low, ugly laugh, Tahootax released the valves controlling his fire- and meriatite stomachs. Pallid yellow flame erupted from his agape throats straight up toward the cage.

The Amethyst swirled through the enveloping fire, controlling the flow with a twisting motion of her wings that parted his shots, and passed them behind her. Her world became yellow flame and stultifying waves of heat. Then, she imagined a dagger spinning toward Zip’s back. She leaped beyond the explosive, compressed hydrogen somehow transported within Tahootax’s shots; unexpectedly removing herself from the path of the impending explosion. A monstrous wave of heat curled her wing-edges and sucked the air out of her lungs. The cage-magic shrieked at the power demanded of it, rattled so powerfully by his blast that the anchoring stonework crumbled.

Quick as flickering flame, Aranya twisted her neck to shoot a tiny, highly pressurised blue fireball of her own straight down his nearest throat.

GRRAAABOOOMM!!

The exponential power of his own blast flattened the mighty Orange-Red Dragon, but perhaps in that entire arena, only Aranya’s ears were quick enough to detect the additional, high-pitched whistle of her fireball passing down the windpipe into his stomach. Compressed hydrogen detonated within his body, blowing a hole the size of a house in his port flank and lower neck region.

Tahootax staggered. Three steps. Four. One mouth gaped, the other slumped to his knee, hanging by a thread of muscle. The stillness that fell over the arena was as thick and hot as the golden Dragon blood flooding out of his shattered hearts. Then, the enormous Orange-Red Dragon fell, shuddered once, and perished.

In a grief- intensified peal of Storm-thunder, the Amethyst Dragoness declared her name, I … AM … ARANYA!!

Sundered, the cage split and fell.

* * * *

“Scrap, you ruddy well destroyed the Pit.”

“I … I don’t understand, Gang. But I remember you flying over; taking the brunt of the cage’s fall for me. Thank you.”

“Aye. Broke four ribs. It was nothing. Now you–you’re a freak! How do you blow up a Tahootax?”

Smarting at the word ‘freak’, Aranya snarled, “I told you. Dragons who swallow meriatite should not play with fire. And it was Tahootax’s attack that broke the cage, not mine. Uh … what’s going on out there?”

“It’s a leveraged buyout,” Gang said with a conspiratorial wink. Outside the infirmary cave where Aranya had been ordered to wait, a hubbub of voices rose and then abruptly faded. “Any Pit that loses its ability to operate can be snaffled up by an available buyer. Marshal Huaricithe happens to be the wealthiest Dragoness in Wyldaroon, besides that she bet a large slice of her sizeable fortune against Tahootax–they hate each other with a legendary passion. They were lovers once, see? Before he jilted her.”

“That bit I understand. Explain the negotiations.”

“Huaricithe proposes to sell the Pit back to Montorix for a tidy profit, minus one Dragoness–you. She commands an all-female Dragonwing. The whisper on the wind is, she came here in search of Montorix’s champion female because she plans to fly Aranya the Assassin against Thoralian.”

Gnaarrrgghhh!

Gangurtharr patted her shoulder. “You really hate the old Marshal, don’t you?”

“Aye.”

“So, while your purchase is being negotiated–”

“Purchase?”

The scarred Gladiator-Dragon looked at her strangely. “You’re a peculiar one, Scrap. Can’t figure you sometimes. Of course she’s buying your sassy hide–think you’re different? Special? In here, we’re all no better than slaves fighting for our lives.”

Sometimes, Aranya felt the isolation of a royal upbringing so acutely. Assumptions. Rights. Privileges she patently took for granted and others could not afford. Her father’s many lectures on the subject suddenly took on a whole new dimension. She understood. Shame made her flush, but Gang did not seem wont to press the point further.

He said, “When Huaricithe comes, treat her respectfully. She’s tougher than Dragon hide but invariably fair–few Dragons are white-fires in all their business dealings, but she is.” He let fire lick between his fangs. “She’s a good owner, Scrap. And you’ve earned your chance at a better life–GRRR–did I just mistakenly compliment you? Advancing senility. Shut your flapping trap and get out of here.”

Aranya touched wingtips fondly with him. “I’ll miss you, Gang.”

“Push off.”

“A remarkable victory, Aranya the Assassin.” Both Dragons whirled as a new voice, as smooth and thick as honey, poured over them. “Gang, you scurvy old reprobate. Stirring up whirlpools of trouble as always?”

“Huaricithe,” he said gruffly.

Aranya almost leaped out of her Dragon hide. Gang? And the powerful Marshal? No flat statement of her name could hide the truth that flashed intuitively into her knowledge. He loved Huaricithe, or had done in the past. Huaricithe was beautiful–a sleek, Navy-Blue Dragoness who carried her presence like an invisible but nonetheless palpable royal robe. Her eyes whirled with effulgent cascades of rainbow colours–Shapeshifter colours, Aranya realised. Like her own hair. Huaricithe was physically smaller than many Herimor Dragons Aranya had faced or rubbed shoulders with in the Pits, but no sane person or Dragon could doubt her authority.

Then, she knew also the peril of this Dragoness’ high intelligence. Secrets would be sniffed out ere they were conceived. Her magic touched subtly, not like Va’assia’s clumsy war-hammer strikes, but with the most extraordinary finesse–a spider’s knack upon silken threads.

Mercy! She had to hide, shield, deflect … Aranya lowered her muzzle and her fires simultaneously. “Marshal Huaricithe. We are honoured.”

“Aranya. Quite the reputation you’ve carved out in just a few weeks in the Pits of Wyldaroon,” purred the Marshal, in a voice rife with exotic, flute-like intonations. “You and I will have to talk … about your origins, and where you contracted such a powerful strain of the pox.”

Shapeshifter pox, her eyes hinted. Aranya bit her tongue. “I am yours to command, Huaricithe, but–”

“Are you?”

Roaring rajals! Ten seconds of conversation and she was more alarmed by this Dragoness than by Montorix, Tahootax and Ecuradox rolled into one. Dragons were not supposed to be able to sweat.

Aranya gave the Marshal the benefit of her best chin-jutting, Princess-of-Immadia scowl. “I want you to purchase Gangurtharr too. Please.”

Huaricithe’s laughter filled the infirmary with rich tones of amusement at the flat non-interrogative. “Oh? Has he worked his old magic upon the Assassin? Aye, I know you’ve been training and roosting together, but Gang … oh, you haven’t changed one scale, have you?”

Gang shuffled his paws. “Not my fault.” To Aranya alone, he thought angrily, What are you doing, Scrap? Stay out of my wing-space, or I swear–

Push off yourself, she returned, feeling discourteous but meaning it. Aloud, the Immadian said, “As you’d expect of an honourable Dragon, Gang advised the contrary. This is my wish.”

“You’d refuse to leave without him?”

Danger! Her scales crawled as Aranya whispered, “I know he’s a dreadful inconvenience, but–”

“Insolent wing-flip!” snorted Gang, clamping his fangs upon her shoulder.

“This young one humbly asks you to consider a boon, o Marshal.” Aranya lowered her muzzle once more, acutely aware of the Blue Dragon’s long, heated glare. Her answer was the perfect middle ground of diplomacy, and they both knew it. Battle joined.

At length, Huaricithe growled, “A boon for a boon, Aranya the Assassin. That is the draconic law in Wyldaroon. Are you quite certain you know what you ask?”

“No,” she said, flaring white-fires honest. “But if you give me a chance to fly at Thoralian, mighty Marshal, then I swear I will not fail you.”

Gangurtharr sniggered, “I’m warning you, Huari. This one’s trouble.”

Chapter 25: The Assassin Unleashed

SMOKING WILDLY AT the nostrils, Yar’nax’tix the Red kicked open Ardan’s door and yanked him off his pallet by his left foot. “We’ve found her!”

“Found, uh, whom?”

“Aranya!” snarled the Red Dragoness. “The one you screamed for when we captured you. The image that captures your heart like a warded glamour and keeps it from becoming mine!”

Dangling upside-down in front of an incensed Dragoness’ nose was not the only reason his heart leaped into his throat. Aranya! Alive! Could it be?

Tixi growled, “As mute and stupid as ever, Black? Let me remind you of a little Grey-Green who has all the Pits of the Gladiator Dragons, those filthy hovels of crooks, bandits and lowlifes, in an uproar. Deny you know her. Deny you know Aranya the Assassin, the deadliest fighter in all Wyldaroon!”

“A-Aranya … the Assassin? Did you hit your head on the way in, Marshal?”

His scornful laughter made the Marshal clack her fangs against his skull, but even a Dragon’s bite merely pierced the skin, not his ridiculously armoured cranium. Blood dripped from a spot near his left ear, and another above the right temple. He and Tixi eyeballed each other from a distance of several feet. Her Dragoness-eyes flamed crimson; her breath was like charred anise, an odour he had never quite smelled around a Dragon before. No. That cave where Yolathion had attacked Kylara and Jia-Llonya …

Ardan knew the Dragoness was far beyond any measured approach, now.

She said, “Tell me about this Aranya, Black Dragon. Tell me all. For if you do not, I will bring those two sweet boys before you and I will torture them so horribly, and unhurriedly, that you will never forget their screams as long as you live.”

“Aranya isn’t a brawler,” he said eventually. “She’s a Princess of a faraway realm, not a fighter.”

“The message called her ‘the foulest pox-scarred Grey-Green fledgling you ever saw’,” said the Red. “Sound familiar? Cheekbone shows here. Scars all over the body.”

“Can’t be. Her colour isn’t–” Ardan pulled up, wishing he could have pulled out his tongue by the roots.

The Dragoness purred happily. “Oh? This Dragoness carries a glamour of concealment powerful enough to fool the wards of Montorix’s Pit? Or they know …” She flexed her talons purposely in front of Ardan’s eyes. “What is her true colour?”

He gritted his teeth.

“If you dislocate the jaw, you can slide your smallest talon right down the throat,” Tixi added. “It takes a very long time for a boy to die when impaled that way. Or, you can squeeze the skull in your paw until the eyeballs just–”

“Purple!” he gasped.

“Purple?” The light in her eyes continued to grow stranger and stranger, as if the colour bleached slowly to a ghastly, sallow grey. “What kind of purple, exactly?”

He felt sick. “Amethyst.”

“The prophesied Star Dragoness! She has come!” The Red Shapeshifter seemed enraptured by an all-consuming, private vision. In low, throbbing tones she said, “I knew I smelled fate’s paw upon him the day a Black Dragon fell into our midst; the day a star blazed her trail across the farthest reaches of Herimor. Now, he is the key. For legend teaches us that she who commands a Star Dragoness, commands the very soul of heaven’s riches and glory. Whipped, manipulated, cajoled, he will lead us to the star. But we must be cunning; oh-so-draconic in applying just the right leverage. Oaths, aye, oaths must be made. Fine oaths to bind even a Star Dragoness to us, for she is young. She can be turned if the price … the price is right, the price …”

As she hissed the word ‘price’ three times, her eye-fires fixed upon Ardan, shifting to an avaricious green. “Yeeeesssss … how will you help me find her, Ardan? How? I know you can. I have read the truth in your soul.”

How could Aranya have disguised herself as some kind of fighting Dragoness? That daughter of a royal house–how was it possible? Temptation warred with caution in his heart. Find the Princess, aye. But lead this Red Shapeshifter to her? The stakes were enormously high; one mistake could ruin them all.

“The Lavanias collar constrains me,” he said.

“Remove the collar, he says?” One huge, blood-red paw rose to worry at a loose scale on her jaw. “Oaths first, Black. You will serve me until I have the Star Dragoness in my paw–swear it!”

“I–”

“You will turn Aranya over to me. You will serve my purposes unswervingly until she is mine.”

“You will harm neither the boys nor the dragonet,” said Ardan. Sick? His stomach was tying itself in knots and trying to abscond through his bone-dry throat all at once. Yet via this accursed bargain, could he find freedom? Could he believe he was doing right by returning to the woman who spurned his oath, and rejected his love?

“You can be so amenable when threatened properly,” cooed the Red. “Agreed, Ardan?”

“I will not fight for Marshal Thoralian,” he added.

“Agreed. Now, swear!”

Ardan had to force iron into his reply, for the fear that clenched the innards of his torso and throat rivalled the grip of an angry Dragon’s paw. “I swear upon my fires as a Dragon that I will serve you, Yar’nax’tix the Red, until you have the Star Dragoness in your paw.”

“And I swear I will remove the collar, leave unharmed only those you have named, and release you from this oath the day the Star Dragoness is mine.”

He had never seen Tixi look so satisfied. Her talon slipped coolly up behind his neck, and released the collar with a curl of magic. She said, “On our fast-moving orbital cycle, my Islands already approach the Vassal States. I harbour only hatred for the old Marshal, you can be assured of that. Today we pack. By this evening, we will fly south for the Straits of Hordazar, and Wyldaroon. Meantime, you will tell me everything you know about Aranya.”

She dropped him abruptly; Ardan landed upon flexed arms and rolled smoothly to his feet. From the corner of his eye, he spied Sapphire peeking out from beneath his blanket. A tiny chirrup of telepathic Dragonish entered his mind, Ardan do good. Need Ari.

Great leaping Islands, did he ever …

The Red Dragoness added, sibilantly, “After being suppressed so long by a triple-strong Lavanias collar, Shapeshifter powers return very slowly–if at all.” Ardan gasped, remembering Aranya’s inanition following her period of captivity at Sylakia. His collar had been triple-strong. “Don’t think you’ll be flying away anytime soon, Black Dragon. You are still mine.”

Suddenly, a picture of Aranya entered his mind–eyes flashing with amethyst fire, her gorgeous locks yearning toward his hand, and that assured tilt of the chin that informed anyone who knew her, that this was no woman to be trifled with. Tixi had not the first conception, had she? Like any proud Western Isles woman, Aranya was a warrior in her own right; sharp of scimitar and sharper of deed. To Ardan, that strength was intoxicating.

Smiling as Aranya might, he raised his chin. “You are mistaken in one detail, Marshal. I am not Black. I am the Shadow Dragon, the shadow against which Aranya’s star blazes brightest. You would do well to remember that.”

The Red laughed arrogantly as she departed the harem, but it was poor cover for the disquiet betrayed by her belly-fires. Glamour or no glamour, he had shaken the Marshal to her core.

Retreating to his pallet, Ardan drew Sapphire into his arms. Hey, girl. Aranya’s … alive. There was the abandoned collar. He was unleashed. Hot emotions jammed in his throat. Would she understand, or would she feel betrayed once more?

Sapphire nibbled his earlobe. We find Ari? Good. Ardan marry?

Ardan bent forward, touching his forehead to the dragonet’s febrile scales. Two paws slipped around his neck in a perfectly Human-like hug. Suddenly ambushed by a wild, inexpressible hope, he began to weep as never before.

Aranya!

* * * *

Trying to compare Wyldaroon to anything she had seen before was a futile exercise. Aranya gave up almost as soon as she started. Every time she gazed at something, she saw another wonder. Colourful butterflies the size of dragonets drifted amongst lush, floating Islands which were linked together by a bewildering latticework of greenery–apparently originally draconic in nature, but quickly covered by creeping vines or curling branches. Some Islands caught waterfalls from those above, forming tiered cascades many Islands tall. The foliage was beyond lush. It exploded in every direction in daring sprays of flowers and hanging ferns thousands of feet long and waving, spiky-haired crowns of Islands. There were dragonets–forty different types she had counted so far, with quadruple wings, frills, long flattened bodies, or even something like sails … and creeping forest-Dragons, and tiny Dragonkind no longer than her Human’s finger, which drank nectar and pollinated flowers. Over to her left wing, she saw blue aquatic Dragons racing up a trio of waterfalls in great, joyous sprays. A pair of eyes each fifteen feet wide glared briefly at her from the underside of an Island, before withdrawing languidly.

She flew inside a three-dimensional jungle–how did one navigate this place? The Pygmy girl would have been blown right out of her little stockings. Or had she gone barefoot?

That inane speculation evaporated as they surmounted the Islands of this single Archipelago, one of thousands in Wyldaroon, and entered a realm of rainbows. Oh, and mountains! Aranya gazed at the rolling, white-capped mountain range spanning the horizon from North to South, seemingly close enough to touch, and batted away a treacherous notion that perhaps Immadia was not, after all, the most beautiful location in the Island-World. Nonsense.

She blinked. Ridiculously awesome mountains–four leagues tall? Five? More? Her Dragon sight abruptly zoomed in on what she had taken for a snow-avalanche, and she realised that was an avalanche of White Dragonkind–thousands strong, perhaps a herd on the move?

Before she knew it, a tear squeezed from her left eye and fell. Flying just beneath her, Gang’s tongue flicked in and out instinctively. Mmm? he puzzled, glancing at the clear sky. Magical raindrops?

Aranya winged along, the very paragon of innocence.

Unholy smoking volcanoes, what had she done now? What would her strange tear-magic do to a Dragon? Turn him into a Shapeshifter? Her hearts lurched painfully as a different thought intruded–his scars might be healed. And what of his old wounds that rendered him incapable of roosting with a female, just as the pox had similarly scarred her … there?

Let it be.

Every Dragoness–and the one male Dragon–in the Dragonwing shivered simultaneously and glanced about in evident puzzlement as the oath-magic teased their Dragon senses.

She projected the same surprise as everyone else.

She had to act normal. Aranya must be just one of fifty Dragonesses and two dozen Shapeshifters winging southward toward a similarly tangled group of Islands, this one garbed in vast blue flowers with deep orange hearts. She was the smallest by forty feet, aye, but she pretended the difference did not exist. Her eyes kept searching for the bases of Islands, for the normalcy of Cloudlands lapping around rocky shores, but that was absent. The suns-set colours embellishing the not-too-distant mountains and the vibrant sprays of rainbows adorning myriad waterfalls and drifting clouds of moisture almost undid her soul.

Breathing deep of the pollen-rich air, Aranya said, How does it feel to be out here at last, Gang?

Sacred, he replied.

So, the old fire-blower had a sweet streak? She knew that, of course. Just as she knew he had been watching her and filing away her every action and reaction in that cavernous mind of his. Gang’s suspicion was veiled with plenteous draconic subterfuge, but they had grown close in the past weeks and she, too, was aware of his signals. He might yet be her undoing. And how could she lie to these Dragons? She was the Island-World’s worst liar, bar none.

Therefore, she must not lie.

Late that evening, the Dragons rested in the bowels of a small Archipelago beyond the last of the Gladiator Pits, which occupied a lawless stretch of Archipelagos near the north-western corner of Wyldaroon. They ate, and Huaricithe questioned Aranya.

Half an hour later, the Navy-Blue Dragoness finally lost her temper. That was a long period for a Dragon, but her ensuing effort made the average erupting volcano look extinct. After ten minutes of venting her pique at considerable, creative and fiery length, when threats of a return to the Pits had been made and Aranya’s own fury had risen to a choking boil of its own, Gang stepped in.

He said, One question. One honest answer, Aranya. Can you manage that much?

Depends on the question, she hedged.

Ruddy fledgling doesn’t know her place! grumbled another Shapeshifter. No hint of glamour, expects us to understand her need for ruddy secrecy but not so much as half a scale’s hint as to why!

Strangest accent she has, grunted another. Can’t for my fire-life place it to any region I know.

Some few Dragons were amused, but the majority sided firmly with Marshal Huaricithe–a lynch-mob on paws, Aranya thought. Nonetheless, she had stuck to her line. Secrecy was vital. She could not say, not on pain of all the various torments Huaricithe had just recited.

She fears Thoralian, said Gang, over the rising hubbub.

That silenced the congregation. One, an older female Green called Itomiki, blurted out, Did the old Marshal hurt thee and thy family, little one?

Aye, Aranya growled, seizing a potential way out with relief. But I do not fear him.

No? pressed Gang.

No!

Looming over her, the hulking Gladiator pressed his muzzle right into her face and hissed cruelly, You slimy swamp-dwelling liar, you two-faced undraconic null-fires piddling little weasel–Aranya clamped her jaw shut as her fires surged uncontrollably–you grey-hearted salamander falsely clothed in Dragonskin, you calamitous coward whelped of deserters and runaways–she groaned in pain–you whelp of a diseased caveworm blighted amongst all creatures to a degree of hideousness–

HE DID THIS TO ME!!

Aranya clamped her jaw shut as thunder shook their Island. Huge thunder. Not just an angry-Aranya peal of thunder. Fra’anior’s voice.

Mercy!

Her thighs coiled faster than thought. Aranya sprang seventy feet in a single vertical bound, before her wings wrenched back toward her tail, stabbing pain into her shoulders. Behind her, the sheltered encampment exploded with shouts:

Catch her! Don’t let her escape! Burn the liar!

Fireballs, psychic strikes and even a sharp tugging at her wings, perhaps a Kinetic attack, staggered the young Dragoness as she accelerated away. Aranya slewed violently through a curtain of vegetation, spinning in two complete rotations before she oriented her wings and shot upward with Dragon-swift reactions. She jinked past hanging Islands, sliced through two cool waterfalls and hurtled upside-down through an equally startled flight of red dragonets, who squeaked in annoyance, only to flee as ten larger Dragons hurtled out of the gloom. Leaving a vocally unimpressed chorus eating her dust, Aranya flicked past a flotilla of the strange, bloated Dragons that held Islands upon their massed backs, and out into the open.

What she beheld knocked the fire and the stuffing right out of her.

A storm–an almighty storm!

Filling every horizon in a single, unbroken arc, massive shoulders of lightning-shot black cloud billowed beneath the lustre of a full Yellow Moon. An eruption, her panicked thoughts suggested. Then Aranya paused, her jaw dangling even further in an expression Zip called ‘catching windrocs as opposed to flies’. The lightning glinting behind those malevolent storm battlements was distinctly amethyst–undeniably anomalous and magical in origin, different in character to her shell-grandfather’s signature storm-mantling. The multi-branched, gorgeous amethyst lightning throwing itself across the leagues between the surging, sooty cloud-mountains made that much crystal clear.

The storm intensified as if charged by the electrified response of her speeding hearts-beat. No. This was not her signature, was it?

Aranya’s nostrils flared, taking in more than the storm’s scent. Hints of primal magic, operating at levels of existence she did not understand. Not malevolence so much as … Imbalance? A sense of release? Yet why the knowledge of connection, why this inkling that she could scent her own multifarious Amethyst Shapeshifter scent? Was this the same redolence she had detected in Izariela’s tomb?

Humansoul was dancing! Flying! That uninhibited Hualiama-esque flare and whirl of insubstantial limbs … Dragoness-Aranya glared at herself in perplexity. Lunatic.

Her Human’s laughter welled up like a spring of living water. We are two but one, Dragonsoul. Release your fears. What will be–

Will occur at the verimost talon-flick of a Star Dragoness? If only!

Humansoul’s merriment at her dry sarcasm was unbridled; a strange, fitting counterpoint to the storm’s ominous onset. Her inner voice seemed to fade into a faraway cry, Dance, o Amethyst … all we are asked to do in this life, is to dance …

Suddenly, the Star Dragoness became aware of Gang on her port side and Huaricithe to the starboard, scrutinising the storm with wary attention. Three necks twizzled identically, taking in the unnatural approach of those threatening storm-billows.

By shielded telepathy, Gang whispered to her, ’Tis the Song of the Storm Dragon.

Aranya nearly bit through her tongue. What?

An old legend of the Dragonfriend, the Grey-Green Dragon replied peaceably. A prophecy, indeed, attributed to her roost-mate-soul, Grandion. I know thy scent, Shapeshifter Scrap. I cannot prove anything as yet, but rest assured, I will plumb thy secrets, for I declare, as surely as the Island-World turns about the twin suns, Marshal Thoralian cannot be defeated by subterfuge and secrets kept in darkness, for those secrets will do nought but rend and destroy. All must be light, and white-fires light. Then truth will become our shield, our talon, and the paw of ultimate justice.

She caught herself jaw-dangling again. The soul-quaking power of his words!

Gangurtharr? A croak, nothing more.

He peered at her quizzically, smugly, draconic-mysteriously. Aye, Aranya of no past? Is it not every Dragon’s obligation to seek white-fires? Come. We must shelter from this storm.

With that, he winged away.

* * * *

From North and South came the drakes of Thoralian’s command, appearing from amidst the floating Islands as if a plague peeled off the ravaged backs of its victims. Shapeshifter Dragons flung the drakes into battle in their legions. Twice, Aranya thought she might have caught sight of a Yellow-White Dragon commanding the hordes, but amidst the torrential rain, the continuous hammering of storms and swirling clouds, it was impossible to tell for certain.

That first night, as the storm whipped their surrounds like the strokes of an almighty, many-stranded whip, Aranya feared the Islands must surely be flung back into the Cloudlands whence they came. Trees ripped free of their roots, leaves and whole branches whistled through the air, and stones pelted the sheltering Dragons, who hunkered down and spoke ominously about a type of storm called ‘hurricane’, unfamiliar to Aranya, which flung Archipelagos out of their customary paths, forming entirely new Island-patterns to bemuse and preoccupy the cartographers. Apparently, cartography in Herimor was a celebrated profession requiring a combination of artistry, prescience, magic and hard facts, mostly undertaken by a species called ‘Shurmbikals’, a humanoid reptile of uncertain origin and even more uncertain powers.

Come morning, there was a cheerful wake-up battle against three hundred fang-champing, battle-mad drakes. Aranya flew with Huari’s Dragonwing and fought with all her heart. The second day was a repeat of the first, only this one held two battles, larger than the first, as the powerful Navy-Blue fought to return her Dragonwing to her fortresses some six hundred leagues southwest of the Pits region. On the third day, further waves of titanic lightning-storms swept in, even more impressive than the first.

Unseasonable weather, grumbled the all-female Dragonwing, casting Aranya dark-fires glances.

Late that morning as they took a short rest inside yet another tangled, flying jungle, Gang sneaked up behind Aranya and hissed, Song of the Storm Dragon!

She whirled in a jumble of wings and limbs. Gang! Don’t do that.

Almost scared you into your Human hide, did I?

Go pester Huaricithe. You seem to have a fiery spot for her.

Aye, he growled. You know what, Scrap? I’ve an unaccustomed itch in my–he pointed to a spot that made her fires blush. I haven’t had feeling down there in fifty years. And, my hide seems to be changing. The footprint of each scar is reducing in size, their colour–

What? Oh, Gang, that’s wonderful news!

Gaah, she could barely convince herself, let alone a hyper-aware Herimor Dragon. They all seemed to live and breathe this crazy form of subterfuge they called ‘glamour’. As far as she could tell, they were all born lie-detectors and wrapped themselves in endless onion-like layers of mental shielding meant to keep prying thoughts out of minds. All of that duplicity demanded a great deal of magic and effort.

Ever since I tasted a strange teardrop on the breeze, he snorted. Do you know of a Dragon power that produces tears, Scrapling?

Aranya aimed a fond bite as high up his left thigh as she could reach. I know only that you grow weepy in your senescence. Oh, Gang, you’re as transparent as that pool over there.

And you, my charming little fabricator, could not tell a convincing lie given a hundred years’ training and all the glamour in Herimor, he growled back. Come on. When will you transform for us? I know you can. You smell like Huari and those other Shifters. You reek of Shapeshifter–

TO BATTLE! Huaricithe roared.

Freaking feral windrocs, why had she never considered that Shapeshifters might smell a certain way? Enraged beyond reason, and missing her friends like a hole in her Dragon hearts, Aranya belatedly launched out after the rest of the Dragonwing. A Dragon fell right past her. Not one of their own. The Amethyst Dragoness shot through the foliage out into the open, above the small, nameless cluster of Islands, and gasped.

Fiery red drakes occluded the stormy skies. Counting was pointless. Low, underslung jaws furnished with hooked fangs and bloodshot eyes surrounded them; an overwhelming force. Thoralian must have been breeding again. Their chittering surrounded her like a million insects singing at once, filling the noon skies with an eerie buzzing sound as the drakes clumped together and wheeled into the attack, dive-bombing the much larger Dragons. Wings torn! Eyes ripped from their sockets. Drakes hung off lips and wings, mobbing the much larger Lesser Dragons. In return, mighty jaws champed the smaller, twenty-foot Dragonkind in half and fireballs seared the air, chargrilling their victims. Drakes rained from the skies. Dragons perished. Aranya saw Gangurtharr barrelling into a thick knot of drakes overwhelming a Green Dragoness, and followed.

Useless destruction. If Thoralian had his way, he would destroy every Dragon in the Island-World. In their madness, these drakes even attacked the ragions clamped to the undersides of Islands. Anything that moved.

Her sorrow was her Storm.

Here, the battle raged between pockets of storm-clouds. Aranya knew that this Storm was something linked once more with her emotions, with the burdens that weighed her hearts so heavily, or even with her concern over the fate of her Island-World. These were her creatures. As a Star Dragoness, she was sworn to set this Imbalance to rights.

Suddenly, her scales crawled as if seeking to lift off her back. Ardan. She felt … Ardan! That profound linkage stirred just slightly, so very faraway, in her breast …

Galvanised, Aranya reached for her power. If there was a Storm Dragon, perhaps his legendary power lived in his progeny; if there was a song to be sung, then she must be the singer.

In your honour, grandsire.

She genuflected deeply. Then, the Amethyst Dragoness acquiesced at last. Aranya sang to her Storm. Lightning gathered upon her paws. It sparked in great torrents from the gathered clouds, and played over her scales in crazed, jagged patterns. Come to me, she sang. I shall discharge you in the cause of justice.

Power sizzled across her scales. More, she crooned. Join my fires, my song, my life …

Grief-song. Power-song. Dragonsong!

Coiling lightning about her talons, the Amethyst Dragoness launched into the battle with a melancholy ballad rising upon her lips–one of Hualiama’s favourites, she had read in her Aunt’s writings. It seemed appropriate, the legend of Saggaz Thunderdoom:

Bestriding boiling thunderheads, the Thunderdoom arose,

His roar a trump of thunder,

Like wingéd lightning his mighty paw,

Struck the skies asunder!

And as she sang, she fell upon the drakes and their commanding Shapeshifters like the Thunderdoom of old, flinging lightning across the divide from her talons, aiming her wingtips and muzzle at Shifters, and even striking with mighty bolts shot from her tail. She burned. She blazed. Aranya could not have described the fires that devoured her soul at that moment, only that they were white, excruciatingly white, so beautiful that they consumed, uplifted and inspired all at once, and in that whiteness was a well of truth by which she must fly all the days of the life given to her under the twin suns.

The battle was her song. Wild Dragonsong swelled in her mind, until the swirling of body and tangling of claws became as nothing before the mighty power of her song, and she drew from the surrounding Storm-power all that was to be drawn, and depleted herself in almighty vengeance. She saw Thoralian. She saw him everywhere, in the claws, the fangs and in the faces of their enemies–his foul imprint lived in their souls, and she knew she must expunge every last taint.

Corkscrewing pugnaciously past Gangurtharr, the Star Dragoness cleaned his back and shoulders of drakes with thirteen precision blasts in the space of a quarter-second, leaving the startled Dragon gaping amidst a cloud of drifting grey ash. She whirled into the midst of Huaricithe’s beleaguered command, disappearing for a moment behind the huge, closely-packed Dragonesses.

Hsst! Hsst! Ka-ka-ka-kraaack! This was the seductive voice of her amethyst-tinged lightning. Strike after strike raged from her claws, racing through the narrowest gaps and around wings and between startled, tucked-up legs, as though the Dragonesses themselves flew within a storm, only that storm was the fledgling in their midst; they bugled in shock and amazement as the enemy imploded, burned, shot away on the wings of a sharp puff of Storm-wind.

Having cleared the nearby skies, Aranya swirled away. Retribution-sorrow! Rage! She roared, KNOW THE TASTE OF FRA’ANIOR’S WRATH, THORALIAN!

Three Yellow Shapeshifters broke for cover. Aranya raced after. Lightning thundered between the Islands. Only one disembodied head fell into the void of the Cloudlands below.

The Amethyst Dragoness, burning so heatedly that the air itself seemed to flee from her presence, swooped beneath the Island-Cluster, gathering her wrath for the drakes massed beyond. Where was Thoralian? Where was he? She sensed his presence, somewhere. Somehow. He was here in Wyldaroon, and she burned suns-bright against him … for he had broken her. Marked her. Tortured her with all the vicious pleasure of an insatiably evil Dragon.

Together with thirty Dragonesses of Huaricithe’s Dragonwing, the Star Dragoness fell upon a pack of five hundred vicious drakes, raging, burning, weeping, knowing now her own inanition, the expenditure of battle-effort from wasted lungs, that she could not breathe yet had no need to, for the starlight was her life and her song, the elemental power of her heritage.

Aranya’s wings folded.

Drakes mobbed her, shocked into a feral rage, but her Dragon-kin blasted through with a massive volley of fireballs, acid spit and Huaricithe’s own blue-chased fireballs … and a Dragon’s paws gripped her falling, flaccid body, hissing with shock at the extreme heat radiating from her white-hot scales, shifting to clasp just with the talons so that his Dragon-scales would not melt. Gangurtharr bore her aloft, already bugling the victory.

The Amethyst slumped in his paws. Job … done, Gang? Did we do the job?

Thou art the Assassin, he replied.

For long moments, cool winds soughed across her scales, slowly relieving the awful heat and reviving her senses. Aranya felt a trickle of magic slowly returning to her spent being. She heaved and rasped for breath. Thanks … rescue.

Softly now, Scrap, he whispered, and there was a light in his eyes Aranya did not understand. Bearing her up tenderly, the massive Dragon brought her to the place where Huaricithe had re-gathered her Dragonwing.

Aranya smiled tiredly. Good battle, mighty Dragon-kin!

They stared at her, fixed of eye and motionless of wing. Several Dragons even dribbled fire between their fangs. A bunch of hapless ralti sheep, she thought uncharitably. Or, was there something else? No-one seemed to be talking or boasting, and where were the celebrations due a notable victory?

What’s the matter? We won, didn’t we?

Gang breathed, Did you know your scales are white, Scrap? Pure white?

Whaaaaat … Aranya stared at her paws; her wings. As white as Immadia’s freshly-fallen snows. Betrayed! Oh, Gangurtharr …

He bowed his muzzle. Art thou Aranya, pluckéd from the starry host?

Huaricithe extended her wings in the most formal of genuflections. Star Dragoness.

Following her example, all of the Dragonesses of her Dragonwing lowered their muzzles and made humble obeisance, whispering, Star Dragoness. Star Dragoness. We worship thee. We worship, we worship …

Aranya gasped, You wor–what? You can’t do that! No!

Only the wind answered her plaintive cry.

Chapter 26: Thoralian’s Bequest

IN TWO FURTHER days of rapid travel, Leandrial led her group to Entorixthu’s Cleft. Here, the Mesas had been deeply split, giving rise to a dark cleft flanked by two even darker pillars at the entrance, black metallic statues depicting two heads of Fra’anior himself. Those forbidding statues stood a mere five times taller than Leandrial was long, thought Zip, hovering on the wing as she eyed the Land Dragoness judiciously. Sure, she filled a low mountaintop as few Dragons might. But those peaks ahead–they would test Land Dragons’ capabilities to the limit.

Ri’arion, naturally, was swapping notes with Leandrial. “You say the pass is eleven miles high?”

“More, depending on the snow and ice,” she replied.

“That’s high, even for a Lesser Dragon,” he noted. “Not much of a pass, is it? Better than crossing the real highlands on either side, suppose.”

“A mere fifteen to eighteen miles tall, according to my trigonometric calculations,” agreed the Welkin-Runner. “Alright, how shall we organise ourselves, monk?”

Ri’arion said, “Bigger Runners at the front, you in the middle, Leandrial, and the rest close behind. I’ve worked the shield-constructs as best I can, given our differing levels of ability. The Blast-Runners will stick close to their ‘buddy’ Welkin-Runners. Halfway up the pass or so, we’ll have them settle inside mouths because of their lack of resistance to extreme cold. The Lesser Dragons will scout to try to keep the Ice-Runners at bay.”

“They’re hardly Runners,” complained one of the younger Welkin-Runners, Jelladrial by name. Their group had now swelled to include eleven of Leandrial’s kin, as they had found a few more individuals taking refuge in the Sea of Dragons’ Tears.

“Sub-intelligent Dragonkind,” the monk agreed smoothly. “Pack hunters that delight in warmly welcoming visitors to the Mesas, by all accounts.”

“Furry Dragons? Ugh,” sniffed another Welkin-Runner.

“No point in jawing the day away here,” Zuziana said wanly, willing her stomach to stay firmly in place. “We’ve plenty of daylight hours left. No rest for depraved, Princess-despoiling recalcitrant excuses for religious men.”

Ri’arion kicked her shoulder, chuckling, “In my defence–”

“Defence? I don’t believe I’ve made that particular allowance in your case. I like to keep my husbands on a short chain.”

“Husbands, plural? I’m no schizophrenic Shapeshifter–realising suddenly that I have two wives, one scaly and cuddly, and the other a petite thorn bush.”

Chuckling with her monk, the Azure Dragoness winged toward the great, weather-beaten statues guarding Entorixthu’s Cleft. Certainly, she had a new appreciation for Aranya’s healthy fear of the Great Onyx. Imagine having a clutch of those heads champing at your tail-end all night?

A chill breeze tugged at her wing membranes, a harbinger of things to come. This was undoubtedly a job for an Immadian, not a girl from tropical Remoy. Zip silently beseeched Fra’anior to return Aranya to them. And when he did, she would so take the Amethyst to task for daring to slingshot them out of the Rift-Storm! Whatever had she been thinking–self-sacrifice? By the Black One’s own belly-fires, that best friend of hers needed some common pragmatism thoroughly beaten into her armour-plated skull!

She knew just the girl to do that, too.

The Welkin-Runners emerged from the cream-fluff Cloudlands in a dense, damp-slick wedge. The lowering suns brought out the vibrant blues of their scales as never before. Gigantic chameleons, she thought. Leandrial was more than twice the size of any of her kin, a giant among giants, and the Blast-Runners clustered above her neck seemed little more than tiny children clutching their mother’s ruff. Two eggs had hatched inside of Leandrial’s mouth the previous evening, sparking joyous Dragonsong amongst Tari’s Dragonwing, who were resting until they entered the Cleft itself. Zip had held one of the wobbly hatchlings in her paws, and wondered how her triplets might come out–Human or scaly? Was there a rule for Shapeshifters?

Triplets? Leaping Islands crowned by dancing rainbows, in triplicate!

The Land Dragons rapidly sloughed off the last of the Cloudlands as they ascended a hidden slope protruding from Entorixthu’s Cleft like a long tongue, the result of centuries of erosion. A surprisingly turquoise river filled much of the mile-wide gap between the statues, with white floes moving briskly in the slurry of its evidently chill flow. That was no barrier to the Welkin-Runners. They surged upslope gusting steaming puffs of air over their labouring bodies. With a combined mental touch, Ri’arion and Leandrial checked their pressure-increasing, osmotic and cold-reflective shield-layers and helped several of the younger Land Dragons make adjustments. Then, they poured up the long, winding cleft into the heart of the Mesas.

The route wound gently into a broad, temperate valley lined with forests of a local gum tree, with distinctly blue, teardrop-shaped leaves; these covered the valley’s slopes alongside the river in a dense, hundred-foot forest canopy. A menthol-like tang came to Zuziana’s nostrils. She inhaled appreciatively. For this part, the Land Dragons elected to swim-wade upriver. After all, the deep flow barely covered their bellies. Several hours later, the valley opened into ostensibly uninhabited riverine pastureland, where the wavy bluegrass was a summery azure with white tufts backed by faraway ranks of jutting mauve and grey mountains, capped with white snowfall. The size and quantity of the animal droppings led Zuziana to wonder where all the denizens had vanished to.

They aimed for a second set of black statues, easily visible over the flat blue grassland from a distance of over a hundred miles, and by nightfall, passed onward into the mountains proper. Leandrial called a mid-evening rest as, having climbed a steep slope to a height of perhaps four miles above the Cloudlands, the mountains revealed … aye, more mountains, and more beyond, until the serried ranks of purple and white peaks seemed to touch the sky itself. The Land Dragons performed health checks, indulged in a little forest-crushing wrestling match, and Leandrial let her coterie of fledglings and hatchlings out of her mouth to play and feed in the icy night air.

An hour later, taskmaster-Ri’arion called the Dragons to order.

Zip tried very hard not to giggle at the prospect of a dashing six-foot-plus Human calling their monstrous Land Dragon companions to heel. Most would not even have noticed had they trodden upon him by accident.

Now, the trail climbed relentlessly, forcing the heavy Land Dragons to push themselves hard. To the Lesser Dragons the air became bitingly cold and thin as they climbed; far worse for Land Dragons, accustomed to the great air pressures and comfortable warmth of their middle and middle-lower layers. They huffed and panted as they walked over the permafrost, pressing into a steadily worsening breeze that swept down from the heights, bringing a tang of moisture and new smells–draconic smells.

Leandrial said, “They’re waiting for us up ahead.”

“Couldn’t be Thoralian’s handiwork, could it?” asked Ri’arion.

They had earlier discussed intelligence detected from a patrol of Gem-Runners that suggested one of the Thoralians might already be in Wyldaroon, recruiting Gladiator Dragons for his armies.

Leandrial shook her muzzle resolutely. “Seems unlikely. But we must be alert. He might well have forces watching the mountains. He seems to have covered most of Herimor with his spies and patrols. Good thinking to lay a false trail yesterday.”

The monk pointed with his chin. “Do you smell a storm?”

“Perhaps beyond the pass,” she rumbled, testing her eye-beam with a brief shot into the sky. “Onward and upward, my friends.”

Crossing a ridge, they descended for an hour before traversing a flat, isolated plain. Dense, low-hanging cloudbanks obscured the farther peaks. Leandrial oriented them on a third set of statues and they walked doggedly into the first flurries of snow. The ground was ice and red stone, unrelieved by any green, growing thing. Shortly, the Blast-Runners made their retreat into warm and welcoming mouths, and the group pushed up another climb into the teeth of a freshening gale as the weather closed in. Tari the Red passed overhead, calling a warning.

The landscape was like a series of huge steps leading into leaden skies. Zip reckoned the time must be around dawn, but there was no relief from the snow whipping into their faces. She began to wonder if the climb would ever end. The Welkin-Runner youngsters had their heads down, clearly freezing and miserable, plodding along with no thought other than to reach the top and begin the descent. Even shields could only achieve so much.

They were two and a half leagues above the Cloudlands, deep in a realm inimical to their kind, when the first attack came.

Zuziana heard a low rumbling approaching from the flank; Leandrial sounded a warning as two dozen or more Ice-Runners rumbled over a nearby rise, moving rapidly in a tight-knit group, all horns pointed to the front and armoured skulls lowered for the charge. They undulated along like the sometimes toxic, furry caterpillars of Remoy, Zip decided, only these beasts appeared to possess eighteen or twenty sets of legs, and beneath their flowing white fur and oddly bearded, broad faces, she suspected they were little more than five hundred feet of bone, muscle and belligerence.

Voicing a primal howl, they swept down on the foremost Welkin-Runners. Eye-cannons flared, blasting half a dozen of the Ice-Runners into the next kingdom, wherever that was. The balance slammed into one of the smaller Welkin-Runners positioned just ahead of Leandrial, and bowled her over in a concerted rush. Shields vibrated like bells. Paws scrabbled. Ri’arion charged in like a fireball in his own right, shoring up damage and helping the youngsters pick targets that were not each other. Tari and Brityx roared in above the tussling group, igniting the Ice-Runners’ long, luxurious fur like torches.

Watch the horns! They’ve shield-penetrating magic, called Ri’arion. Tixi–

On it like choleric lightning, snapped the Red. Dragons, fan out! Warm them up before they get here. Brityx, take ten and scout ahead. I’m on port. Hulzar, starboard. Leandrial, have your Runners fire early–we’ll give you nice bonfires to target.

Zip realised that the Welkin-Runners somehow had not seen the incoming Ice-Runners. They were well disguised, certainly–was it the cold? The sleeting storm? Magic?

No time for that. She banked to follow Brityx’s group, ignoring Ri’arion’s hastily swallowed desire to forbid her to fly into battle. She was pregnant, not helpless! She threw back over her shoulder, Leandrial, can those Blast-Runners fire from inside your mouth? How can we use them?

Her thought was only half-formed when fire erupted ahead of her. A dense pack of Ice-Runners split apart as if hacked by an axe, voicing guttural howls. Leandrial’s eye-beam speared through the semidarkness, gouging a mile-long trench of destruction. Smaller beams lit upon the Ice-Runners at the forefront of the charge, blasting away with concerted pulses of Harmonic magic. The massively powerful creatures still broke through, despite flaming fur and severed limbs, whereupon Leandrial and her kin fell to the old-fashioned method of chopping with their flaming talons, but their power seemed weakened in the thin atmosphere. They suffered heavy damage before the charge broke up.

Zuziana shot overhead, wishing she could do more damage than just her fireballs and lightning. She could lead. Zipping past Brityx and her group, the Azure Dragoness and her monk searched for the way forward, for the best path that would take them out of range of the Ice-Runners. There were many, approaching as though drawn by the sounds and scents of battle, by the clash of magic and the muted thundering of the Land Dragons. Yet the top of the pass was not far, perhaps ten miles distant.

KAAABOOOM!! The Blast-Runners’ contribution lit the gloom, spraying body parts as far as a mile up the trail.

Aye! Whirling, she cried, Leandrial, rouse your kin to run as you did before, upon talons of penetrative shielding! Follow me!

The Dragoness did not hesitate. She roused her charges with urgent bellowing. One young male Welkin-Runner was too injured to continue; overriding his protests, Leandrial slung him bodily over her shoulder, staggering under the additional weight.

Zuziana heard her roar, I will not lose another! Not on this airless, forsaken mountain!

Riding the whistling storm winds, Zuziana sensed her monk growing distant in his mind as he lent his mental strength to the great Dragons–encouraging, cajoling, scorning if needed. Anything to rouse their fires. The Welkin-Runners gathered momentum. Their paws began to tread lightly, cushioned by air, and she relayed a message through Ri’arion to bid them be as quiet as possible. How did one still the breathing of a half-mile behemoth? With auditory shielding, of course, grunted the monk. Meantime, she had Tari and Brityx mount diversionary attacks away from the main trail. The simple stratagem worked. The Ice-Runners milled about in confusion, sensing their prey disappearing while attacks materialised from other sources. They charged toward the enemy-apparent, only to discover their own kind; wild snarls developed as the Ice-Runners vented their fury on each other. Brityx called to her Dragonwing, helping the confusion by fire-bombing the wild Dragonkind from above.

What … when reach … top? Leandrial wheezed.

She was growing light-headed, ready to drop as she powered up to the summit of the pass. The Dragoness staggered as though she were drunk–oxygen deprivation, Zip realised. Unbelievably, they still travelled through a distinct cleft in the immense mountain-range. Though the flurries of snow, Zuziana caught sight of peaks miles taller still, which acted as a natural funnel for the storm’s blast.

Unaccountably, the wind dropped as though hacked away by a sword.

The Ice-Runners gathered on the slopes turned with one accord toward the faint rumbling raised by the Land Dragons.

Help! cried two of the youngsters.

There’s a plan, Zuziana called smoothly. Trust me and do as I command.

General Zuziana, Ri’arion chuckled, you are undoubtedly the most adorable general I have ever had the pleasure of–tell you later. Luckily for him, he stopped mid-proposition.

LIKE THIS! Zuziana thundered at the mental and audible levels.

Leandrial was the first to grasp her picture. Her laughter emerged as a rough, pained bark. Link together, my kin! Link paws and tails! The greatest mother of all drew her disparate brood to her sides, binding them with the strength of her forearms and straightening her tail so that they could all find grip. Huge, steely talons curled around Dragon hide. Now they were one. The Land Dragons tucked up their paws and set to skating along on a bed of air–a reversed pneumatic shield–as the trail dipped down a long, winding cleft back toward the safety of the Cloudlands of Wyldaroon. They accelerated smoothly.

Now, Ri’arion fashioned a wedge-shaped shield ahead of them.

A plough? Zip thought incredulously.

We Fra’aniorians till our fields with Dragons, he suggested, rather implausibly.

Farming with Land Dragons? Zip was not convinced Dragonkind would find the image appealing.

The gliding wedge knocked the converging Ice-Runners left and right, several times tumbling them beneath the cavalcade so that the closely-knit group of Welkin-Runners seemed to bobble over a stippled surface, dropping stunned creatures in their wake. The vibrant Blast-Runners shivering around Leandrial’s neck-ruff suddenly oriented as one beast on an attack arising from the port flank. Perfectly coordinated, their muzzles gaped. A shrill whine of shared magic split the air. KAABOOOM!! They struck rock and ice just ahead of the Ice-Runners. Animals tumbled helplessly, kicking up clouds of ice and snow. Brityx’s Dragonwing swirled through the softly-falling but thick snowflakes, firing fireballs in rapid succession. Meantime, Tari’s small command swung away to harry the Ice-Runners ahead.

Leandrial and her kin skated down a broad, flat ridge before hitting a frozen lake. Zuziana saw ice spitting behind as Leandrial lightly employed her talons for rudders. The group swept down a twenty-mile patch of cerulean ice en route to another pair of statues. Fra’anior the seven-headed Dragon, Zip thought, flexing her wings as her Dragon-senses responded automatically to a change in the air pressure. Something was sucking the air away to the South.

Her skull-spikes ached as the Azure Dragoness peered ahead. What by all the volcanic hells of Fra’anior was that magic, that preternatural prickling against her scales? Had they just gaily leaped out of the roasting-pan into the furnace?

The Land Dragons skated off the end of the lake, bisecting the immense statues to either side, before the wide trail suddenly dipped again, traversing a long series of ledges leading down to the Cloudlands. Suddenly, they saw beneath the layer of storm-clouds assaulting the Mesas, and there was not a Dragon in their group who did not voice a started bugle or oath.

Wyldaroon shook in the grips of a legendary storm. Smoky black clouds bubbled the length and breadth of that realm like the surface of a cauldron filled with a ghastly brew, forming and mounting up into the sky before their dumbfounded fire-eyes. It was the magnitude that staggered, the pent-up fury of Nature every Dragon recognised; the impenetrable bands of storm reaching to the horizon laced with towering columns of amethyst lightning that leaped tens of leagues between the threatening thunderheads. Zuziana gasped as she recognised the appalling truth.

That lightning was Aranya’s colour. This was her power, unleashed in a form and on a scale … unimaginable. Amethyst-chased clouds surged and heaved over the deeps, obscuring any Islands of Wyldaroon they might have hoped to see. Out near the horizon, the storm churned around an unseen central point, and forked lightning formed a many-pillared pavilion, playing crazily and constantly across the breadth of her vision.

Something was amiss. Her friend was in danger, tortured, alone.

ARANYA!! Zip howled into the void.

* * * *

Having reversed direction, gale-force winds blew them out of the mountains and mercifully, down into the Cloudlands before the full brunt of the new, magical storm struck Leandrial and the Lesser Dragons. Even the upper layer was agitated and churned up, so the Land Dragoness led them deeper, diving beneath the wilds of Wyldaroon. She and her kin blasted a way through a sea of Island-sized stinging jellies, and after nine hours further travelling they came to a place Leandrial and Tari agreed lay beneath the Gladiator Pits. Here, in this area’s commercial hub, they would begin their search for a lost star.

To a Dragon, and one Human monk, they were battered and travel-weary. The Lesser Dragons badly needed to detoxify; Zip felt far more green than Azure. Accordingly, Leandrial led her command away to feed, rest and heal in the deeps, while Suk’itarix and her mate directed the wing-drooping Lesser Dragons aloft to seek a quiet Island for rest and recuperation.

The storm appeared to have abated, but devastation abounded. The Azure Dragoness could almost not lift a wing, lurching awkwardly as they negotiated a green tunnel between Islands she suddenly realised were linked together by strands of ragions, so that they seemed to fly into a living sponge. Tux’tarax unsubtly lent a shoulder, steadying the Azure as she wobbled badly.

Thanks, she sighed.

Strength to thy paws, o little one of mighty deeds, he said. We shall rest in this place, and share fresh kill, and compose praise-songs to deeds essayed and mightier deeds to come.

Finding a series of linked dells surrounded by towering walls of vegetation and a waterfall that apparently fell from a hole through the centre of a separate Island hovering overhead, the Dragonwing landed and set about securing their temporary roost. Eggs all together, guarded by three Dragons. Hatchlings to wash and play. The fledglings hunted for morsels amidst the luxuriant vegetation, while a number of adults departed to hunt. Zuziana’s ears twitched in delight at the nearby trilling of dragonets. Perfect. She transformed into her Human form and dressed. Wow. A Remoyan dress in Herimor. Picking up Ri’arion’s travelling cloak, which smelled just like him, she covered herself and curled up amidst the baggage. Just a quick nap. Making three eggs while slapping Land Dragons hither and thither was hard work …

Ri’arion kissed her forehead. “I’m off with Brityx and Tari to hunt for Aranya. They don’t want to waste a minute and I don’t blame them. Some storm, huh?”

“Aranya’s storm,” Zip murmured.

“Aye. So we’re looking for–”

“Comet. Amethyst. And sweet, sexy monks.”

He chuckled softly. “Might take us a while, precious petal. Get some rest, alright?”

“G’night.”

The last thing she remembered was Ri’arion saying something to Tari about how excited Aranya would be to learn about her pregnancy.

* * * *

Zip woke to a world of ice. Shivering.

Sallow eyes regarded her from just a few feet above her head. She wanted to scream, but the glistening orbs were so hypnotic, so filled with lustrous malevolence, that the sound died in her throat.

I am Thoralian, said the Dragon, unnecessarily.

She knew. Zip’s heart was an ice-bound wasteland. Tears squeezed forth, freezing in the corners of her eyes.

’Twas a courageous crossing that delivered thee to my paw, little Zuziana. I and my brothers have conversed. We thought it most appropriate that I should accordingly speak with thee. A talon toyed with her cheek, the voice like winter’s breath soughing over icebound peaks. Zuziana of Remoy. So pathetic without your friends. You are nothing without the courage of others.

Zip concentrated. I defy thee, even in my dreams.

Where were the Dragons? Why did she hear nothing? Where was the song of dragonets … for morning had come, she realised, and Ri’arion had not yet returned–but he would, soon.

Dreams? Thoralian’s awful laughter ravaged all hope. Oh, he’s not due back for an hour, yet. Be of good cheer, Azure. We have chosen thee above all others to serve as the right paw of our purposes in this epoch of the Island-World.

What … purposes?

She fought him now, fought furiously in the confines of her mind, screaming helplessly as Thoralian overpowered her. Settle down, he gurgled horribly. We must not disturb your precious babes.

The way he said ‘precious’ threw her into a nadir of despair such as she had never experienced in all of her life. In a flash, Zuziana discerned his intent. This was no nightmare; at best, it was an apparition of Thoralian, at worst, he was present in flesh as well as in spirit, and he intended to harm her younglings …

Then, she shrieked for Aranya, for Ri’arion, for anyone, for help from the very heavens themselves, but her cries only echoed in the confines of her skull, and slowly those cries turned to whimpering as his talon traced its way down her throat to her abdomen. She was alone. Abandoned. She could not protect her babes … she must! Zuziana lashed out with every power at her disposal. The massive Yellow-White Dragon staggered a half-step backward, but he recovered immediately to crush her again with his extraordinary mental power.

Ooh, she has grown strong, he jeered and approved at once. She’ll be a fitting hostess to secure our future. Listen closely, little Zuziana. Listen and rejoice in how you have been chosen, above all mothers, to safeguard the glorious future of the Shapeshifter race!

She began to curse him, but his mental grip cut off even her thoughts. Attend! By the power of urzul I shall place in your womb a fragment of my tripartite spirit–but fear not! It shall not enter your sweet egglings yet–so very tiny! So young and innocent of the ways of Shapeshifters and Men. Did you know you’re expecting two girls and a boy? He paused to indulge in a cackle, gazing deep into Zuziana’s helpless eyes. If you do all that I command, Zuziana, and we three Thoralians survive the battles to come, I shall withdraw this gift. If you falter at the crucial moment, my spirit will infuse your egglings with beautiful, destiny-changing power, and you shall be privileged to become the shell mother of my spirit-progeny, the newest incarnation of my immortal flesh.

She glared at Thoralian, hating him beyond words.

Almost tenderly, he crooned, The Star Dragoness is powerful. But you are Aranya’s most trusted friend. Deliver to us the First Egg, and your babes shall remain unharmed. All this, I swear upon the power of urzul and the blazing forges of my own fire-life.

An awful echo of oath-magic speared into her belly, making Zuziana’s body arch off the frozen ground.

Thoralian growled, Now, for the sake of your cherished egglings, attend to my instructions.

She spiralled into madness.

Chapter 27: Vassals, Hassles and Tassels

ARANYA ROARED AT Gangurtharr, “If you apologise one more time, I swear I will transform you into a toad! I do not want worship! Or fawning! Roaring ruddy volcanoes, Gang, I am … I’m a Dragoness and a seventeen year-old girl! Not Fra’anior! Do you see seven thundering heads? Paws capable of juggling Islands? Storm mantling–oh, Islands’ sakes!” The recently-turned White Dragoness sighed as various frisky growls of thunder around the Island they had returned to following the battle, punctuated her words. “No, I’ve no idea why this freaking stupid storm seems intent on sniffing around my skirts–now, by the sulphurous breath of the Great Onyx himself, will you get down here and let me examine your wounds?”

She peremptorily indicated a spot right in front of her paws. “NOW!”

The hulking, scarred Gladiator, more than thrice her height at the shoulder, retreated a step, shaking his muzzle. He was also bleeding heavily from three large talon-gouges following their last battle, not to mention hundreds of drake-bites all over his lips, muzzle and wings. “No, Your Starry … uh, Majesty. It isn’t right. Not right at all.”

Huari chuckled, “Him? You’ll never get the stars out of his eyes now, Aranya.”

That is IT!! The annoyed Amethyst summarily flattened Gang with a Storm-powered roar. Get over here, you unkempt mound of muscle. Gang snarled in shock as her cunningly shaped shield wafted him over to her on a bed of whirring air. Dragons stared as she handled him like a toy–well, for a second, before she realised she would have nothing left over for healing.

She dumped Gang on his flank. “Stay put. Last warning.”

“She was like this in the arena,” he carped, finding not so much as a sackweight’s-worth of sympathy among the Dragonesses. “Disrespectful. A Dragon has his dignity, you know.”

Humansoul said, Can I come out and play, too?

Don’t you start, snarled Aranya. I’ve had quite enough–oh. You’ve magic?

Practically spitting out of me following that storm.

Alright, I have kind of starved … us, admitted the Dragoness. I’m sorry, petal. I’ve not been a very good friend to the best part of us.

Glad you noticed, her Human said insolently. But I say differently, my fire-blossom-heart.

Aranya’s third heart turned into heated mush at the recognition of her second-soul’s warm love. Then, she turned full circle, ensuring every Dragon present apprehend the measure of her barely-withheld wrath. “I will transform. Can we withhold any comments, snarky or otherwise? The scarring appears worse in my Human form …”

The Island-World seemed to shrink away as a tiny Human folded into the place where her Dragoness had stood. The Princess of Immadia stretched her arms and wriggled her aching shoulders, grateful for once that there were no leering eyes about, only forty murmuring Dragonesses and one exceedingly grumpy male Dragon. Allowing her hair to slide forward to conceal her face, Aranya willed herself not to glance about, for the horror she apprehended was enough. They would see oozing lesions, several newly split open during her battle with Tahootax. Scars clumped in tight, purple knobbles or indentations, twisting her skin peculiarly over her too-lean frame. Open craters adorned her left cheekbone, right hip, outer left calf muscle and exposed the tendons atop her right foot. The skin there looked diseased. Had she picked up an infection to boot? Great.

Surely, her Shapeshifter Human should display an open belly-wound? There was none. Only a fine white line crossing her abdominals toward her lower ribs belied Tahootax’s ruthless strike. What? Too much to consider; white-fires flared in her mind as Aranya tried to pinpoint–a divergence between her other-manifestations? Fear sparked in her mind. This must be what Fra’anior sought to warn her about. Carrying around so much Storm was undoubtedly tearing her apart.

What triggered the Storm? It must be mighty magic indeed, yet not a conscious act of will. Just for once, could she not be forced to carry these burdens?

In a troubled voice she said, “Gang–”

Aranya froze as a talon swept back the veil of her hair. Huaricithe! The Dragoness made a throat-clicking sound, her breath rasping noticeably, and her fires sighed and hissed as if a bonfire had been dumped upside-down.

Repulsive, these scars. The devastation betrayed by her whisper threatened to steal all sanity.

Itomiki the Green, the oldest of the Shapeshifters at one hundred and forty-one years, said, Nay, that is not … you must transform, noble Huari. Show the Star Dragoness the truth.

Air imploded against her back.

Huaricithe seized Aranya’s left hand impulsively. Look at me. Behold.

Expressive blue eyes framed by masses of tight blue curls. An impish chin. A face so Hualiama’s, yet subtly different, that Aranya felt soul-lost, transported through time … a quivering hand warm upon her cheek, tracing the cheekbone with wonder, tenderly stroking her chin. Although Huari was tiny, just a finger under five feet and Aranya over a foot taller, there was in the slant of the eyes and the jaw’s contour, in the delicately pointed ears and the slender limbs, an unmistakable familial likeness. The woman was also heavily scarred on her left hip. Pox-marks, Aranya saw. A different strain …

She sat down with a bump on Gangurtharr’s curved paw, blurting out, “Oh. Oh! Oh!” Very erudite, Immadia! Overwhelmed. Sensing the curling flame of a Shapeshifter’s fire-soul, nearby, singing with joy, she said, “Is that why you’re so Blue?”

Gang said, “Where did you say you hail from?”

“You wouldn’t know my Island-home,” Aranya said.

“Try us,” purred Itomiki.

Simultaneously, Huari whispered, “In our clan’s tradition, I’m an eleventh-generation descendant of Hualiama Dragonfriend and Grandion–at least, that’s our ancestral lore-claim, a claim which saw us almost wiped out. Blasphemy, see? Our clan fled to Wyldaroon. Hid our heritage. But … don’t you see it? Don’t you? I have to know!”

The Grey-Green’s paw tapped Aranya’s backside. “Well, you sure flicked an Island out of the Cloudlands there, Scrap. What’s the meaning of all this crazy-forbidden hair? Didn’t know rainbows were possible in Human women.”

“Stop that,” said Aranya, automatically.

“The more powerful they are, the worse the pox,” he retorted. “Huari knew immediately–didn’t you?”

The Shapeshifter’s eyes gleamed with her core power. “I had hoped for a powerful ally, Gang; when I saw her defeat Tahootax, I knew–my thoughts clutched pollen in the wind, clearly. Of course, I had no clue Aranya was a Star Dragoness. Or … who are you?”

Aranya rubbed her temples fiercely, flailing to catch up with the conversational twists and turns. “Slow down, Huaricithe …”

Gang had a very particular gleam in his eye as he looked Huari over. “I find you handsome in your Human form, Huaricithe. Very–” he clamped his jaw shut and curled the talons of his free paw up and over Aranya’s shoulders with a forceful expletive. “What is this? Explain!”

She had seen that gleam before, in Ardan. By his reaction, Gang was in for a rude shock–a promotion to Humanity. Or was that a demotion? Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. She forced it away. If she had learned any one thing about destinies in the Island-World, she had not been tossed together with a long-lost relative on a mere whim of Fra’anior’s. Sneaky, shell-grandfather. Truly sneaky. Like landing her on Nak and Oyda’s doorstep. Nak and Gangurtharr would get on like fireballs and windrocs, of that she had no doubt.

She said, unsteadily, “I am Aranya, Princess of Immadia.”

She had thought the Dragons would not know where Immadia was, but Huaricithe immediately demanded, “Immadia? As in the Immadia of legend, North of the Rift?”

“Now she’s crossed the Rift?” Gang growled.

Turning, Aranya smiled sweetly over her shoulder at the Dragon, still lying on his side. “Mind you don’t faint, Gang.”

Gnarrr-grr-gnarr-gurrll-Aranyarr! He mangled her name beautifully.

“I think that means my shell-mother’s sister must’ve been your great, great-something-th grandmother,” Aranya faltered, rather failing to pinpoint the relationship with any accuracy whatsoever.

Itomiki murmured, “You’re a six hundred year-old fledgling?”

Aranya sighed. “No.”

Behind her, Gang snorted, “I give up.”

Huari said, “You thought Hualiama, implying that you know her, or at least, knew what she looks like.”

“She’s my Aunt,” said Aranya. “I’ve met her in my dreams.”

“Honestly, somebody bite me,” complained Gang. Graaarrrgghh! “Itomiki! What was that for?”

Itomiki, over a mouthful of Gang’s tail, produced a hundred-fanged draconic smirk. “Stow your miserable yapping, youngster. Aranya, do you mind? He’s bleeding all over this nice patch of grass.”

So she climbed Gang’s flank, and laid her hands upon him, and channelled her Storm-power into healing.

So much healing for others, and none for herself. Inside, Aranya felt as broken as her Island-World. Something was severely out of kilter, but what? She could not understand. Why, when fate laid so obvious a paw upon her life as to bring her together with these fine Dragons, did Aranya of Immadia still feel shattered, unfinished, stressed beyond endurance? The storm proclaimed her pyretic emotions more surely than words.

Now, Thoralian must know a Star Dragon stalked him in Herimor.

It was time for a Dragoness to hunt.

Raising her nose, Aranya sniffed the air curiously. South. South, and fast. There was Imbalance, a foreboding darkness that tantalised the edge of her senses …

“Dragons, we must fly,” she said decisively. “Where is your lair, Huaricithe? Where does it lie?” Before the Navy-Blue even answered, Aranya began to sense the location in the forefront of the Dragoness’ mind. Oh no. Her voice rose with a sharp snap-crack of wind, “We must fly on the wings of this storm. Rise, Dragons! Rise and follow … uh … with your permission, Marshal. Kindly. Fierily, I mean–ugh!”

The Dragoness just waggled a brow-ridge drolly.

Aranya folded her arms. “Sorry!” Gang sniggered behind her. Whirling, the Immadian snapped, “Gang! Since you appear to have been infected by some ridiculous worship bug–”

“Mind your tongue. That’s our sacred religion you’re insulting, girl,” growled another of the Shapeshifters.

“Sorry again, Islands’ sakes–by all the freaking, floating Islands, I’m sorry!” Aranya threw over her shoulder. “Gangurtharr, since you’ve so much to say for yourself, how’s about you volunteer to be my noble air transportation?”

“Me, with a Dragon Rider?” he thundered.

“Star Dragons usually demand the very best, but you–I guess you’ll serve as marginally acceptable seating for my worshipful rump.” Aranya gave the Dragon a huge wink.

Gang’s indignation shook the entire Archipelago.

* * * *

Ardan flicked the tassels on his lavender-striped shirt with annoyance. Could they not have found him a more–well, a more manly outfit? Bane thought he looked rainbows over Islands. When he caught the Western Isles warrior’s expression, Lurax, who had been downcast ever since Tixi’s torture, had cracked the first grin Ardan had seen from him in a month. Worth it? Aye. Worthless pride. He must become a better man.

Turning to the boys, seated behind him in harness on Imagitharr the Yellow’s back, he said, “Did I ever tell you the story of my first rajal hunt?”

Sapphire peeped, “No, mighty warrior.”

Ardan chuckled and scratched her beneath the chin. “You cheeky scruffling. Why don’t you catch a few insects?”

Sapphire’s mouth snapped aside faster than the eye could follow, returning with a seven-inch dragonfly. Its double wings waved feebly either side of her jaw. She made an immensely pleased ‘erp?’ and whirled her eye-fires at him.

“Clever girl,” he conceded. “Now, can you find Aranyi?”

He winced as the Immadian intimate form slipped out of his mouth.

Sapphire’s lustrous eyes considered him, suddenly as wise as the Islands were ancient. “Ari storm. Over mountains.”

Ardan nearly snaffled a dragonfly of his own as he gaped at the dragonet.

“Over … those mountains?” His finger pointed at the enormous Mesas. Mountains to humble a man, capped with white and glaciers that ever so slowly crept away from that snow-cap like spidery fingers reaching down to caress the world of Men and Dragons. They flew southward with the tall mountains upon their right flank, keeping high as they approached the Vassal States. Marshal Tixi had them all concealed with the strange glamour-magic these Herimor Dragons used, not a Ri’arion-special, hard-shelled and clear disguise, but more like tens of layers of ever-shifting gossamer veils blowing in a breeze. Misdirection. Intricacy. Enormous refinement aimed at producing … nothingness. A complete absence of clues, magical or mental, physical or emotional, that would point to the presence of Dragons, or to any hint of information pertinent to those Dragons.

He might as well have tried to read an invisible stone for all his efforts availed him, yet Ardan continued to work on trying to understand these Herimor Dragons. Everything about them was different. Linguistic nuance-indicators. Accent. Customs, such as first consuming the heart of their prey. Even their habit of singing Dragonsong and Dragon-lore while in flight, making every flight a lesson in reciting the histories, almost as if the Dragons sought to imprint a common mindset upon each other. He sensed the subtle moulding of his thoughts to their ways of thinking, and resisted. He was an Isles warrior, as stubborn as aged granite and about as pretty.

As they approached the Vassal States, he observed disturbance and war above clouds and below. They passed Islands devastated by Dragon fire. Down low, Dragons patrolled the borders of the Vassal States in a state of evident agitation. Here, for the first time, Ardan began to see cracks and clefts developing in a layer he had always considered inviolable–the Cloudlands. When asked, Imagitharr begrudgingly explained that to the South, near the mountains, there was an area of disturbance that Land Dragons called ‘the Upwelling’ which generated unusual weather patterns and broke up the Cloudlands from beneath. The Land Dragons also referred to the ‘Realms of Light’ where the twin suns broke through to shine into their vast realm.

Ardan had always considered the Cloudlands to be akin to the floor of the Island-World. Diving below with Leandrial had been one matter. Now, it seemed that they perched precariously above canyons of unknowable depth, the Air-Oceans of legend. Occasionally they saw Land Dragons below, and twice, the swirling movement of great bodies locked in battle.

Look at all the scavenger-Dragons, said one of the Dragons, pointing downward.

Ardan saw flocks and wings of what had to be all the scavengers in Herimor gathered to the feast. Some dived deep into the Cloudlands to retrieve hunks of meat so large, he could see them dangling from talons from five miles off. Others, bloated beyond endurance, rested on the floating Islands or winged torpidly toward the mountains for a rest. Grey windrocs, lesser chunugar storks and crimson-tufted valkors, all carrion birds, blackened the skies below the Dragonwing in their millions.

Thoralian has made his visitation, Marshal Tixi said darkly.

As they passed over the first of the Vassal States, the acrid stench of rotting flesh was enough to make the most hardened warrior blench. There must have been great battles here; all this was the aftermath. Tixi and her Dragons pointed to Islands slewed in the sky or sunk into the Cloudlands, Islands carpeted in dead Dragonflesh, and more obviously, the fires still raging on thirty or more outlying Islands of the independent Vassal States. Yet of Thoralian’s forces, they saw no sign save the rippling patterns painted on the Cloudlands by the widespread migration of Land Dragons, all apparently headed South. Ardan had expected thousands of Lesser Dragons. Where were they hiding?

The Red Shapeshifter warned, Gather your glamour, Dragon-kin. Swift to the Straits to find the Star Dragoness. Ardan, do you sense her?

He said, There’s a mighty storm beyond the mountains, Marshal.

Her eyes flared to a burnt-orange colour. Do you dare to threaten me?

Facts, Marshal.

She snapped at her own shadow. How he missed his Shadow Dragon! Quietly, on the way, Ardan had tried to summon up his magic–any magic at all–and failed. He did not even feel a tingling, as Aranya had described during her recovery. All he had was his restored command of Dragonish.

Seen from an altitude of two leagues above the Cloudlands, the Vassal States were a tapestry of green and brown dots often linked by faint threads. This area was one of the greatest Human civilisations of Herimor, with Island-fortresses burrowed into the floating Islands and dwellings sprawling up the lower flanks of the Mesas. They built on a scale lavish beyond imagination. Twice, they passed cities over thirty miles long and four miles tall. The fortifications were purple, interlocking stonework, two hundred feet thick and the boundary walls, six hundred feet tall. Triple-hulled Herimor Dragonships, narrower in the beam than their Northern counterparts, but comprised of three balloons fastened side-by-side, plied the skies in their thousands. The Humans leashed verdant Islands to their shores at multiple levels to provide additional farmland and military emplacements, anchoring them on hawsers Lurax said were eighty-foot-thick, braided metallic ragions.

Abandoning dignity, Ardan gazed about with the inquisitive air of the dragonet on his lap and the enthusiasm of the boys seated behind him.

As swiftly as Dragons flew, it took two days of travelling with a stiff following breeze to leave the Vassal States in their wake and forge along the unbroken mountain massif, before they raised sight of the Inscrutables.

War. All-out war raged around an invisible perimeter circumscribing an Island-Cluster that stood, for a change, firmly rooted where it should be–deep beneath the Cloudlands, with numerous, heavily-forested Islands arranged in a perfectly regular heptagon. The largest mountains were positioned at the seven main points. Every one of the five hundred and eighty Lesser Dragons of Marshal Tixi’s expanded Dragonwing, courtesy of her allies, seemed to shiver at once. Ardan felt nothing untoward, but the Dragons muttered among themselves of ‘eerie glamour’ and even a ghostly, threatening presence. They shook their muzzles and dug their talons into their ear-canals as though suddenly aware of an excess of itchy wax.

Marshal Tixi seemed unaffected. “Huh,” she said. “War? That’s a hassle. We’ll fly around.”

Ardan gazed ahead, concentrating deeply. What was it about that place that felt so … attractive? Almost homely? Could it be that those Inscrutable Dragons employed some kind of Shadow power to defend their realm? As he watched, silver blurred out of nothingness. An attack from fresh air; winged dots tumbled into the Cloudlands. Unholy stinking fumaroles! What was that?

Then, at the very limit of his Human sight, he saw a brighter, almost-white dot flying above a great legion of Dragons. Thoralian! The faraway Dragon seemed to gesture. Suddenly, a shimmering dome appeared in the air right over those uncanny Islands. The Dragonwings of Thoralian’s command oriented on that gargantuan, impossible feat of shielding and began to hammer it with every attack at their disposal. The shield flashed and glimmered into and out of existence, but held. Again, counterattacks flashed through the shield. Dragons fell. They slid slowly and in great numbers down the shield’s low curvature before vanishing into the lapping amber Cloudlands, but Thoralian did not appear to relent.

That was his plan. His goal–Ardan narrowed his eyes. Why the Inscrutables? What great treasure did they hide that Thoralian would choose to expend his forces so recklessly?

The First Egg? Or yet another secret?

One of the Dragons pointed to the East, bugling in alarm, “Earthen-Fires, what’s that?”

Every eye turned to the dark smudge out there, halfway to the horizon, surging upward as if the Cloudlands’ murkiest depths sought to assault the sky. The disturbance spread as it humped upward, boiling leagues across the Cloudlands before their incredulous eyes, already a mile high and rising relentlessly. Ardan instinctively looked to the position of the suns and moons to judge if they might be seeing an eclipse. No. The positions of the four moons decried … he turned again, focussing his sight which had become uncannily sharp since his first transformation into a Dragon, there in the Western Isles. Thoralian’s forces broke off the attack. They soared. Withdrawing–why?

Back to the East. That was no storm. That was … Fly! he roared. Fly up and away! High as you can–nooooooow!

To the Marshal’s strident outrage, her entire Dragonwing obeyed Ardan’s bellow as though tugged by a single, invisible hawser. She was still yelling ‘hold!’ and ‘listen to me!’ as the Dragons powered for the sky, bugling in panic. Wow, Ardan congratulated himself. They knew as little as he why that precise inflection had galvanised them, but there was almost a hint of the feral about their reaction.

The Marshal flexed her wings powerfully. Black! You snivelling coward, what have you–

Ardan shouted right back, Islands! That’s Islands, Marshal!

For the long, long breath that the Marshal’s disbelief gripped her, nothing happened save the phenomenon’s inexorable skyward swelling and advance. Ardan did not even have words to describe such a tidal movement in the Cloudlands, a jumbled, rolling mixture of Islands and Dragonkind raised upon the backs of a sea of seething Land Dragons which swarmed so thickly, it seemed the entire Island-World had turned into Dragonflesh. This tonnage of incipient destruction bore down on the Inscrutables with a majesty surpassing description, surpassing terror. His heart froze.

Tixi bolted for the sky, screaming, Follow me!

The Dragons beat their wings, locked in a race that seemed at once to stretch the space between hearts-beats to a painfully slow extreme, but simultaneously to unfold at a dreadful velocity. The wave surged. Churning. Rumbling. Looming over the shield-barrier around the Inscrutables like the most terrible war-hammer in history, poised to strike doom into the flesh of all mortal beings.

The comber curled and descended. Moments flitted by. Horror. Fear. Fleeing. Then came the mind-blowing impact. Dragons reeled. The compact Dragonwing ripped apart in a flash, as numbers of wings folded or snapped at the explosion that engulfed them. Stabbing his soul like invisible knives, there came the unbearable shrieking of Dragonkind in mortal agony. Ardan reeled in his Dragon Rider saddle, bleeding from burst capillaries in his nose and ears. Imagitharr’s wings folded like so much damp linen. He spiralled downward, aware of flickers of movement, a strangely oily Dragonsong … helpless, they were tumbled toward Islands tipping at impossible angles, as though their knees had been hacked out from beneath them.

Ardan’s lolling brought him an upward glance. Thoralian!

His view spiralled again. He wrenched his neck trying to watch–Thoralian must have attacked here while he was still there, out near the horizon … the Yellow-White conversed with Marshal Tixi as Imagitharr dropped away precipitately. On the next glimpse, Ardan observed a strange, baffled look fixed in her eyes, her mind already lost to the power of the Yellow-White’s psychic dominance. The second Thoralian. He had ambushed Tixi’s Dragonwing at the precise instant of that calamitous impact.

Ardan’s teeth rattled at a second impact as Imagitharr collided with a rolling Island, striking so hard he bounced hundreds of feet through the air … images blurred … Thoralian chewing … three metal-armoured Dragon talons slammed into his chest!

His consciousness gave up the unequal battle.

* * * *

Zuziana wept, inconsolable; curled into a foetal ball, clutching her stomach and the precious, precious lives within. How could she have guessed? She was their mother, supposed to protect the three fragile lives awakening in her womb, but how could she hope to shelter them from Thoralian’s urzul? Ri’arion had returned. He was as distraught as she, raging, hurting Dragons in his fury, but then he calmed down with that frighteningly abrupt Nameless Man self-discipline to examine her.

Nothing. Not a trace.

No Dragon had sensed anything, yet she was chilled through. The Dragons searched and fulminated and argued. It must have been a nightmare, they growled. The old Marshal could certainly attack through nightmares; his magic could affect minds and produce physical effects. Brityx took Zuziana in paw, swathed in every cloak and blanket they possessed, and sang mellifluous Dragonsong to calm her down.

As the monk questioned her endlessly, Zip struck out furiously. “You don’t believe me!”

She split his lip. Ri’arion’s eyes blazed, but he said simply, “I must, and I do. Come. This is beyond my power. We must keep searching for Aranya. Perhaps she …”

His voice trailed off.

“Perhaps Leandrial’s Balance-magic can help?” Brityx put in.

“I don’t like this,” said Suk’itarix the Green. “It smells seventh-sense-charring. Why would he strike this little one? He cannot fear us; his forces are too great. Caring for his legacy through an Azure Shapeshifter? It seems an inordinate risk for one who calculates every risk and nuance with all the legendary cunning of Herimor.”

Ri’arion said, “Perhaps the Marshals seek to drive us to a battleground of their choosing.”

Right. Snivelling Princess of Remoy, to battle! Zuziana compacted her horror into a tight ball in her chest and trussed it with every shred of her willpower. “What news of Aranya?”

Rapidly, the Green Shapeshifter summarised, “Your friend apparently arrived in the form of a comet, four weeks ago, smashing four of Marshal Montorix’s barracks like an angry Dragon stamping on a bug. Taken to the Pits, she became a Gladiatrix called Aranya the Assassin, quickly building her reputation as she thrashed her every enemy in the arena including several legendary Gladiator Dragons. The last had a reputation across all of Herimor–an Orange-Red called Tahootax the Terrible, or Tahootax Two-Head. He was a Wing Commander in Marshal Thoralian’s armies; a mightier brute you have never seen. How your little friend … they say she blew him to the far side of the Rift.” She laughed softly. “For that feat, Aranya was purchased by Marshal Huaricithe, a sworn enemy of the old Marshal. They flew South less than two days ago.”

So close? South? The storm! Zuziana bit her lip. But a Gladiator–a fighting Dragon, purchased by a Marshal? That hardly sounded like Aranya. She said, “The description–”

“Perfect down to the scars, except she was a Grey-Green colour,” said the monk.

Zip nodded. “Her chameleon trick.”

Tari stiffened in every muscle and wing-strut. “She’s an accursed Chameleon-Shifter?”

“No. Her power is similar to Herimor glamour,” said Ri’arion, “except she produces a real, physical change. A cellular-level glamour is the best way to describe this unique ability–not a malleable-phasic change akin to the Chameleons, with whom we have recent experience North of the Rift, but an unbounded transmutodraconisation–even extending, for example, to her Dragon powers.” Over the Dragons’ escalating murmurs, he explained, “Do not be surprised. She is a Star Dragon.”

“There’s theoretical possibility and then there’s your crazy, pseudo-metaphysical wing-twisting!” complained Marshal Tari, sounding sceptical yet admiring.

A grand entrance via comet was genuine-Aranya, Zuziana thought, mutinously wishing that Ri’arion would not sound so ruddy awed by her friend. She was just … Fra’anior’s grandchild. Aye. No stress. And what Thoralian had demanded of her in exchange for three lives–the Princess of Remoy rubbed her stomach sadly. This choice would tear her apart. How could she possibly fly against a mother’s first and deepest instincts, even if the prospect of motherhood was nascent, beneath the shell as Dragons put it? In her native Remoy, motherhood from first conception was regarded as a hallowed state and a sacred duty. Miscarriages in the perilous first twelve weeks of pregnancy or stillbirths were mourned annually for ten years, among the women–and so many! Now, the visceral grief of those women she had joined in mourning wailed elegiac Dragonsong deep in her soul. She understood, as never before, something of the trauma they had experienced.

How could she give birth to another trifold Thoralian? How could she not?

How could she condemn her own children to death, or conversely, grant nurture and life to a monster?

She could not face these questions. She must believe she had only dreamed of Thoralian; that he could exert no such dominion over her unborn children.

Raising her face to the heavens, the Remoyan Princess prayed for inspiration.

Her answer came in the form of a wild, forlorn cry from the deeps. Zuziana! Ri’arion! Answer me, please! I sensed the spirit of Thoralian and a tipping in the Balance … tell me, little ones, are you safe?

Noooooooooo …

Chapter 28: Dragon Kisses

ARANYA, IN HER Human guise, swept through the portals of Huaricithe’s fortress in a cold, consuming fury. Thoralian had visited. He had fire-bombed the place, hammered the defenders and moved on to the next Marshal’s territory. All the way down South toward the Straits, four hundred and seventy leagues that whipped by as they travelled the blast of her mightiest Storm-winds, they had seen Islands smouldering after the storm snuffed out his destructive fires. She did not understand. How could Thoralian have moved so fast? One triple-confirmed report, relayed by telepathic Dragon message-stations, had placed him three hundred leagues North, near a place called Entorixthu’s Cleft, at the same time as she and Huari had been discovering their kinship.

Her tenth-generation niece’s Dragon army had fought bravely before being overrun. The carnage was unspeakable. Dragons. Humans. Lives spilled across the front steps; four dead Dragons had to be dragged away from the main entryway to allow ingress.

People stared at Aranya, but only momentarily. Their eyes were hollow; their lives hollower.

Jerkily, the Princess of Immadia stooped to touch a child. “Be healed.”

This could have been Immadia. This could have been their fate the day First War-Hammer Ignathion’s army had descended upon the city; later, the Immadians had indeed paid a terrible price.

“Thank you,” said the distraught mother. “Say thank you, Shihooyi.”

The wounded girl’s face was all tan, impish chin and huge dark eyes framed in black ringlets. Gorgeous! Maybe four years of age. But as Aranya smiled instinctively, the girl’s expression crumpled. “Monster! Mommy, mommy … it’s a monster! Get away, monster!”

Aranya froze.

The mother stared at Aranya, and blenched. She made a superstitious sign near her throat, seized her child by the hand, and departed at a panicked run.

The Princess bolted. She knew not where she fled, only that she must hold her hair close to her face and shield and fly from the voice that shrieked in her mind, ‘Monster!’ She slammed her knees against ornaments, crashed into a doorjamb, and spun away. Blind. Mute. Even her voice was stolen from her, the voice of her grief; the voice of who she was.

Aranya found herself in a bathroom, staring into one-quarter of a broken mirror. It had been pretty, once. Even the shattered surface reflected her brokenness all too faithfully. ‘Always treasure a faithful reflection’ was a favourite saying of Beran’s. His daughter leaned over an ornamental crystal bowl standing on a carved vanity dresser beneath the mirror, and sobbed until her tears splashed freely in an inch or more of fluid. Snatching up a piece of glass, she bared her torso. Her hand trembled, then moved to make a decisive cut. Aranya was always resolute. Always in command. Another cut, a scooping slice into one of the lesions. She must cut them out. Slice away the evil. Somewhere beneath lay the true Aranya, a girl scarred inside and out.

Yet she knew no amount of hatred could be scalpel enough to restore what had been. The glass shard fell from her nerveless fingers. It shattered into the dust and slivers of her reality.

Monster. That was her. The sobbing seized her once more, harder and more wrenching than before. She wept for the smashed bodies strewn amongst the wreckage, the desolate populace, the fire-lives spilled on the altar of Thoralian’s ambition. Her tears ran copiously, plinking like delicate rain into the bowl. She had not crossed the Rift to see history repeated in Herimor. She had not even laid eyes upon the First Egg, gradually ascending from its secret home behind the greatest Dragon-shield in the history of the Island-World, produced by the eerie seven-sided Island-Cluster she had beheld in Infurion’s vision.

She had sworn an oath before the Ancient Dragon.

No. She would be stronger than hate. Aranya touched her torso as though wondering whose blood streaked crimson runnels upon her wraithlike skin.

Now, she felt wrung dry. Aranya straightened, regarding the royal mess in the mirror. She dried her face with her hair and touched her belly-scar tenderly. She had sobbed so hard, the newly-healed wound throbbed. Guess which prudish royal had just strolled through a fortress ten times the size of the average village robed only in her hair–so different to any of the close-curled hairstyles apparently all the rage in Herimor. No-one wore a headscarf or a face-veil, but their hair was coiffed to the point of wonderment, and for the men, teased upward into spreading bowls which were dyed many colours, creating soaring crowns and crazy, flat-topped styles that she found rather fetching.

For her part, she had her mad Shapeshifter locks, a veritable rainbow of colours reaching almost to her knees, these days. Perhaps she would never cut it. People could gawk at her hair and then scream at her face.

Aranya eyed the half-full bowl with mild surprise. What sane person cried like that? No wonder she felt parched.

The liquid was pearlescent with magic …

A gift.

Reverently, Aranya of Immadia scooped up the bowl and stepped out into the corridor, treading not upon lumpy soles, but upon a featherbed of wonder. This Amethyst Dragon had a work of service to perform. Finding someone who looked like a servant, she said, “Please take me to the wounded. I can help.”

* * * *

Human-Aranya woke when a small hand shook her shoulder. A tentative touch, it nevertheless put the fear of rajals into her. Looking around wildly, she saw the lamps had been lit in the great hall where she remembered collapsing while tending the wounded. It must be evening. Someone had lifted her into a cot and placed a blanket over her shoulders.

She caught her breath as she saw who had woken her. “Shih …”

“Shihooyi,” lisped the little girl. “Why are you a star?”

“Uh …” How to answer that?

“You don’t shine none,” Shihooyi continued. “Are you a real star?”

“I am a Star Dragon, Shihooyi,” said Aranya, caught between smiling and not wanting to scare the girl witless again. “How’s that burn on your leg?”

She wriggled about to display her calf, saying proudly. “Almost better. Are you a broken star? Is that why you came to our Islands from heaven? What’s heaven like? Does it hurt? My mommy says you made lots of people and Dragons all better with your star-tears. Do stars cry starlight? Aren’t stars happy? Why were you so sad?”

“Starlight is happy,” said Aranya. That was all the response she trusted herself to make, for the girl touched one of her scars fearfully inasmuch as she had effortlessly touched Aranya’s heart.

“My daddy needs help,” said Shihooyi, pointing vaguely. “He’s over there. Can you shine on him?”

“Of … course.”

The little brow creased into a frown as the girl evidently remembered something. “My mommy said you was a broken star. She said a bad Marshal made you sick. Thor? Thor?”

“Thoralian,” said Aranya, reminded of a certain dragonet’s prattling.

“Well, I said you weren’t broken none,” said Shihooyi, slipping her little hand into Aranya’s hand. “I said you shined on all these people and made them better. One teeny drop of tears–” she illustrated with her fingers, squeezed firmly together “–and they shined inside. See? That girl shined. He shined. The big Dragon with our Marshal, even he done shined inside, just like a star. So I told my mommy, that lady’s a real star. All she got is Dragon kisses, all over.”

This brand of honesty was too raw, too searing, overwhelming her like Dragon fire. As they wound between the cots, Aranya could only gasp, “Dragon kisses?”

Shihooyi stamped her little foot. “You scared me! But when I seen you shined, I wasn’t scared no more. All I done seen is your insides through them Dragon kisses.”

Fighting the sevenfold roaring in her ears, Aranya gripped the bed guard to steady herself. She gazed down at Shihooyi’s father. He was a short, dark man with his chest heavily wrapped in bandages, and a clearly broken leg. His wife lay beside him, deeply asleep. Aranya remembered seeing her working tirelessly the previous day.

Once more, she felt flushed and aflame, as though her personal Rift-Storm burned too brightly through the cracks in her soul. Fra’anior’s thundering had filled her dreams. Portents. Sweat-soaked nightmares of the pox revisiting … the Immadian turned to the man and his wife, and touched them gently with her hands. Perhaps storms were not only about destruction. There was a wild, inexpressible song to be heard amongst winds and rain, thunder and pain … for pain was its own storm. Her lean, muscled forearms gripped the leg above and below the break.

“Can I help?” asked Shihooyi.

She reached for the girl. “Every star needs their best helper. Will you sit on your daddy’s leg here and hold it tight?”

Dragon kisses!

Setting about her work, Aranya marvelled at the mind of a child. The innocence that so simply, yet profoundly, grasped truth. The bitter beauty of unadorned insight to wound and heal, so unlike adults’ unstinting efforts to dance around the truth. This labour was her slow dance. A true song of Storm and magic.

The Immadian Princess eventually accepted a simple Herimor dress to cover her nudity; due to her height, it hung scandalously short. Someone pressed a man’s trousers upon her, but she had to knot the belt to prevent them falling off, for the belt could almost fit twice about her scant waist. She had to eat more. This storm was burning her up from the inside. And as she moved among the people, Aranya noticed them making a certain strange sign, pressing the splayed fingers of their left hand to the chest as the right hand made a swirling, outward-flowing genuflection starting at the heart. They held babies up to be blessed and children approached to touch an arm, a leg, even just her hair. How could she refuse? Even if unadulterated worship … itched. Madly.

Toward afternoon, Aranya took a meal of spicy Herimor breads and unfamiliar fruits with Human-Huari, Gang and Brityx. They talked strategy. Huari had summoned all the Marshals within a three hundred-league radius to a council of war, and sent messages to many more. Her army gathered. On the Eastern front, they already fought Thoralian’s legions, trying to ensure the safety of their people. Here at the fortress, they were not cleaning up save for placing bodies upon funeral pyres. They were preparing to ride to war.

Aranya shared her vision of the First Egg’s location; her companions immediately exchanged significant glances and Huaricithe said, “Easily identified, impossible to reach. That heptagonal Island-Cluster is unique in Herimor. It’s called the Inscrutables, and it is protected by the most powerful and unique Dragon-magic shield known to our kind. It has never been penetrated, not in six hundred years.”

The Cluster, it was said, had formed around the time of Hualiama Dragonfriend. Her Amethyst Dragoness stirred in the aether. That’s our place. Destiny’s Dragonsong.

“Well, that’s where we must fight Thoralian,” Aranya said firmly.

Gang threw her a longsuffering look.

The Immadian added, “I must clarify, Thoralian will want me there–yet I must go. You have your own battles; don’t feel that you have to fight mine for–”

“You shut the hells up!” Gangurtharr exploded, making Aranya fumble her bread and knock over a goblet of water.

“Gang!” gasped Huaricithe.

“What?”

“Be polite to the Star Dragoness.”

“Very well,” he said acidly. “With respect, your Celestial Majesty, I humbly refuse to be fobbed off by some irrepressible chit of a Star Dragoness when the most important battle in six hundred years is looming, and what, by Fra’anior’s paws, do you think you’re going to accomplish on your own, flying through hostile territory, when there are friends here willing to give their very wings for you? So you can tie that idiotic idea in knots and shove it right up–”

“Gang!” roared Huaricithe.

WHAT?

The Marshal eyeballed him, heat for heat, fire for fire. Slowly, the enormous Dragon’s fires receded to a muted roar. No, the heat had not reduced. Aranya saw a different fire emerging between them.

Flushing slightly, Huari said, “You’re such a Dragon.”

“And you, as a woman …” His eyes bulged. “What is this? I’m a good Dragon! Well, not a good one, but try to live with white-fires. Now, I’m finding Human hide … desirable. It is wrong! And your abnormal hair, Star Dragoness–” He choked on an expletive.

Aranya moved to stand beside her relative, gazing up into Gangurtharr’s bewildered eyes. “Uh, is now a good time to explain that my tears can turn people into Dragons, and possibly, Dragons into Shapeshifters?” Smoke belched out of Gang’s nostrils. Awkwardly, she added, “That’s why you’re having these unaccustomed feelings regarding Humans. My tears also heal in unexpected ways. I’m sorry, but all these people and Dragons who drank of my tears yesterday …”

Huaricithe breathed, “All those mortal wounds you healed?”

“Shapeshifters?” echoed Gang.

“Sorry? Aranya, you saved their lives,” Brityx growled. “Should we regret wings to bear us up in renewed life? Now, that old Marshal’s trembling in his mangy hide. Little ones, we’ve a battle ahead. Gang, you need to keep any further assassins at bay. Huari, you speak to the incoming Marshals. I’ll speak to our people and the Dragonkind.”

“We gave to hundreds …” Aranya’s voice trailed off. Shihooyi had claimed to see starlight in their flesh. A child’s truth once more. “Assassins?”

“During the night. Two Dragons, one Phase-Shifter and a Scorpiolute,” Gangurtharr said briskly. “I’ll oversee security–upon your word, Marshal.”

“Granted.”

“You will obey my instructions implicitly, Scrap.” Gang’s heavy talon tapped her shoulder with a staggering, no-nonsense air. “Understood?”

She wagged an eyebrow at him.

The huge Dragon snarled, with palpable relish, “Let’s clear the air about one matter, o former fodder of the Pits. Not every Dragon around here feels compelled to worship your scrawny, undersized haunches, alright?”

She laughed so hard, the scar on her stomach twinged. Oh, it was good to have the old Gang back.

* * * *

Leandrial traced a long curve on her mental map. “This is where the Balance-trail of Aranya’s Storm power leads us, down toward the Straits of Hordazar. Here, around these archipelagos, there’s a disturbance indicating great magic at work.”

“Got you, Aranya!” Zip said.

“I warn you, Thoralian will know this as well,” the Land Dragoness stated flatly.

Zuziana touched her belly. Leandrial said she had scented urzul, but it was either hidden so well or now absent … she must assume the worst. She could not tell anyone, not even her own husband, or the urzul would emerge to contaminate her babies. Thoralian’s vile plan had purpose and forethought.

Trapped.

“Then what are we waiting for?” asked Ri’arion.

Rapidly, they reformed their group and descended beneath the Cloudlands, angling for the minor Shuk-Shuhukii current, and the realms of the great Land Dragons East of the Straits of Hordazar. Shell-Clan. Welkin-Runners. Thousands of Land Dragons were already locked in battle in the Southern Kahilate, according to the intelligence Leandrial had gathered, and the Strait itself was blockaded by a division of Thoralian’s Lesser Dragons. They could use subterfuge again, or …

“Why don’t we raise our own army, Leandrial?” Zip said.

The monk said, “Why?”

Zip said, “Because there’s only one sure way to pick up Aranya and reach the Inscrutables quickly and reliably. Under the Cloudlands. Fast.”

“Why?” he repeated.

“Time’s against us, leopard-man,” said Zip, aware from his half-smile that Ri’arion was testing his wife–a hazardous pursuit, her Dragonesque smile informed him. “It’s clear these armies and the Thoralians are converging on the First Egg. We need to move in force. Leandrial said that most Land Dragons in Wyldaroon are not infested by Theadurial. But if we’re held up fighting Thoralian here, then we’ll be too depleted to face him further ahead. Leandrial, as an Elder, can issue the call.”

“Smuggle a Star Dragoness around the Island-World?” In the semidarkness of Leandrial’s mouth, Tari’s fangs gleamed a brilliant white. “And shift an entire Dragon army through the Straits beneath the Cloudlands, if this Marshal Huaricithe will join us? The idea has merit.”

“A brilliant strategic move,” said Leandrial, unexpectedly effusive. “Once we reach the middle layers, I will initiate longwave communication. Now is the time for Land Dragons to rise and fight!”

Then, they dived in search of the current, deep into an area of darkness below Wyldaroon. Soon the great Island-forests surrounded them, where myriad Islands floated below the Cloudlands, anchored by the great flat-bladed khaki forests through which the Shuk-Shuhukii ran as if guided along endless, winding hallways demarcated by nodules for Islands and sprawling nets of vegetation stretching in every dimension. Great Hammer-Runners and Serpent-Clan Dragons inhabited the forests in enormous numbers, appearing periodically to query the intruders; each time, Leandrial’s explanation flummoxed and enraged them, positively, as the Land Dragons responded to confirmation of the plight of their Eastern kin.

Querulous Dragonsong began to swell for tens and hundreds of leagues about the deep-swimming Dragon army, like the rippling effect of Islands dropped into the Cloudlands. Soon, the gloomy halls alongside and behind were rife with the snaking, luminous orange Serpent-Clan and the mighty Hammer-Runners, whose heads were broader and harder than Leandrial’s, shaped almost exactly like the business end of the Sylakian war-hammers Zuziana remembered all too well, with a mouth of legendary, crushing power running the full width of the hammer portion of their heads.

A full twenty-six hours the Land Dragons ran and swam and sang, until they approached the area where Leandrial had identified the magical disturbance at the fortress of Marshal Huaricithe, Aranya’s owner at best, and captor at worst.

“Go aloft and secure the Amethyst by any means,” was the sum total of Leandrial’s instructions for her companions. “I will rally the Land Dragons. If you need help, call.”

Call and Leandrial would raze the fortress. The Azure Dragoness smiled grimly at her monk. Aye.

Zuziana launched out of the Dragoness’ mouth with Ri’arion upon her back and Tari’s Dragonwing gathered in close array. From three leagues’ depth they winged upward, first passing through the dense, tangled forests that linked the floating Islands in great rafts of vegetation, avoiding or shielding from the numerous eel-like predators, any one of which could have snaffled her up like a bird supping on a tasty insect. Then, the expansiveness of the deeps surrounded them, a brilliant blue-in-blue ocean apparently without end. Still they soared, taking care for decompression and detouring around the flotillas of sub-intelligent, flora-like Land Dragons that floated peaceably in their native realm, harvesting the bioluminescent bacteria and microscopic life-forms with long, sweeping strokes of their tentacle-nets, and speaking to one another in a language of gorgeous flowers that opened, closed and waved along their lengths.

Leaving the flower-Dragons behind, they ascended directly, passing through the acidic wash of the opaque clouds and into the upper realm of Wyldaroon, shielding with every artifice known to Herimor Dragons. Tari did not know this area well, so it took them several hours to locate Marshal Huaricithe’s well-disguised fortress-complex amongst the Archipelagos floating between three and seven miles above the Cloudlands. Again, the characteristic tangled masses of Islands first roped together by ragions, then literally grown together, caused confusion as they attempted to navigate the extremely busy airspace without being detected.

So many Lesser Dragons on the move, Ri’arion wondered.

There’s been a major battle here, Tux’tarax added, pointing at blast-points on the side of a reddish sandstone Island. Fireballs. There, foliage destroyed by acid. Yet Leandrial gave an indication that Thoralian lurked further East–

Pressuring these Dragons to essay the trap waiting in the Straits of Hordazar, Ri’arion realised. Thoralian plays his strategy. Above the Cloudlands or below, it’s all the same to him.

Tari the Green purred, You even think like a Dragon. It’s uncanny.

Blame it on the gorgeous flying rug, he teased.

Testily, Zuziana said, It’s like before. Everyone wants a bite of Aranya. She rubbed her forepaws together. This smells of armies gathering. Why don’t we just fly in and introduce ourselves, Ri’arion?

Because this Navy-Blue, Huaricithe, might just conscript Aranya’s luckless friends, too?

Then I will.

Not without your Rider, Ri’arion growled.

Ooh, Mister Monk, is it you stirring my fires up there?

He chuckled softly. I’ll do more than stir your fires, you wretch, if you plan to leave me behind again.

Tari said, Alright, soul-bound lovers, let’s touch wingtips with this delegation.

And with that, the Green Shapeshifter unshielded and winged off between the Islands, calling out a friendly greeting.

Shortly, their relatively small Dragonwing tucked in behind the larger and much grander train of Marshal Guragiirr, a Yellow male of suitably impressive dimensions and bearing. They weaved between Islands overrun by a pernicious creeping vine with poisonous lavender flowers, apparently toxic even to Dragons, before crossing an open space patrolled by more Lesser Dragons than Zuziana had ever seen gathered in one place at one time. The level of scrutiny increased, but so did their surprise. Everyone seemed to know about Aranya the Assassin. Everyone expected to find this monumental champion at Huaricithe’s fortress; others whispered about the rumoured advent of a Star Dragoness, talking about her in whispers, with the greatest reverence. Only she could destroy Thoralian, they said.

Shortly, they arrived at a tangled Archipelago more battered than most, finding Huaricithe’s fortress firmly on a war footing. After a further two hours of questions and barriers and guards and suspicion later, Zuziana the Azure was a pregnant, vastly annoyed and therefore decidedly dangerous Dragoness.

“I’m her best friend, from Remoy. That’s North of the Rift,” she growled at the huge bruiser confronting her, Gangurtharr by name.

“I’m a purple-headed slug passing as an S’gulzzi, robed in gossamer and starlight,” he agreed.

“If you’d just mention my name–”

“For the freaking twentieth time, Azure, the answer is ‘no’,” growled Gang. “I don’t care for pretty, whirling fire-eyes. I don’t care if your shell-uncle owns the suns. You’re only the sixty-first creature to request an audience with Her Worshipful Highness today, not counting the assassins who have a different type of audience in mind. No means no. And you can tell your bald-headed brolga-brain over there to stop trying to probe my mind.”

Ri’arion folded his arms stiffly. “We’ll just call Aranya.”

Gangurtharr flexed his oddly burgundy-tinged scales, suddenly transformed from a chunky middle-aged beast into a dangerous, muscled predator. Zuziana realised how very strong he likely was, and shelved her ideas of trying to trick him or nip past his forbidding bulk. He said, “Maybe I’ll just whistle down a moon. Aranya is shielded by ten Blue Dragons. And, she needs her sleep.”

“You haven’t fallen in love with her, have you?” Ri’arion asked conversationally.

Gang’s belly-fires ticked upward several notches. “No.”

“Or fallen under the spell of her power?”

“Listen closely, puny man,” snarled the Dragon, “before I sharpen my fangs on–”

Zip interjected, “I’m pregnant, Gangurtharr. Do I need to tell you how cantankerous a pregnant Dragoness can be?”

His gap-toothed grin widened. “Amply proven.”

GRRRAAAARRGGH!!

* * * *

Aranya swam up from a very peculiar dream of her Dragoness hugging Zuziana, wondering if she had heard her best friend speaking. Surely not. Impossible, or not impossible if she simply missed her so sorely, she was starting to imagine the dulcet tones of the oversized blue wasp?

Gang’s argumentative tones rumbled through the arboretum which had been given over to her as the only sleeping-space large enough for her to be entirely surrounded by Dragons, with enough space around her personal shield-troop for the Blues to deal with nasty specimens of Herimor life that specialised in assassination, such as the deadly poisonous, projectile-firing Scorpiolute that could climb sheer walls with its twelve insectoid legs, flatten its body into a one-inch gap, run faster than a furious Dragon and which possessed magical camouflage capabilities to boot. If that was not enough, she had just endured a spectacularly dull lecture by the Marshal’s scholars on expert Dragon-saboteurs and assassins, vipers, intelligent assassin spiders, poisons, toxic birds and flesh-mutilating insects, which framed their brief introduction to the more charming methods of murder, not to mention thousands of species of poisonous plants. On top of this toxic menagerie came sixteen major classes of Shapeshifters that specialised in the elimination of minor complications such as roving Star Dragons.

As if Thoralian did not present her complications enough for one lifetime!

Herimor was lethal.

Aranya wandered over to the arboretum’s self-contained waterfall, powered by steam, apparently, and scrubbed her face vigorously. Alright, back to–

GRRRAAAARRGGH!!

The wide crysglass panels vaulting above her head vibrated in their casements. Aranya whirled with a pained wheeze. That bellow! She’d know the Princess of Remoy’s soothing roar anywhere! She ran. How she ran, dodging beneath the trees and skimming over the flagstones! There, in the crack of light beneath Gang’s substantial belly, she spied a trim set of sky-blue paws! Aranya screamed, Zuziana!

Whang! The Immadian slammed face-first into the Blues’ shield and rebounded, crash-landing flat on her back.

“Islands’ sakes!” She tasted blood. “Gang–Zuziana! Let me out. Let her in!”

Mercy! Gangurtharr poked his muzzle through the doorway, goggling at her unravelled state. Aranya’s fingers returned from her forehead wet with blood. Great. Now she’d split another lesion, but what did she care? For Gang’s eyes bulged comically as the pointy skull-spikes of a certain Azure Dragoness inadvertently socked him firmly in the family treasures. Zip wriggled beneath his belly, causing Gang to thump his head on the wide lintel. His bellow was an ode to bruised machismo.

As the Blues around the arboretum responded, the Immadian escaped the shield and crashed to her knees, scramble-crawling beneath Gang’s chunky neck, throwing herself upon whatever she could reach of Zuziana, sobbing, exclaiming and howling the overflow of her riotous heart. Aranya found herself squeezed on top of the Azure Dragoness’ muzzle, hugging her with both arms and legs as she stared right into her friend’s effervescent, bubbling eyes. Dragon joy in rainbow colours! Human laughter! Love! A paw squeezed through to cup Aranya’s head and back tenderly, stroking her cheek as if Zip beheld her Immadian friend for the very first time. They chuckled in one accord.

Zip gasped, “Petal, it is you …”

“Are you well, petal?” Aranya asked at the same time.

“Actually, I’m quite nauseous,” the Remoyan blurted out. “But fine. Mostly in the mornings–”

To her embarrassment, Aranya shrieked again. Dragoness-Aranya was rolling her fire-eyes, deep inside, but her Human playfully swatted her nose. Alright, I’m making a scene, Dragonsoul. Live with it.

You’re precious, petal, laughed her Dragoness.

“You are–”

“Pregnant,” Zip confirmed.

“Oh, Zip-Zip, that’s beyond awesome! Best news in all of Herimor! Best this century! How’s Ri’arion? Did he faint again?”

“The freaking hells he did!” the monk shouted from behind Gang’s tail.

“He fainted,” Zip confirmed. Yet there were shadows in the Azure’s eyes. Aranya’s mouth compressed into a pensive line as she stopped gushing and started looking. Zip protested, “I’m fine, honestly. I just toss my breakfast around at random intervals and sleep a lot.”

“Triplets?”

“Do Dragons have babies–eggs, I mean–some other way?”

“I guess not,” replied the Immadian Princess, wondering for a fleeting second about her own heritage. “I kind of missed you–hope you noticed.”

“The nose-hug and the windroc-screeching were somewhat telling,” Zip suggested slyly. “So, you need to tell me–what do Star Dragonesses do for fun in orbit, apart from just shining prettily?”

“Where’s Ardan? He’s here too, right? And Sapphire? Did you find my precious–”

Zuziana’s eye-fires darkened. “I’m sorry, Aranya.”

“No! Oh, no, Sapphire …”

Gang’s neck curved at a surprisingly acute angle to enclose the two Shapeshifter Dragonesses in the space between his neck and chest. He snorted gently, “I’ll gladly hand this one over to you, Azure. She’s trouble.”

“Oh she is, is she?” Zip’s eyes gleamed brightly.

“Although, my every Dragon-sense tingles with a sense that you might just be more mischief than your Star Dragon friend, Zuziana, which is Dragon-tonnage-significant.”

Aranya said, “You’re right about that too, Gang.”

Even Zuziana’s light-hearted giggling and a decidedly heated Dragon kiss that swamped the entire side of Aranya’s head, as they fell into their old, snarky ways, failed to convince. Aranya decided to watch her friend closely. And Ardan? Where in the Island-World could he be? She still could not sense his presence, but perhaps that was due to her wild, misbehaving magic. If Leandrial lurked below, then she would ask the venerable Land Dragoness for assistance in pinpointing Ardan’s location.

Gangurtharr added, almost mournfully, “Accordingly, my prescient white-fires conclude that Thoralian’s days number few indeed. Come, Dragonesses. We must incite these Herimor Dragons to war. Did you bring reinforcements?”

Zip batted his neck with a kittenish paw. “A few, noble Dragon. Some paltry eight thousand Land Dragons gather beneath your Island. And one unstoppable monk.”

“All we’re missing, then, is the dragonets,” drawled Ri’arion. “And now’s when I say, noble Dragon, get your filthy mud-grubbers off my gorgeous wife!”

Flexing his power, he levitated Gang into the lintel again. Thump!

The Grey-Green Dragon’s displeasure struck an ear-splitting note of thunder.

Chapter 29: Straight through the Straits

ARDAN’S AWAKENING WAS that of a Dragon with a fractured skull. A headache worthy of Kylara’s scimitar-blow sawed at his throbbing brain, making blinding lights explode behind his eyelids. Still, he forced his eyes open. His Human hand scratched his nose. Still no Dragon.

“Fainting firiliflower,” Bane greeted him.

“Uh … water?”

Lurax sniffled, “You were unconscious for two days.”

“What?”

Ardan tried to sit up, which was easily the worst idea in his recent past. Pain washed over him with the glee of Marshal Tixi applying herself to breaking a Shapeshifter. He slumped back in his … hammock? What, with purple dancing rajals thrown on top? And a troupe of giggling acrobatic dragonets, for he lay in a painted cave, decorated in blocky blue and white patterns crazy enough to trigger his gag reflex. A perfectly circular metal door looked bolted and shut against Dragons. There were no windows. Only him, the two boys and Sapphire–thank the heavens–resting on heaps of moon-shaped blue cushions.

He must be having a peculiar turn.

“Marshal?” he croaked.

Lurax blenched. Bane’s voice cracked as he said, “Thoralian ate her … hearts.”

He stared blankly at them. “I …”

He remembered only fragments after that Island-smashing impact–talons snatching Bane and Lurax out of harm’s way as Islands collided and ground together in a five-way smash … Imagatharr’s fatal crash-landing, and most clearly, the Yellow-White despot, barely a quarter of a mile distant, spearing his remarkably elongated talons into the Red Shapeshifter’s chest and wrenching forth the still-living, beating heart … champing down …

He gagged and heaved, but managed to withhold.

Bane mopped his forehead with a cool cloth. “Easy, warrior. We are safe, if captive, to these Inscrutable people. They wanted you.”

“Me–what? Why?”

The boys, and Sapphire, shook their heads. The dragonet touched her paw to his forehead. At once, the pain seemed to abate.

He said, Sapphire?

Copy clever Ari, said the dragonet.

Why, you little blue scallywag! Ardan said feelingly. Of course, you’re a Blue. You clever, wonderful … friend! You can just copy Aranya like that?

I tell big-mind Dragon save my Ardan, the dragonet added proudly, sending him a mental image.

At the sight of that metal-armoured behemoth sporting fortified emplacements upon his back and shoulders manned by up to ten men apiece, and furnished with what appeared to be the muzzles of further Dragons peeking out of slits and portholes built for the purpose, Ardan could only gasp, That’s a Dragon?

Bigger than any Dragonship he had ever seen! Freaking volcanoes, what was this place?

“Tell us,” Bane and Lurax begged. “What did she say?”

He scratched her spine-spikes cheerfully. “Boys, this dragonet just saved our hides. She called in the Inscrutable Dragons–roaring rajals! Are they flying armouries, or what?”

“Never seen nothing like it!” Bane said feelingly.

“They’ve got different types–a flying fortress, a clever-mind type, these little swarming Dragon-things and Dragon emplacements on their battlements,” Lurax prattled like an excitable parakeet. “Some of them have, strike my soul, twenty wings!”

“And burrowing Dragons,” added Bane.

“And these Dragons that are so flexible, they link together to form a single bigger Dragon!”

“They live on Dragons!”

“What?” Ardan scratched inside his left ear as if mining for a few sensible thoughts.

Now, he remembered that the breakage of the first Island-spanning shield had led to one entire side of the heptagon folding away and disappearing beneath the Cloudlands, only for a second pentagonal Island-formation to be revealed in the centre … and a second shield. What a shield! It had even stymied Thoralian as he winged after Ardan, bellowing his possessive rage. He had wanted the Shadow Dragon. They had escaped. But what an awful, fitting fate for Marshal Tixi, to see her second heart eaten before her still-living eyes! Gaah, he could not wish that fate on any Dragon, not even one so evil. Vile beyond belief!

Suddenly, as if unleashed from a fog, his mind began to make connections. What were the Inscrutable Islands protecting, if not the First Egg? Were they keeping the Thoralians out, or the S’gulzzi in? Could it be that these fabled Dragonkind might be protecting the Island-World from the depredations of the S’gulzzi creatures who possessed all the power of a First Egg of the Ancient Dragons? He shook his head in amazement. He would never have thought it, but small threads began to twine together and make sense. Leandrial’s description of the Theadurial and how they had historically been slaves to the fire-spirits of the S’gulzzi. They had no love for their old masters. The beastly, elongated Yellow-White’s desperation to retrieve the First Egg, and his rousing of all the infested Land Dragons to purse his prize. Then, how could the S’gulzzi, those ravening, core-dwelling spirits, not have escaped with the First Egg?

Because there was something special about this place. Something that prevented them. A reason why this most peculiar Island-Cluster had settled here!

Wow!

These Islands dated from the time of the Dragonfriend, six hundred years before. The First Egg had returned to Herimor just one hundred and fifty years before. That discrepancy baffled him. He had to wonder … the approach of magic arrested his thoughts.

A woman shimmered through the metal door as though the metal were merely a gossamer curtain, saying, “Because we stole the First Egg to stop the war between the Land Dragons, Shapeshifter Ardan.”

Blue-in-blue eyes, devoid of distinction between the iris and the sclera, fixed upon him with extraordinary clarity. The woman had a face like a golden statue and beautiful white hair that fell to her waist. Her thick, sweeping blue robes were clasped by a high, stiff collar at her throat, and although she wore no insignia, Ardan knew her for a high-ranking official of these people.

“We have trespassed sufficiently upon your thoughts to know you are no friend of Marshal Thoralian’s, Ardan,” added the woman, in ringing, exotic tones. “For this act we make no apology. We are at war. Necessities must be such.”

He made to rise, but she halted his action with a small, definite frown.

“I am Dhazziala, First Hand of my people. Among my ancestors, I proudly name Hualiama Dragonfriend, the Star Dragoness, and Grandion the Tourmaline. Who are you?”

“Ardan of Naphtha Cluster, Dragon of Shadow,” he said, with growing excitement and astonishment. This idiosyncratic woman and Aranya must be related! “And if there is war to be waged against Marshal Thoralian, then I beg you to let me and my Apprentice Dragon Riders ride with you. Yet I must ask, why is the Egg not in your … paws?”

“Aye, Shapeshifter.” Her depthless eyes sparked. Dhazziala countered, “Why is your Aranya not with you?”

“That’s a story.” He inclined his head graciously. “In my culture, it is polite to allow ladies to speak first. After all, the wise-women of our tribes are responsible for preserving and extending the lore.”

“You are oath-bound, are you not?”

Ardan produced a fine example of the challenging glare.

Dhazziala laughed musically. “Oh, we discovered that link quite by accident. It’s one of the very few types of magic which is able to penetrate our shield; by that, and Thoralian’s maddened pursuit, we knew you for a Dragon of note. By our calculations from this morning, your Star Dragoness is travelling rapidly from mid-Wyldaroon through the Straits of Hordazar. She’s about to engage in battle.”

Alive! Coming for … well, not for him. She had made that as clear as crysglass. His smile had to be foolishness personified. Thinning his lips, Ardan said, “Aranya is not mine.”

The blue eyes turned effervescent, the magic practically leaping out at him. “Oh? It is said that the consequences of denying the oath-magic are dire beyond comprehension–this is a complication.” Ardan, listening closely, began to hear echoes within echoes as the woman conferred at the speed of thought with others. “Very well. In overview: The traitor Shurgal’s return with the First Egg sparked war between the Land Dragons. Great were the losses and the Clans have been weakened to this day. We posit this is the reason the Thoralian-triplicate was able to ally with the Theadurial–”

“Besides that they share knowledge of urzul?” Ardan put in.

The woman swore inadvertently, then apologised. “To have this confirmed! Ardan! You must brief my Council forthwith.”

OPEN! she commanded. The door dissolved into nothingness.

Ardan found himself staring into an egg-shaped chamber furnished with seven rows of curved benches, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with blue-robed, white-haired men and women. They looked so freakishly similar, his nape crawled.

Then it struck him like a Dragon’s icy claw speared through his gut. All the peculiar legends of Thoralian he had read in the Marshal’s library. This woman had just called him the Thoralian-triplicate …

Dhazziala nodded, confirming his suspicions. Three! Shell-brothers? Or something entirely more sinister? It made a twisted sort of logic, an explanation for his legend and confirmation of his amplified mental power; Ardan had just seen one Thoralian near the horizon, and then another arrived in ambush, thirty leagues apart. He had thought his memories played him false. Clearly, no. Where was the third? The First Hand turned already into a graceful genuflection, sweeping her right hand from her heart outward and behind her. The Council rose, and simultaneously, made exactly the same gesture at the same tempo.

“We are the Seventy-Seven,” they said.

Ardan steadied Lurax with a firm hand upon his shoulder. He said, “We greet the Seventy-Seven and the … uh, First Hand. I am Ardan, as you know, and these are my apprentice Dragon Riders, Bane and Lurax.” He almost chuckled at how Lurax straightened and Bane puffed out his chest. “This mighty dragonet is Sapphire, favoured companion of Aranya, the Star Dragoness, who has travelled from North of the Rift-Storm with the avowed intent of defeating Thoralian’s bid for supremacy and returning the First Egg to its ancestral home at Fra’anior Cluster.”

Ardan could no better have deposited an explosive fireball in their midst. The previously stony-faced Councillors descended into a shouting, gesticulating mess. Well-spoken, Western Isles warrior, he congratulated himself.

SILENCE, said Dhazziala, and gained exactly what she demanded. “Picking up my tale–so heavy was the fighting that the First Egg fell to the floor of the world beside the roots of our Islands. It was captured by the S’gulzzi–we spit upon their ancestors!”

“We spit!” chorused the Council.

Ardan blinked. Roaring rajals! A peculiar bunch, this, but definitely on the right side of this war.

“It is said, the First Egg falls where it wills,” continued the First Hand, in a sing-song tone that suggested she had told this legend many times. “The Egg fell into the only known deposit of meriatonium in all Herimor, the fabled mines of Dramagon himself, called Suald-dak-Doon, or the Pit of Despair. We surrounded the Egg with our Air-Breathers, the mightiest of whom is called Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, constructed our shields, and discovered–stalemate.” Her voice turned bitter. “We could not reach the Egg, for meriatonium is anathema to magic. Impenetrable. As the Egg lay at twelve leagues’ depth, no Land Dragon could reach it from above. The S’gulzzi penetrated the cracks in the Island-World’s crust to reach that fabled treasure, but they lacked the physical substance to move the Egg or the knowledge to manipulate its power–until recently.”

“The Air-Breathers know the dark past of our people. They know whence we came, and why we tarried–our long-unconsummated purpose clarified the moment the First Egg fell into enemy paws. Four hundred and fifty years, and one hundred and fifty farther, we have awaited the Star Dragoness. Only she can illuminate those unimaginable depths and retrieve the Egg.”

Recently? chirruped Sapphire.

“Aye, my Dragon-kin.” The First Hand smiled brightly at the dragonet. “Two decades ago, the Egg began to move. Something is pushing it to the surface–despite our ultimate protections, and with a power that tips mountains. The Marshal Thoralians know this. His power has already breached our first layer of defence–we spit upon his ancestors!”

“We spit!” the Council shouted in unison.

Ardan scratched his chin, trying not to think of the incongruity of conducting this interview while ensconced in a hammock. These were Aranya’s kin? He rather suspected these were the type of relatives one preferred not to invite to family events. “We heard that your Islands have been located here for six centuries. If that’s the case …”

Dhazziala bobbed her head. “We are the Peoples’ Council of the Lost Isles, representing Humans, Shapeshifters and Dragonkind.”

No Dragons were visible, but that clearly meant nothing, judging by the amount of mental chatter in the aether. “But that’s–they were …” Ardan protested, pointing upward and to his right, locating the Lost Isles far above the Kingdom Kaolili in the far North-Eastern corner of the Island-World.

“One and the same. We relocated across the Rift and settled here,” said Dhazziala, making this implausible migration sound trivial.

“Well, welcome to the ‘not so lost after all’ Islands,” Ardan quipped, earning himself not a single smile in the chamber. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to hear all about the Star Dragoness and urzul, now?”

Seventy-Seven Councillors leaned forward in perfect concert and said, “Forthwith.”

Behind them Ardan sensed echoes within echoes of draconic minds, a vast congregation of mighty minds. What an ally to have discovered!

One thing was for certain. He must elide key details about how he and Aranya had met. Then, he remembered how easily Dhazziala had plumbed his mind. He stood in a chamber full of freakish mind-readers who lived atop a Clan of Air-Breathers, the largest Land Dragons of all, and they commanded the most mysterious, feared powers of any in the Island-World, according to the scroll-lore.

Ardan broke out in a cold sweat.

* * * *

On the wings of Aranya’s under-Cloudlands Storm blast, Leandrial’s enormous force churned toward a Land Dragon blockade beneath the Straits of Hordazar. They knew they were placing themselves between the jaws of a trap. One jaw swept from behind, the other undoubtedly waited for them beyond the Straits, somewhere between the Vassal States and the Southern Kahilate.

Their intent was to punch a neat hole in that jaw and go swim down the gullet of Thoralian’s plan.

At least, that was Zip’s charmingly graphic interpretation of Leandrial’s rather more elegantly presented strategy.

Aranya fiddled with the lumps on her neck, very aware that she had orders to rest and therefore, absolutely could not. The evening before last, there had been a terrible upset in the Balance. Leandrial had cried out about Land Dragons dying. All of her kin had looked shaken since, and there was something terrifying about creatures so powerful looking wobbly at the knees. Then, her dreams had morphed into a three-way battle between Fra’anior, Hualiama and Izariela, until she woke feeling as if a full-scale war had been waged inside her skull. She felt awful. Fraught. Struggling. Unprepared and fragile, when she should be in the fighting prime of her life to face Thoralian.

Still, she did not feel half as awful as the blockade was about to feel.

Leandrial had managed to co-ordinate eight thousand six hundred and forty-four Land Dragons into a dense fighting wedge, led by fifty huge Welkin-Runners bearing ready squads of Blast-Runners in their neck-ruffs. They had one simple job–demolish the enemy lines and keep blasting until everyone passed the blockade. Further back came many other types of Runners and then the less mobile types of Land Dragons such as Living Springs, Stellates and Cognates. Leandrial had mentioned a number of other Clans who lived too far afield, or were physically unable or openly unwilling to travel to war. Those Land Dragons who would not endanger travellers with steam-breath, fire, acid or vocal-Harmonic attacks, carried the Lesser Dragons, Shapeshifters and Humans, representing Marshal Huaricithe’s entire operation plus all of the additional Dragons supplied by the allied Marshals, in their mouths. In total, these forces numbered close to eleven thousand souls. Not all would be carried into battle.

Swept along by Aranya’s unending personal storm, the swarm of Land Dragons darkened the golden realms through which they swam, the middle layer here having been overrun with a type of microscopic fungal spore that generated a hazy golden glow–better than the dense, giant forests below and the prickly, vine-like mesh of blue-fleshed plants making the upper layer impassable even to Land Dragons.

I know you’re awake, little one, Leandrial said without rancour, opening her mind. Focus.

The view ahead of her suddenly leaped into sharp relief in the unfamiliar, greyscale tones of Leandrial’s Harmonic vision. The world was a textured layer two miles above and the jagged sea of plant-tips below. The Straits measured a ‘mere’ forty-two miles wide, which was apparently quarters close enough to make Land Dragons feel cramped. As Leandrial’s easy writhing motion shifted her vision to port and starboard, Aranya was treated to the sight of their twenty mile wide, five mile tall advance bearing down on a close-packed wall of Gather-Runners, a type of Land Dragon that dwelled and travelled in swarm-colonies thousands of individuals strong. They were omnivores notorious for descending upon an area, stripping it of all life and moving on abruptly, especially during their triennial mating season.

Leandrial and most of her allies regarded them as vermin.

Aranya shivered delicately as the Land Dragons, en masse, vocalised their battle-challenges in a rolling peal of thunder. Awesome power! As she shivered, a vision snatched her away.

Humansoul and Dragonsoul stood atop their mountain, hand in paw, watching the advent of a storm. Vast battlements of cloud spread from horizon to horizon, rolling toward their mountain with majestic, unstoppable unconcern.

This will be a mighty tempest, said her Dragoness. She spoke not of the now, but of the near future.

The Human girl responded, We will stand together, my soul’s song. Strands of pink and mauve, white and gold, raven-dark and shimmering blue, wound together about her wrist and the paw that engulfed her hand. We are strongest together, undivided and indivisible, our soul in plurality forged adamantine. When you fly, I will be with you. When you sing, I shall be your song. When you triumph, my hand shall hold thy crown.

For the longest time, Dragoness-Aranya could find no words to respond to Humansoul’s poetic outpouring of her heart. Then, she said in a breathless rush, Thou art the quintessential totality of my white-fires. We are strongest when you burn brightest, o my soul, and without thee, one fire-soul would ever live in Imbalance.

Oddly, she understood herself perfectly. She was just not sure anyone else would.

Aranya blinked as light flared brighter than the twin suns blazing in all of their brilliance, below the Cloudlands. A barrage of every Harmonic light-producing and raucous, shockwave-producing Land Dragon’s fury battered the opposing forces.

GRRAARRGH! The Land Dragons shook the atmosphere. Aranya smelled smoke and the sharp tang of ozone. Now came the staccato KRACK! KRACK! of the Blast-Runners opening fire upon pockets of the enemy from close range. Charred bodies spiralled and drifted apart in the viscid air, creating fanciful swirling patterns upon the black smoke; next came a rainfall of golden Dragon blood. Leandrial’s fast-moving force churned the remnants like a rancid soup, the Dragons behind almost blinded by the ghastly mixture, but sloughing it aside courtesy of their shield-deployment. Again and again, eye-cannons blasted and throats reverberated. Smaller battles tore off the edges of the advance as agile, pre-prepared forces whirled away to engage the enemy and relieve any beleaguered Land Dragons. Nevertheless, the result was hardly bloodless. Hundreds fell, snarled paw and limb with the enemy. Ri’arion lashed out with amplified psychic attacks bolstered by the linked Clans of Living Springs and ordinarily peaceable Cognates, disabling or knocking out enemy Dragons by the dozen.

It seemed to Aranya that she dwelled in a state of dislocation between present reality and the voice of Izariela, instructing her during that lonely vigil beneath the stars. Magic drifted around her in beautiful, rippling veils, belying the destruction, as though she flew through a world of Helyon silk hangings linked by delicate-appearing yet phenomenally strong gossamer threads. These were metaphysical expressions of existence, the communicative intricacy of magic impacting the physical world, depending on it, modifying it. Watching this and heeding the voice of Izariela speaking in her memory, Aranya thrilled to an emerging sense of comprehension even as the threads of magic coalesced, exploded, reformed and coursed throughout the fabric of her Island-World, always superimposed upon the battle without.

After an inordinately long-seeming half hour, the Land Dragons broke the enemy lines.

“Too easy,” muttered Zip.

Startled out of her reverie, Aranya muttered, “That was easy?”

Dense squads of Land Dragons peeled off Leandrial’s wedge with the kind of military efficiency King Beran would have praised. They ‘cleaned up’, freeing comrades and dealing with stray enemy Land Dragons.

Aranya’s fists clenched as strange magical calls came to her cognizance–oily squeals and a chittering like busy insects on a Fra’aniorian evening, only this was no warm and peaceable sound, but an offense to the ear and a devastating assault to her magic. Dismayed, she clutched at her guttering white-fires. Mercy! What? Oh, urzul, the power by which–

–these parasites subdue and command our kith and kin, Leandrial finished her thought for her. Aye, little one.

Yet even Leandrial fell silent as Aranya clutched the frayed fabric of her magic, battering away the corrosive urzul, reforming her weave even as she tried to understand the nature, the illogic, of what she had heard. ‘Anti-Dragonsong,’ her mother had called it, and, ‘The voice of chaos.’ Izariela’s teachings had gone on to explain that the dichotomy of order and chaos was merely one lens through which to view this phenomenon, that one being’s order might represent another’s chaos, and vice versa. What was implied was neither a lack of intelligence, nor purpose, nor existence. It was, inadequate as these comparisons seemed to Aranya now, another way of being. Another manifestation of the infinite complexity and malleability of life itself. Different. Other. Like moonlight lost in abyssal darkness.

This was a magic by which the Chameleon Shapeshifters had marked her even in Immadia itself and then tracked her across the Isles, like magical hounds upon the scent. This was what the dream of Thoralian had done to Zip, but what she did not understand, was the purpose guiding that action. Why Zuziana? Why her friend, when he could more easily target Aranya herself–she, who was already a broken vessel?

As the healing communal Dragonsong of the Land Dragons rose around her, the Immadian considered her best friend. O, precious Remoy …

* * * *

The Azure Dragoness squirmed beneath the power of Aranya’s lambent amethyst gaze. Did she not realise her strength? The penetrating quality of her magic? She thought upon Thoralian’s visit, the Remoyan Princess knew. But even Aranya could not read minds–could she? Could she smell terror, even in her Human manifestation?

Poor little ones, she thought dejectedly, touching her stomach.

Her babes seemed to quiver as community-constructive-consecration Dragonsong rose around them in myriad strains, each Clan-type of Land Dragon having their individual interpretation of the core ideas. The Hammer-Runners produced a low, booming chant, the Serpent-Clan expressed themselves with sibilant, winding and intertwining melodies, while the Welkin-Runners were symphonic, like orchestras of stringed instruments and trumpets and horns. Healing. Re-Balancing before the battle to come, she thought.

Aranya smiled unexpectedly. With three little dragonets inside, Zip, you’ll soon have a decent bump to balance your meals upon. The babes are well. Do not fear.

Zip bit her lip surreptitiously. Such a fear would be far more palatable. She knew where her friend’s concern lay–squarely with others, rarely for herself alone. How had she ever mistaken the Northerner’s manner for arrogance and selfishness? Aranya was selfless and devoted to a fault, and that would be her undoing …

Immediately, shame flushed her Dragon-hearts. No!

The Dragoness rose to embrace her Human friend, sitting cross-legged upon Leandrial’s tongue. “What’s troubling you, petal?”

Aranya laughed. “Written on my forehead, is it?”

“Aye. Spit, Immadia.”

“Spit? Thou uncouth Remoyan …” Her friend laughed hollowly. “Alright. All these thoughts buzzing in my head–I’m wondering if Yolathion’s fate was merely to be a pawn. Who gave him the burden of releasing my Shapeshifter Dragoness? And I remembered a little of my mother’s teachings of Star Dragon lore from my time aloft. I need to make sense of the nature of urzul and Dragonsong and draconic fire-life and work out a way to heal all Land Dragons of the Theadurial scourge, snaffle up the First Egg in my right paw and deal permanently with Thoralian. As if that weren’t enough, I’ve learned that Star Dragons have limited power to change the Balance; just one pair of paws where ten thousand could not suffice. I fear my incapacity, ignorance and–to be frank–the Aranya that charges in, gaily singing her Dragonsong, in the hope that fate will–”

Zip cut in, “Raise you upon amethyst wings and land you upon a lecherous Dragon Rider’s doorstep, in a suitably nude state?”

Of course, the pale Immadian blushed rosily. “Indeed. Dear Nak thought the twin suns had just alighted in his backyard. Well, crash-landed. But that’s between us friends.”

“Oh, Immadia, those aren’t suns,” Zip deadpanned, pretending to leer at her friend’s chest. “Much more pleasing than the suns, declareth the Nak!”

Aranya’s hands flew up instinctively, even though she was fully clothed. “Zuziana of Remoy!”

“Never were suns so curvaceous, nor so pleasing …”

“Stop!” Aranya punched her friend half-heartedly, knowing her fist could never stagger even a fledgling Azure. She fanned her face vigorously.

“I’ll wager Ardan waxed poetic upon the subject?” said Zip, cracking open a grin full of daggers.

“Go ram your blue snout into a handy thorn-bush.”

“His poor face when he met my family–who were being a tad more Remoyan than even I expected!” she chortled. “Do you feel him now, petal?”

“Do I–oh,” Aranya spluttered, before gamely catching up with another of Zip’s ever-agile conversational switches. “I do, I think. He’s very faint, as if there’s some interference between us. You know, like fate, interrupted destiny, Fra’anior’s paw–something inconsequential. Or, something’s happened to him. I’ve been trying to trace the oath-magic with this technique my mother was teaching me, but not very successfully, I’m afraid.”

Zip prodded Aranya with her sheathed fore-talon. “You weren’t just taking a few weeks’ snooze up there?”

“No.” Aranya prodded the Azure right back. “You know, when you aren’t being crude, you’re actually a rather sweet Princess-lizard.”

With enormous dignity, Zip upended her friend and sat on her.

When she had finished turning purple and complaining, Aranya described her sojourn with Izariela learning Star Dragon lore. Mystical and practical by turns, her account fascinated the Remoyan, particularly Aranya’s Wisp-assisted landing and her time in the Gladiator Pits. For her part, Zuziana teased the Immadian about matchmaking with Gang and Huaricithe, before relating her adventures as she tried to track down her friends. Then, with Leandrial’s assistance, she recounted in detail Marshal Tari and Leandrial’s revelations about Thoralian’s possible daimonic nature being the reason for his designs upon the First Egg.

Aranya became very pale, and very grim indeed, after that.

Chapter 30: To War, Dragons!

DHAZZIALA WASTED NO single minute. Even during his briefing of the Council, Healer-Dragons and Enchanters surrounded Ardan to check him over and attend to his and the boys’ various bruises, strains, sprains and flesh-wounds. After Imagitharr’s crash-landing, his skin more than ever resembled a map of Naphtha Cluster after the Sylakian genocide–though he flinched inwardly at this thought. May he never understate the downfall of his people!

He had to stop the Dragons from trying to treat his tribal scarification marks, however. The Healers shook their muzzles reproachfully as he explained their origin, but waxed palpably hotter in the belly-fires when he described a few of his other scars, gained in battle against Sylakia.

Interrupting Ardan’s narrative briefly, Dhazziala said, “The oath-magic now indicates a point one hundred and thirty leagues closer to our Islands. Are we in accord, Shadow Dragon?”

“An alliance? I’m agreeable, but I have questions,” he said.

Perhaps a hundred minds–those he could detect, anyhow, linked in with the First Hand’s mind–examined every nuance of his response via more vectors than he could ever hope to understand. The Council chorused, “We concur!”

At least they weren’t spitting, this time. Ardan folded his arms, unreasonably annoyed at suddenly feeling so hale, his feet itched to dance a Remoyan jig. “So, I heard you drink Dragon blood to gain magical power?” he said conversationally.

“No more! We spit upon that memory!” roared the Council, and all the Dragons, with one voice.

Ardan rubbed his ears. “Alright. No need to shout. And how is it that the legendary Dragon-Haters are now firm friends with the Dragonkind?”

“We spit–”

SILENCE! said Dhazziala. Turning the blue pools of her gaze upon Ardan, she said evenly, “You are the first visitors to grace these Islands in six hundred years. For your dragonet’s sake alone, we made this concession.”

“Would you deny a Star Dragoness?” he challenged.

No nuance for this one, said a new voice, vast and weighty with age. I am Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron. Incline your fires to mine, o voice-like-a-talon.

Ardan almost smiled as the vast draconic presence couched his manner as a dry joke, but he did not wish to appear disrespectful. He said, formally, The most sulphurous greetings of the Mighty Onyx be upon thee and thy noble kin, Yiisuriel. Let thy wisdom brighten our fires.

He surprised himself at this reference from the Ballad of Saggaz Thunderdoom, an ancient addition to the formal greeting. Yiisuriel responded with a mental bugle of delight, like a whole orchestra of instruments sounding at once. Briefly there was glory, and Dragonsong, and white-fires, and then the sound ceased.

Yiisuriel said, Words flow fluently from your tongue, little one. It is well your heart shines true. Hearing reproof, Ardan bowed mentally. Much may be spoken of the ancient histories of those once called Dramagon’s Elect, but wartime affords us little leisure. Dhazziala is indeed the seventh-generation descendant of Azziala, the last Empress of the Lost Isles. Azziala was also the last of the Haters.

When he mentally deferred to Dhazziala, she added, To answer your misgivings, Shadow Dragon, we reformed our ways. Having lurked many a decade in Dramagon the Red’s shadow, how fortunate we were to behold the Dragonfriend’s light, and in that light, did we see behold the enormity of our transgression and the dark-fires paths of minds meant for nobility, but cast down in shame. Noble Affurion it was who led us hence, may his fires burn eternal!

“May he burn!” roared the Councillors. Ardan had the impression that their numbers were swelling by the moment, although most remained unseen or undetected.

Yiisuriel’s ponderous tones took up the story. I knew the Dragonfriend.

The Council parroted, “She knew the Dragonfriend!”

Twice born was she!

“The power of Humansoul and Dragonsoul enfleshed, of one egg, of one womb, was she.”

One soul was she!

“She gave of her soul-fires for our ennobling!”

All hail the Dragonfriend!

“All hail the mother of our fires!”

Well, Ardan did not know if Aranya’s Aunt would have appreciated outright veneration, but he did not have time to grasp all the nuances of their creed. For now, Dhazziala pointed dramatically at Sapphire and shouted:

“Aye, the dragonet thinks truth-fires! Dramagon the Red it was who fathered ruzal and urzul, and … an Ancient Dragon gave you a message? For us?”

For the first time, Ardan saw First Hand Dhazziala lose her composure. Her voice cracked as she gaped at Sapphire, who preened happily at the attention and piped, Ardan forget tell story? Sapphire clever.

“Freaking–so I did,” Ardan cursed colourfully. “It’s all so interlinked …”

But Sapphire gushed, Sapphire give message to In-screwys! She wrinkled her muzzle in consternation, clearly aware of a mistake. In-scruties. In … billies?

The dragonet’s laughter trilled merrily inside the chamber, drawing the first smiles Ardan had seen from these sombre people.

Inscrutables, said Ardan, translating simultaneously for Bane and Lurax.

Sapphire held up two talons. Furious Dragon say, two messages.

“Infurion,” Ardan interpreted, suddenly becoming aware of minds, thousands strong, gathering around him until he stood in a vast mental amphitheatre. They were linked in a network intricate beyond his comprehension. “As in Infurion, the Ancient Dragon. We bumped into him in the Rift-Storm.” Smiling at Sapphire’s impatient growl, he added with a bow, “Speak, o noblest of dragonets.”

Sapphire preened, then stated clearly, Furious say, ‘Earthen-fires are bodied.’

Dhazziala’s golden skin stretched into a rictus of pain as a collective gasp echoed around the chamber, within and without. Even Yiisuriel’s anguished bellow could distinctly be heard rising from below, the physical sound arriving with a noticeable delay compared to the roaring of her mind. Several Councillors slumped on their benches, apparently struck insensate; Lurax shyly asked the man nearest him what danger this portended.

His answer echoed into an unexpected silence. “Lad, it means the S’gulzzi have learned how to embody themselves. They are vile, rapacious spirits born of the Island-World’s deepest fires. Yet they could never threaten our realms before–they could not survive above a depth of eight leagues, nor outside of their native Earthen-fires. But embodied …”

Dhazziala immediately ordered, Activate Emergency Protocol One. Additionally, split off ten dedicated research groups. To Lurax, she said, “You ask wisely. Long have the S’gulzzi sought greater influence and power, but were constrained by their lack of command of the physical realm. In their element, they are deadly. Out of it, they have historically relied on allies such as the Theadurial to influence the doings of those who dwell higher than they. Yet now Thoralian turns the Theadurial to himself; he foments their rebellion against their old masters. We must conclude that the S’gulzzi have harnessed the First Egg’s uncontainable power, which in turn places all Dragon, Shapeshifter and Human civilisations in deadly peril. What say you, Lurax?”

He half-hid himself behind Ardan, nevertheless, the boy spoke bravely, in piping tones. “Lady, not all is doom. I think we must see Fra’anior’s paw in this. The Egg’s rising may work in Thoralian’s favour, or better, in ours, if we can work out how to wrest it from the S’gulzzi.”

Cries of ‘Aye!’ and, ‘Well spoken!’ filled the chamber.

The blushing youngster gained himself a singular smile from Dhazziala. Despite the peculiarities of her appearance, she possessed an aura of uncanny beauty, Ardan observed. She said, “I see now why the Shadow Dragon chose these two young men for his apprentices. Now, Sapphire. What is your second message?”

Sapphire drew herself up, clearly well pleased by her reception and perhaps hopeful that her second message might prove as momentous as the first.

She squeaked, Furious say, ‘It is time of opening!’

Pandemonium! Ardan’s eyes jumped about like a Naphtha Cluster giant grasshopper as the staid Councillors leaped out of their seats, breaking into spontaneous dance and rhythmic clapping, while Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron’s bellowing shook the entire Island. Of course, she was the Island, Ardan reminded himself. At least, that was his conclusion. Lesser bellows echoed from nearer and further away as the other Air-Breathers reacted.

Suddenly, Dhazziala grasped his fingers and whirled him into an impromptu dance. She cried, “Oh, Ardan, what a day your arrival has ushered in! Our six hundred years of penance are ended. Freedom! Freedom has dawned at last!”

Stretching up onto her tiptoes, she kissed him on the cheek.

Ardan felt a wild perturbation undulate through his oath-magic. His eyes flew wide. Mercy!

* * * *

Mid-conversation with Zuziana and Ri’arion, the raging power of Fra’anior snatched Aranya into the Storm. She tumbled through the sevenfold blast of his wrath, a hapless minnow spinning from one thundering maw to the next. Rage pummelled her from every conceivable angle.

Be affrighted, little fledgling! roared one mouth.

What of the oath-magic? boomed the next, flinging the Amethyst Dragoness three miles to the next head. Denier! Betrayer!

You are the daughter of my storm! MINE!

Rebellious chit!

Swatted back and forth between his seven heads like a hapless fly trapped in a hurricane, Aranya tucked in her wings and endured, yet there was a kernel of anger lodged in her throat. Was it ever to be thus with the Black Dragon? Storms, fury and thunderous bullying? Lyriela had told her she must stand up to Fra’anior; was she frightened now?

Aye.

Yet amidst the writhing storm-clouds and suns-bright lightning-strikes playing between Fra’anior’s massively armoured, onyx necks, she recognised a new truth. This was her soul-space. Hers! How dare Fra’anior intrude? Her focus narrowed in on Humansoul, watching from the edge of her impossible peak. She saw in her amethyst eyes a spark of what she sought, and accepted the gift.

Dragoness-Aranya drew breath.

I am Aranya, daughter of Storm! Her challenge was lost amidst the cacophony, but her defiant, vulnerable stance was not. Her wings steadied. Aranya gathered her Storm and flung her rage and hurt back into her grandsire’s teeth. Why do you keep hurting me?

The Onyx stilled.

For an interminable time, all between them was the crackling of Storm powers and the low growling of nearby thunder. Aranya refused to lower her muzzle, although defiance demanded every scrap of her courage. Her gaze burned into his ancient, knowing eyes, so much tinier but no less diamond-forged of will. She should genuflect, but she denied him that privilege. She was Fra’anior’s shell-granddaughter, birthed of the same fires; worthy of better than this. The burning-grief tenor of her fires demanded his respect, and at length, one of the great heads bobbed, if only marginally.

Aranya said, May I address whichever of your heads is prepared to be reasonable? For I fail to see what I have done to earn your contempt this time, o Fra’anior.

Again, his silence spoke much.

She pressed, May we speak as kindred Dragons?

One head approached her precipitately, mantled in clinging dark clouds, the eyes churning with lightning and tempest. Art thou not afeared to speak, little oath-breaker?

So that was it! She lashed out, Istariela is my white-fires lodestone. You, I know not. You have forgotten her love. Leagues and leagues of Dragon body and seven heads all seemed to sigh at once; an Island-shaking, Moons-weeping sigh. Or did you hate her, as you hate me?

If only she could make him understand! Aye, Fra’anior was vast and awesome, ancient and alien, but he was also a creature of high intelligence who, the ballads proclaimed, had loved and lost. He knew the pain of heartbreak, and she saw an inexpressible aching in his eyes now. The shifting colours of his lightning-storms became more like rainbows. More like her hair.

Truly, I loved Istariela, he groaned.

Aranya replied, Yet you chose to smash Ardan and me together without regard for feelings, against our integrity and morals, and–did you not see what he did to me, and me to him? It was like … being tumbled beneath a waterfall, that oath-magic. Bruised, torn … ruined. Blindly, she pushed fractured images at him, crying, I’m in agony, violated yet remorseful, and I hate-love him! How can I ever know if this is love, Fra’anior? How can I be certain, after that? I didn’t know the Shadow Dragon! All was consumed; the deed is done–and I feel sick to my stomach. Sick!

Distressed beyond measure, she knew no holding back, vocalising her pain with all the terrible expressiveness of the Dragonish language. You despoiled us both. I will not own this pain only for myself, but also for Ardan. He’s crushed! Dishonoured! And I am ruined for any other, via Thoralian and his Shapeshifter pox. What was wrought and shattered can never hereafter be consummated. Grandsire, how could you conceive this path? HOW?

He baulked, yet Aranya would not let him flee, for she flew right into the face of one of those vast heads to deliver her message.

Fra’anior groaned, No, no … I never meant … his fires wept like torrential rain.

She wanted to fight him, beat him, to hurt him as he had hurt her, but she knew he understood at last. Empathy unfolded her crumpled heart and afflicted her with mercy–mercy as torn and bloodied as a Dragon savaged in battle, bleeding out of her every pore, yet mercy it was.

His paw hove beneath her, as large as an Island. It trembled; four times, he halted the movement for fear of bruising her, yet at last they touched, Dragon hide to Dragon hide. In that touch was a shuddering, fragile connection, and perhaps the naissance of restoration. And in Fra’anior’s eyes, the Amethyst Dragoness saw colours she had never imagined she would see–luminous, unmistakable apricot and white shades of regret mingled with love.

Fra’anior whispered, I … was … jealous–what I foresaw for you … it brought back so much … agony. I am so sorry. So deeply sorry. I lashed you with my heartache and mistreated you and I am mortified by what I have wrought–yet Aranya, there can be healing of these oath-fires. You can build foundations which should have preceded such an intimate oath-taking, and its outworking. It is possible, in spite of all the damage I have done you.

But am I allowed to choose my path, grandsire? she asked.

I will devote my every resource and wisdom and Dragon power to finding the flight of your healing, Aranya, to making white-fires, and right-fires, out of this unconscionable wrong with which I have afflicted thee!

Will you trust me?

The vast Onyx laughed curtly, shaking the vast plain of a Dragon’s palm she stood upon as if she were a grain of salt lodged in the palm of a man’s hand. Unexpectedly, she found Humansoul standing with her, shoulder to knee, yet as large in presence as any Dragon–the wellspring of her hope and the catalyst of her courage.

Together, Humansoul, Aranya said.

Together forever, Dragonsoul, said the Human girl.

Gazing upon the tiny pair from his mighty vantage-point, Fra’anior rumbled, You’re so like my Istariela–and like me. We quarrelled. We loved. We were rainbows over Islands for each other, and the song of stars. We sang Dragon-soul-song together. I would know and cherish you too, Aranya … if you would allow me?

Her amethyst eyes refused to relinquish her questions.

The great head dipped, but his soul-fires genuflected in a gesture of deep respect. Before all else, I promise to trust thee. Unconditionally. This is my love-oath.

Love that belled out across the void between the stars with magical imperative and glory.

The Amethyst replied, Thank you, o Fra’anior. Your oath means more to me than you know. I would … I would more than allow it. I would welcome you. Yet Aranya wondered how hurt could change to love. She respected him. Feared him. Could her feelings one day be called love? How did one make that most delicate transition, more enigmatic even than the mystery of a Shapeshifter’s transformation? She added, For my part, I will try to resist–not to resist–correction … uh, too much. Or to act quite so rebelliously …

Then, his delighted laughter thundered over her, and all became the glorious melody of an Ancient Dragon’s love-song.

* * * *

“She’s dreaming,” said Zip.

Aranya lay a little aside from the smoking hole her strange turn had blasted in Leandrial’s tongue. The Land Dragon smarted, but said the wound was trivial. Not so trivial, the powers raging in Aranya now. At first, Zip had thought her friend was undergoing a violent fit, that the magic had at last overwhelmed and damaged her. Lightning had blasted from her body, contained only by Ri’arion’s quick reactions, leaving Aranya lying in a smoking crater, her eyes rolled back to show only white, her body convulsing. Now, amethyst lightning appeared to play beneath her pale skin, and she still twitched occasionally, crying, ‘Fra’anior’ or ‘Ardan’–and thus she had lain insensate for four hours as their mighty force rushed toward the Inscrutables and the inevitable encounter with Thoralian’s selves.

“We’re minutes from charging into battle against the paramount powers of the age and she’s … napping?” Ri’arion barked.

Zuziana quipped, “Power-napping?”

His warm hands came to rest upon her shoulders. “Sorry, love. Nerves.”

“Nerves? What’s to fear–the triune master of urzul turning himself into an Ancient Dragon? Or something less mundane?”

Ri’arion said, “Strange how these gifts, and curses, of the Ancient Dragons persist to our time. Storm powers manifest in Aranya. Urzul must be the foul excrement of Dramagon himself. It is almost as if magic lives in its own right and exhibits will, and purpose, to keep alive. It adapts and manifests in new forms–”

“Huh, and you call Aranya mystical?” Zip kissed his fingers fondly, yet she sighed. “After we win this battle, husband, I plan to demonstrate just how much I love you.”

“I don’t come furnished with my personal storm-mantle and lightning inside my skin,” the monk pointed out, then added a positively wicked chuckle. “All private demonstrations welcome, however. What’s bothering you, precious Remoy? Tell me everything.”

“I fear that dream of Thoralian,” Zip said. No, she feared what she must do. The choice she did not have; an unspeakable threat outlined in chilling tones. “Just pregnancy fears, dear one.”

Ri’arion held her for the longest time.

“I should transform,” she ventured at last.

She read his lack of conviction even behind his Nameless Man mask. He would never forgive her. A man of unbending principle, Ri’arion would not understand. Yet his hands were tender upon her clothing as he helped her disrobe. Unbearably, unforgettably tender.

Zuziana said, “Monk-love, if the worst should happen–”

“Don’t.” He kissed her forehead.

“I must. If this day is to be our last together, may the knowledge forever be imprinted upon your heart of how deeply, helplessly and eternally I have loved you, o Ri’arion of Fra’anior.”

Past tense! Oh mercy, how he twitched apart from her, pretending a sudden preoccupation with folding her dress. Magic folded and unfolded within and around her, bringing her second-soul from its place of hibernation. Ri’arion could not know, nor could she, for she suspected Thoralian had hidden his imprint behind a profound, sophisticated form of hypnosis.

She feared he would share his concerns with Aranya.

Yet as the Azure whirled, sensing a change in her best friend’s breathing, it was to find a well-loved pair of amethyst eyes regarding her. Aranya blinked back tears. “To war, Dragon?”

“Where were you?” asked Zip.

“Sorting out a few family matters with Fra’anior,” said Aranya, smiling at her understatement. “I’m afraid something’s happened to Ardan.”

“He’s dead? Sorry, I meant–”

“I know.” Aranya crinkled her eyes. “No, something happened to our oath-magic. I think he’s fallen over the Islands for someone else.”

“I’m … sorry? Again? I thought you …” Zip sighed, and gathered her friend into an embrace. “I thought you said he was free to love another, because you’re so scarred. Yet I’ve seen his moon-eyes for you, and the ever-present storm suggests all is not well in Aranya’s world.”

Ri’arion put in, “Perhaps the Jeradian way would be best for you, after all?”

“Ignore him!” Zip said angrily, even more annoyed as a touch of jealousy smoked through her words. The Nameless Man had promised to serve Aranya; having her to consort was rather a broader definition of service than she could tolerate! “I doubt that could be true, considering what I’ve observed. At least we know Ardan’s alive, if only to face the walloping of his life, because I intend to trim his hide for boot-leather and stuff his ugly mug for a trophy if he dares, if he has the gall to so much as think about another woman!”

Aranya patted the Dragoness’ neck, laughing. “You vicious, jealous beast. I love you. But Fra’anior did counsel me that oath-magic forges its own pathways. Our enforced period of separation, and my desire to annul what is essentially a perpetual connection between fire-souls, has led to a situation of critically exaggerated, and highly unstable magical potentials.”

“Right,” said the monk.

“To which Gramps suggested what, exactly, as a solution?” inquired the Azure, oozing false sweetness. “Whistle all of this magic together into the Song of the Storm Dragon, and–”

“Quite. Then, dump the entire tempest on Thoralian’s head.”

* * * *

Ten minutes later, the Azure Dragoness pushed her way between a snappish Shapeshifter Princess and a steaming Nameless Man. Aranya restrained her Dragoness-instincts as Zip growled, “The enemy is out there, may I remind you both?”

“Then why is he–” Aranya winced as her Storm unleashed an almighty roll of thunder. “Mercy. I need to transform. Minus the childish linguistics lesson, Ri’arion.”

Zip engulfed his scowling visage in her blue paw. “Allow me.”

“Murmble,” the monk just about managed.

“Aye,” said the Azure Dragoness. “It’s all in the delivery, monk-love. Sit down, Aranya. I’m turning into quite the pocket tyrant here, aren’t I?” The Immadian arched an eyebrow at her friend. “The reason Mister Pedantic here wanted you to say ‘Thoralians’ in plural rather than the possessive form, Your Feisty Highness, is–”

“Oh!” Aranya sat on a knob of Leandrial’s cheek-pocket hide with a bump.

“Exactly,” said Zip.

“Thoralian is–” She pointed over her shoulder, in the general direction of the Land Dragoness’ tail.

“Quite.”

“And?” Aranya pointed toward Leandrial’s muzzle, which was aimed at the Inscrutables and a sprawling battleground vaster than anything she wanted to contemplate.

“Indeed.”

She held up three fingers.

The Azure purred, bleakly, “It all makes a sickening kind of sense, doesn’t it?”

“When was someone going to tell me, Zip?” Three Thoralians. Of course. His apparent omnipresence was no myth, but rather a unique Dragon-power. Faintly, she said, “You can let the man-accessory go now, Azure. He was right. I just wasn’t prepared to listen.”

Impulsively, Aranya leaped to her feet and seized Ri’arion’s hands as he emerged from within Zuziana’s paw. “You were right, Ri’arion.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry–”

The oath-magic voiced a rabid howl of Storm-driven winds that resolved in a thunderclap so mighty, it rocked all eight thousand Land Dragons of their command. Aranya shuddered at their mental outcry.

Still, she shook her fist at the heavens and yelled, “He’s a friend! Can’t you tell the ruddy difference?”

What greater futility than to yell in the face of fate?

More or less daunting than standing up to her Ancient Dragon grandfather?

The Princess of Immadia almost blew up like a volcano as Zip joked, “Is this one of those ‘laughter of starlight’ moments?”

Aranya bottled her vehemence enough to grit between her teeth, “Alright, friends. We’re about to slam headlong into war and I need to know everything you know about this threefold-Thoralian. The augmentation of his powers. His capabilities. The history. Hit me with everything.” She looked from Zip’s glinting fire-eyes to Ri’arion’s steely mien. “Then we’ll shovel so much starlight laughter down his three foul throats he can ruddy well choke on it!”

With a ripping of cloth, she destroyed another outfit as her Amethyst Dragoness shapeshifted into being.

Her growl was all low, throbbing resolve. This day will be the Thoralians’ downfall–let it be!

* * * *

Ardan eyed the Metallic Fortress Dragon with disbelief. “Fra’anior’s paws, that’s a Dragon?” he exclaimed, feelingly. “I’m fifty-one tonnes, in my Dragon form. What’s … she?”

The mountainous Dragoness’ laughter punched him in the gullet. “My name is Genholme. I weigh two thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight tonnes,” she rumbled, in a fantastically basso voice. “I eat twenty tonnes of metal ore every day to keep up my fine looks. My flexible metal armour is two feet thick and my maximum payload is two hundred soldiers, twenty catapult emplacements and three hundred Bullet Dragons.”

“And you can fly?” Ardan could not keep a squeak of amazement from his voice. Her size!

Dhazziala chuckled merrily, clutching his arm. “It’s magic,” she said throatily. She had made no secret of her attraction to him, despite her knowledge of Aranya’s existence. Could Aranya be right? Could his finding another resolve this tension between them? “When our people came to Herimor, we discovered Transporter Dragons, which possess genes for great size. They combined favourably with our metallic Tynukam–also called Grunts–to create these marvellous beasts, the backbone of our airborne forces. We still have Grunts. We fire them at the enemy using Kinetic magic.”

“And, Bullet Dragons?”

“There,” said Dhazziala, pointing at a crew of long, rail-thin, flightless Dragons climbing up the towering scaffolding required to reach Genholme’s back. “They are a rare breed, originally from the most southerly Islands of Wyldaroon. They hunt by shooting pebbles at small birds. We first adapted them, then trained them to fire other types of missiles–metal bullets, darts, spears, grappling hooks and even other specialised Dragons.”

Faithless heart, Ardan berated himself meantime. Would he grow to despise the Immadian, as Aranya feared? There were many more types of love aside from the pillow-roll, but if he were brutally honest about his needs–well, he had not the strength of a monk. Such a feckless failing upon which to cast aside the most magnificent woman in the Island-World, she whose very hair yearned for his touch; a nobler, fierier and more genuine princess than any balladeer had ever envisaged. Her deeds were her mantle and her soul’s core, white-fires. He clenched his fist, promising to guard his heart for Aranya. She thought him staunch and upright. As his people would say, no value was costlier than integrity. Was Ardan of Naphtha Cluster prepared to pay that price?

He must. Aye.

The Lost Islander said, “Are you listening?”

“Sorry. I was far away.”

Without warning, Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron’s voice broke in, Thoralian’s Lesser Dragons approach. Allies swim beneath the Cloudlands from the North. A Welkin-Runner called Leandrial has identified herself, by shielded telepathy, as the leader of a mighty force approaching from the South, but an army of Land Dragons sweeps westward to cut them off from our shores. Twenty minutes’ warning, First Hand.

Ardan clapped his hand together sharply. Leandrial! Excellent news.

Dhazziala’s voice filled the caverns of her people. TWENTY MINUTES! SCRAMBLE, PRIORITY ONE!

What had already been a bustle, exploded with zest and zip. Ardan sensed subordinate commands firing at the speed of thought between the enormous, hive-like mind of these Lost Islanders. Commanders and Sub-Commanders relayed instructions efficiently. Like a well-oiled engine, they swung into motion. Trapdoors along the length of the great underground hangars dropped open, disgorging troops of ready soldiers and Dragons. Purple and yellow Bullet Dragons came swarming out onto the staging deck, their fixed talons clacking loudly on the stone and metal. They split up rapidly, charging up the loading gantries, one hundred and eighty feet tall, and onto the backs of the mighty, twenty-winged Metallic Fortress Dragons. So massive were these Dragons that a single hangar held but five beasts, and these were among the largest caverns Ardan had ever seen.

As they had toured the fortress, called Chenak Stronghold in the Dragonfriend’s time, but now renamed Yiisuriel’s Stronghold in honour of the Land Dragon who bore part of a nation upon her back, Dhazziala had begun to open the communal mind to Ardan. The volume of information stunned him, but she quickly taught him how to filter and focus. Most record-keeping was done in their minds. He saw schematics showing underground Strongholds located in the upper regions of many Air-Breathers, the largest holding populations of up to thirty thousand Humans and Lesser Dragons. Atop the Island-sized Dragons stood farming villages connected by tunnels to the strongholds, farming mohili wheat, vegetables and a bovine called orrican in the main. The Air-Breathers numbered thirty-five in the outer heptagon, with five having perished in Thoralian’s first almighty assault, and ten positioned in a regular pentagon in the inner ring, tasked with controlling access to the First Egg via a vast under-Cloudlands volcanic pipe called the Shaft. Proudly, Dhazziala told him that the Air-Breathers had recently budded three fledgling Islands, who sheltered on the flanks of their parents, their breathing spiracles peeking above the Cloudlands.

Now, he saw in the First Hand’s mind, similar caverns springing to life around the perimeter of the Lost Islands, and sensed the work ongoing to re-establish their mighty shield following the loss of the Land Dragons and injuries to many others. A total flashed before his mind: 21,219 souls lost in that single assault, broken down by species, gender and age.

Ardan recoiled. Mercy!

Rescue operations were still proceeding–he learned of specialist Miner-Dragons burrowing into caverns sealed against just such a catastrophe …

Dhazziala bowed mentally. Aye, Shadow Dragon. Will you Ride with me?

I’d be honoured, he groaned, overwhelmed by such a loss, thinking upon Naphtha Cluster’s annihilation by the Sylakian War-Hammers and their Dragons … he shook himself. Grief must ride with him as an invisible companion. Ardan said, May I see Bane and Lurax readied?

You’d send boys into battle?

If you will have them, they will serve with honour, Ardan replied.

Genholme said, I will take them as bullet-loaders, if they are quick and steady of hand. You can entrust your younglings to my care, Shadow Dragon. You have seven minutes before I lift off.

Ardan nodded, calling to Sapphire as he broke into a sprint. Then let us to war, Dragons!

Chapter 31: Battle Joined

DRAGONS BURST OUT of the cavern-holds of the Lost Islands in streamers of living colour, rising and joining in the brilliant, cloudless skies of late afternoon. Ardan, riding the Cobalt-Green Dragoness Dhazziala, missed his Dragon-form sorely. He tested the powerful, lacquered Dragon-bow the Armourers had pressed into his hand, fitting him for Rider armour and weapons in the space of less than a minute. Alright, their mental skills were remarkable. He’d grant that. One glance, and they had his sizing perfect. More charily, he checked the clips of three-foot arrows fastened either side of the unfamiliar, high-backed Dragon Rider saddle. Poisoned, of course. A fast-acting neurotoxin-blend was secured in small vials embedded in the barbed arrowheads. At least, pricking his finger would not kill him.

The Metallic Fortress Dragons rose ponderously into the air, their wings buzzing so fast, they were almost invisible to the naked eye. Screens of Dragons formed around the Fortresses, tasked with providing aerial support and cover especially for the relatively undefended underparts. Ardan saw Dragonwings assembling above the Air-Breathers, twelve in all. To the West, Thoralian’s Dragonwings approached in a vast, glinting arc stretching from the Vassal States, where Yiisuriel’s Balance-sense had identified further pitched battles between the Dragon Riders of Herimor and the marauding of Land Dragons below the Cloudlands and Lesser Dragons above. All Ardan could see was dull, black mist drifting southward on the breeze.

And he sensed Land Dragons …

His eyes narrowed. Dhazziala, they aren’t attacking us. Not yet.

They’re oriented on the South. Yiisuriel’s marked an attack arising from there …

He fixed his attention in the opposite direction. What the hells are they doing? Can you reach Yiisuriel? Can she highlight the orientation of their Land Dragons beneath the Cloudlands for us?

Why? asked Dhazziala, but pulsed the mental commands nonetheless. She will work on it. One hour and twenty minutes until the first data-analysis arrives.

That long?

The First Hand rallied her Dragonwings, meantime sending Ardan a schematic of pulse-communication triggered by several Air-Breathers along the full length of their Island-Cluster, the return echoes synthesized and analysed … the sheer distance and level of interference marring the collection of accurate data …

Fine, whatever, he pushed that problem to one side.

Dhazziala, in her Dragoness-form a sleek, beautiful beast of a minimal but dense quadruple ruff of skull-spikes that had an air of a rajal’s mane, flexed her hundred-and-twenty foot length as she assessed Ardan’s proffered analysis and concurred. Southerly quarter, she ordered. Commands fired down the chain. Cover and monitoring of the other flanks. Intelligence gathered on the impending smash between the two under-Cloudlands forces.

To Ardan, she said, Watch for the Star Dragoness. Leandrial brings potential allies. We must time our strike to aid them.

Her Dragonwings formed up behind the dome-shield, which had been reformed by the outer layer of Air-Breathers. Unfortunately, it was nowhere near the full strength which previously had been developed and solidified over hundreds of years. It was vulnerable, Yiisuriel had warned them, and added that they were about to come under attack from both inside and out. The Egg was rising more rapidly than ever, concealed within a shield of meriatonium. As yet, they had no idea what lay beneath.

Ahead, Thoralian’s Lesser Dragons waited in serried ranks, thousands strong–and more shielded by glamour, he realised, snooping on Dhazziala’s constantly-evolving briefings. Right at the top of the pile, the Yellow-White himself hovered, imperiously overseeing his forces. Number one, Ardan counted quietly. One to the North. Where was the third? Lurking somewhere like a slug beneath a boulder …

Dhazziala laughed brightly at his mental picture. Oh, Shadow Dragon, you’ve the rights of that.

Ari come, said Sapphire, right in his ear.

Ardan startled so hard, he dropped the bow. A touch of Dhazziala’s mind returned it to his hand. Thanks. He threw her a picture of a sheep. Sorry–Sapphire, how the–I thought I said–

The mite agreed, You did. Sapphire no listen. Ari need me. Want Ari …

Waves of misery, impatience and longing washed against his mind. Ardan scratched the dragonet beneath the chin. You’re growing strong, little one. Alright. We’ll find Aranya.

And then, the Star Dragoness and I will come to an agreement regarding you, Ardan, said the Cobalt-Green, with an avaricious mental caress.

Ardan exclaimed crossly as the oath-magic jangled his nerves.

With that, the Cloudlands spat Dragons. Three or four thousand strong, they rose from puffy white clouds, orienting on Thoralian’s Dragonwings far above. For a breath or two, the moment seemed frozen. Thoralian watched. The Dragonwing rose. Then, the newcomers broke for the Lost Islands, and the hovering Marshal gestured imperiously. Eight thousand Lesser Dragons responded, taking on a battle-orientation as they plummeted from their superior position to engage the enemy. The shield before him vibrated as Ardan realised that in the under-Cloudlands realm, battle had already been joined.

The chase stretched. Thoralian’s group swooped. The Lesser Dragons winged at top speed, extending them, forcing the chasing Dragonwing to level out in pursuit.

Then, the skin prickled on the back of his neck.

Magic!

A dozen squads of Runner-Dragons burst from the Cloudlands, blasting in unison with their eye-cannons. Leandrial’s force! He exulted. So many! The timing of the ambush was perfection, scorching the underbelly of Thoralian’s Dragonwing with appalling force. Harmonic vocalisations screamed at frequencies exceeding the upper limit even of Dragon hearing. Light-beams flared, blasting the pursuing Dragonwing, tearing holes in their formation as if invisible Dragons wielded their talons with devastating effect.

The response was swift and brutal. Tens of thousands of drakes shed their glamour to appear from thin air, mobbing the Land Dragons, striking for the eyes and attacking the ear-canals–both vulnerable, he realised, for how could a Land Dragon respond to a parasite-sized enemy in its ear? Furthermore, he sensed a Rift-like disruption of urzul emanating from somewhere beneath the Cloudlands, breaking down shields to allow the drakes unfettered access. At once, a second wave of Runners breached the Cloudlands, striking again with their harmonic cannons. Ardan was almost certain he recognised Leandrial among them. Lesser Dragons whirled amidst the fray, flying in close, clearly a pre-planned support of their larger brethren.

The battleground of boiling Cloudlands and synchronised ranks of leaping Land Dragons spread steadily toward the Lost Islands. But where was Aranya? Where was the Amethyst?

Dhazziala checked the readiness of her forces. Open shields on my mark … by my ancestors!

Darkness rocketed out of the Cloudlands, as if the head of the Ancient Onyx himself breached that toxic demesne. Ardan did not know how she had kept her Storm hidden beneath the Cloudlands, but the white point of light leading that upward charge was unmistakably Aranya. She was on the warpath. She, and thousands of Lesser Dragons, rode the wings of a tightly-focussed, boiling column of stormy thunderheads aimed directly at the waiting Marshal. The disturbance was colossal. Mustered by an unheard magical imperative, clouds materialised all along the Mesas, sweeping in behind Thoralian as if intent upon throttling him with bands of inky blackness, and pelting his head with a barrage of ice. Fey winds plucked at Dhazziala’s wings.

What Dragon could behold such a sight, and not shake in their paws?

Ardan laughed. I’m not sure Aranya’s entirely in the mood for negotiation, First Hand.

With a menacing growl, Dhazziala turned to her Dragonwing, Armies of the Lost Islands, unite! Today, a legend flies against evil–let’s follow the Star Dragoness! GLORY AND HONOUR!

HONOUR AND GLORY!!

* * * *

The Amethyst Dragoness led her strike-force against the loathsome Thoralian, wary of any sign of ambush or trickery. Aboard Zip, Ri’arion scanned for signs of glamour-concealment, but thus far he could not detect any near this Thoralian. The second followed them from the Straits of Hordazar, while the third was yet undetected. Below, Leandrial’s force had come under tremendous pressure from Thoralian’s Theadurial-infected hordes, but they were making steady headway, and in a surprise boon, had stumbled upon a group of thirty-seven friendly Shell-Clan who added their inimitable eye-cannons to the fray. Had they been protecting the Air-Breathers?

Aranya had tried to withhold or conceal her Storm until the last instant, but her power took unkindly to repression. The instant another jolt arrived from Ardan, her Storm discharged, catapulting her and several thousand of Marshal Tixi’s allied forces out of the Cloudlands toward her archenemy. Storm appeared as if by magic–she grew tired of the phrase–all around the horizon. How did it form? What magic did it feed upon, this consuming, uncontrollable weather-phenomenon? It was somehow linked to her, but not to the ordinary storehouses of a Star Dragon’s magic, for the only strain she felt was related to her attempt to control and funnel the powerful winds and frenzied clouds so that they would not destroy her allies.

Somewhere, Fra’anior was probably chortling at her feeble flailing. Daughter of Storm? Pfff … she hissed out a breath. More like pawn of the Storm.

Yet she had a massive, long-bodied Yellow-White Dragon in her sights. Number one.

King Beran had always counselled her to be flexible in battle and to take a turn of fortune for what it was. So as she rode a roaring tornado miles into the air, Aranya silently thanked her father.

A strange song rose upon the air, fragmenting and divisive, whining and cajoling. Ri’arion’s shouting drew the Dragons back into order, but not before ten separate snarls had suddenly developed as Dragon turned against Dragon. Thoralian gestured more broadly. The urzul-infused sound swelled, stripping away her Storm, piercing holes in her clouds, and beguiling many Dragons or driving their minds into gnashing insanity. Sallow eyes watched her intently. The Amethyst Dragoness spread herself thin, trying to protect the force with starlight power.

Ah, it is she, said Thoralian.

At once, she knew this was not the creature she remembered from the North. This voice was different, the accent harsher, the mind behind the words, slipperier and more fluid to apprehend, as though Thoralian concealed his thoughts behind ever-shifting barriers of ice.

He said, Ah, she works against the urzul, but mine is the power that hides, embezzles and slinks in the dark …

Thoralian flipped his wings, conjuring intently with his paws. Many Dragons around Aranya groaned, but amidst this, the Immadian realised that he was not stealing power from them as she had expected. He was robbing strength from his own forces, from the minds and bodies of those turned to urzul. A black cloud began to boil in the air around Thoralian, powdery and dark, like a swarm of insects. She narrowed her focus. The air shimmered as glamour vanished. Dragons! Legion Dragonkind surrounded the old Marshal; at once, battle-challenges resounded across the half-mile separating both sides, but her attention was drawn to that dark cloud. What …

It drifted downward like a fine rain. Like a swarm of flies. Thoralian’s force hovered, waiting–Up shields! Aranya bellowed.

The black specks sifted ever so softly over the incoming Dragons. Marshal Huaricithe, slightly in the lead with Gang and Tari shadowing her wingtips, was the first to scream. Her body convulsed, wings folding, snarling, mouth agape. Then a filament of pure agony passed through Aranya’s body. She felt as if a white-hot needle had been threaded through her flesh. The black dust speared through her … like anti-starlight, the antithesis of draconic white-fires … and she and every other Dragon afflicted arched and howled and stalled, overwhelmed by pain … nothing else existed …

Thoralian’s laughter boomed across the void, Ah. Sweet vengeance. Kill them all!

All she understood was the word ‘kill’.

Starlight was her shield. Shining as Izariela had shone for her daughter, the Amethyst Dragoness felt the starlight reduce those killing black specks to just … specks. How could anything in the Island-World pierce Dragon hide and bone with such ease? She did not understand, but she knew what she must do. Reaching for those intimate, precious memories of Izariela, the Star Dragoness mustered her light and began to shine it through the fire-spirits nearest her. Zip. Tari. Gang, Huari … so many. Tinting white-fires with starlight that bubbled and sang like a child’s laughter. Giving to each a touch of her gift.

Suddenly, she knew Infurion had been mistaken. There were more types of fire than just Earthen-fires and Sky-fires present in her world. There was Star-fire.

The pain cleared from her vision.

Hundreds of allied Dragonkind fell already, dead or mortally wounded, peeling away from her Storm-powered advance like petals curling away from a dying flower. Through the impending collision of mighty Dragonwings, she momentarily caught sight of Thoralian, his expression darkening.

Pitiful, he said, and vanished.

KAAABOOM!!

Dragon smashed into Dragon. All became reactions and fire and battling. The Azure barrel-rolled beside her, spitting lightning like a miniature tornado. She and Ri’arion were locked deep in their mind-meld, clearing Aranya’s path as the Star Dragoness’ power lapped outward, whispering over the last few Dragons in their battle group. Humansoul’s horrified voice told her that fully a third of Tari’s command had perished in a breath of Thoralian’s magic.

Focus the rage. Narrow down. Concentrate. Pfft! Pfft! She cleaned Gang’s back of a champing Lesser Dragon.

Storm, be mine!

Lightning sparked over to her from Zuziana. Her fire-eyes swivelled to follow the light. Suddenly they were one, the Amethyst Dragoness snaffled up in the fringes of her friends’ beautiful linkage, and she saw how Lightning played in her friend’s body, how the Azure was so flawlessly fitted to sculpt and control the electrical potentials seething along her electro-conductive pathways to their endpoints in her throat and talons and spine-spikes. Aranya tossed Zip’s Lightning back.

Come on, Azure. Let’s crackle and burn!

Linking their right forepaws instinctively, the Dragonesses swung about each other upon a single axis. Swirling. Dancing. Tossing lightning bolts from their spinning wingtips and paws and tails. The massive charges lurking in their chests joined in the air, sparking in crazy chains-linked lightning amongst the swarming enemy Dragons. Aranya danced with her best friend, supping on the Storm’s power and sharing it with Zuziana. She saw the darkness of hearts that followed Thoralian’s way. They pirouetted through the awful press. Dragons died.

Suddenly, new sounds permeated the battle. Tak-tak-tak! Tak-a-tak! Tak!

A mighty surge of Dragons charged into the fray, bellowing in deeper and greater voices than she had ever heard before. Aranya saw Dragon-mountains occluding the sky, their hides spitting projectiles from other-mouths, and still she danced, living the Storm, being the Storm, overcome by the tingling of power and the multifarious colours that spelled draconic death, fire-souls winking out all around her, tugging her soul toward grief-fires …

Nearby, Ri’arion called a wild, glad greeting and there in the crimson heat filling her mind was a new, chirruping voice, calling, Ari? Find Ari!

Sapphire? You came, oh! She clutched the frantic dragonet to her bosom. Where’s Ardan?

Mid-spin, her astonishing Dragon-sight conveyed a crystal-clear image of Ardan–him–riding a great Dragoness of Cobalt-Green hues, her scales wrought invidious perfection, and she beheld the soul-shaking bent of the Dragoness’ desire toward him who sat strapped in her saddle, bending a mighty bow to its utmost reach, the muscles of his forearms and shoulders standing out like sculpted stanchions, and he was the unquenchable beast who stalked her dreams and her nightmares, evermore unattainable, and from bloodless Dragon-lips she whispered, Fra’anior, I choose, I choose …

The backlash of oath-magic through their linkage smashed her beyond the stars, into darkness.

* * * *

Ardan folded his muscled arms and glared at Aranya as she rested in a hammock inside Yiisuriel’s fortress. The day’s fighting was done; Thoralian’s forces were regrouped outside the overarching shield that now protected Leandrial’s entire command, including the Star Dragoness. They had won through. Now, strategies must necessarily be redrawn.

Yet all of this paled into insignificance before the soul-electrifying power of a pair of amethyst eyes that regarded him now.

Ardan roared, “You are the most granite-headed, intractable, storm-creating excuse for a stray lightning-bolt I have ever encountered! Your so-called friends won’t let me in the blasted door for fear that my very presence will knock you sill –again–half of Herimor apparently worships your wings, and I am fated to love a veritable goddess who cannot see her own tail if it slaps her in the jaw! And if they are eavesdropping–” he sucked in an enormous, shuddering breath–I WILL LOSE MY FREAKING TEMPER!!

The Princess did not point out the obvious, but he could see what she was thinking. Half of the Island had just heard him bellow. A pleasingly draconic bellow …

Mewling and spitting in anger, Sapphire whizzed into the room and buried herself in Human-Aranya’s arms. Aranya calmed the dragonet with a deft touch, irritating Ardan further, because his treacherous brain immediately pictured him as the dragonet, purring beneath her caressing hand.

He gritted out, “You are impossible! Can’t love you, can’t not love you … what do you want, woman–Dragoness? Answers on a handy scrolleaf!”

“I do not want to put this war at risk, right now, by trying to untangle this fiendishly intricate knot that binds us,” she suggested sensibly.

He shook a fist at the ceiling, as if railing at the skies might better express the depths of his frustration. Zip had pointed out that maddening each other was just the other face of the dral of love. Ardan had to leave the room at that point or he would have committed a morally reprehensible act. He was good at those, apparently.

He said, “May I mention the war-interrupting storm raging overhead at present?”

“Aye.” An Island-World’s weight burdened her sigh. “Ardan, I don’t have many answers, but I can tell you this. I am not negotiating with some seventh-generation niece of mine about rights to you. The very idea makes me feel tired. Besides, if I know you, you’re more stubborn than that scimitar-stopper you wear atop your shoulders. You command your own heart. I should not interfere.”

“For the tenth stupid time, Aranya–interfere! I want you to interfere! Must I grovel until you change your mind for sheer, bloody shame, woman?”

Aranya’s eyes glistened between the folds of her royal purple face-veil. He could not begin to enumerate the emotions roiling within her. She whispered, “I need that storm, Ardan.”

He growled, “So, you want me to–”

“No.”

“You don’t want me to–”

“No.”

Ardan roared a very impolite word at this juncture. It did not improve his mood that she giggled at his reaction. “Maybe I’ll just come over there and start with a few kisses,” he threatened, then almost cursed again as a shadow crossed those incomparable eyes. “I am a decent, patient man!”

Now, a twinkle of amusement. “Is that so?”

“Alright, if you want honesty, Immadia, I need my Dragon. I can’t fight the Thoralians without my Shadow. Won’t you just–”

“I can’t heal what isn’t there.”

“Can’t you?”

Suddenly, the room seemed a quarter of the size it had been before, and the heat, like a furnace. Aranya’s eyes were as wide as a startled Dragoness’, rife with ideas sparking in all directions.

Rather more feebly, he added, “Maybe I should turn you over my knee like Nak always threatens to.”

“That almost set your scales alight last time,” she retorted diffidently, yet he sensed her blushing even beneath the veil. “Ardan, the bigger issue is that I can’t defeat–we can’t defeat the Thoralians, without the whole Daughter of Storm … piece. I need you, your magic and your presence. I’m sorry if that makes you feel used. Of course that’s offensive and I am acutely conscious–I’d feel the same way. But I am confused and vulnerable, Ardan. There’s a heart in here that resents acting the victim, but I just don’t see how this story ends with ‘and they winged happily into the suns-set together’. Tell me you understand that much, at least.”

“No.”

She stared at his upraised, scarified eyebrow.

Clapping his hands together so sharply she jumped, Ardan said, “Right, Star Dragoness. We’re in a war. Afterward, you will unbend this ridiculous stance, or so help me, I swear …”

“The knee?”

“By Fra’anior’s sulphurous armpits, my knee!”

He was ashamed of shouting at this woman, but she seemed to understand his emotions–Aranya was attuned to Storm, after all, and stormy draconic emotions were what raged, choked and burned inside of his breast now. Ardan had always considered himself a forbearing and self-controlled man, insofar as he remembered. But not where Aranya was concerned. Never, with her …

“Now that I’m awake, we should confer with the lovely Dhazziala.” Aranya had the nerve to wink at him. “She has fine taste in Shapeshifter Dragons, I hear.”

“She’s seventy-two flaming years old! It’d be like … kissing someone’s grandmother!” Ardan contorted his face, making her laugh merrily. “Even Western Isles barbarians have their standards.”

“Except regard–” She bit off her words. Except regarding teenage princesses? But Aranya ad-libbed graciously, “If you kissed her you’d probably bring down an Island or three. Maybe we can turn that power against Thoralian?”

“Should I skip Dhazziala and kiss Thoralian instead?”

“I think you’d rather kiss a dead rat floating down a sewage pipe,” Aranya suggested, as they laughed together. “Well, let’s keep that strategy in the back pocket, agreed? You scared Nak silly last time, anyways. Now, can I tell you what passed between Fra’anior and me? It’s … huge. Pun intended.”

Council chamber, now, said Dhazziala, directly into his mind.

Ardan offered his arm. Your Majesty, we are expected.

As the First Hand’s anger flared, the oath-magic responded and Aranya, halfway risen from her hammock, executed a very unroyal tumble. Ardan’s Dragon-swift hand saved her head a nasty crack against a nearby wooden chest.

A monstrous peal of thunder shook Yiisuriel to her roots.

Mercy. Finding her feet groggily, Aranya picked up Sapphire and popped the dragonet upon her left shoulder. You should stick with me, Sapphire, for I’ve a feeling … anyways, what’s this I hear about you channelling Blue powers, you lovely little mischief? At least with this driving storm, even the Thoralian-triplicate can’t cause too much trouble for us.

I disagree, Ardan said bluntly. That’s what this meeting is about.

He caught her a second time as Aranya faltered, clutching her head. Sapphire’s magic flared gently, soothing the pain. Then, Star leaned on Shadow’s arm as they walked out of the chamber together, as if they belonged to each other.

* * * *

The Azure Dragoness winged down between the enormous flanks of the Air-Breathers to meet Leandrial, who together with, Zip, Aranya and Huaricithe, proposed to make the trip to the invitingly named Pit of Despair. The Suald-dak-Doon began a mere seven leagues beneath the Cloudlands, two leagues beneath the feet of the Land Dragons who surrounded the ancient mine. One of these guardians was Yiisuriel, and it was her flank that passed by Zip’s right wingtip as she descended.

Despite their objections, Ri’arion and Ardan had been left behind, but would monitor and assist mentally via Yiisuriel.

They had thought Leandrial was old, Zip chuckled to herself. Yiisuriel claimed a venerable one thousand, four hundred and seventy-six circuits of the Island-World about the suns, apparently not an uncommon age for creatures boasting such a slow metabolic rate. Leandrial acted most put out. To stand with one’s feet eighteen miles below one’s breathing spiracles, and to house tens of thousands of lives in one’s rocky shell-exudate, was no mean feat.

Yiisuriel had known the Dragonfriend and was most ‘fierily tickled’, therefore, to make Aranya’s acquaintance. In a fit of uncharacteristic impertinence during her descent, the Immadian had requested that the phlegmatic Air-Breather tell her amusing stories about her Aunt.

Well was it said that good friends grew alike.

As they descended, the pressure intensified steadily. In the recesses of her mind, Zip felt a slight tingling as Ri’arion checked and approved her auxiliary countermeasures against airborne and magical toxins. How peculiar to hear her faraway monk, Ardan and Yiisuriel discussing the sweeping lines of enemy Fire-Sporters and Bottom-Huggers–she burst out laughing as that name impinged on her awareness, startling Aranya and Huari–invading the vast plains area between the Vassal States and the Inscrutables, which were cut on an East-West plane by four relatively narrow impossible deeps. Soon, she realised Yiisuriel’s stolid presence was amplifying the men’s thoughts. Telepathy only carried so far.

Leandrial awaited them in the soft, dim blue two leagues below the Cloudlands, her eye shining like a vast, welcoming lantern. Without preamble, she said, Dhazziala has despatched envoys to agree alliance with the Vassal States and their Dragon Riders–a tardy move, but not unwelcome. As predicted, we are now surrounded by hostile Land Dragons, but allies gather in the Eastern deeps of the Southern Kahilate, and North of the Vassal States. The third Thoralian approaches from the Straits with a vast force, conservatively estimated at forty thousand Lesser Dragons and a million drakes.

A million? Aranya gasped.

Zip heard her friend’s annoyance at that draconic love of dropping news into a conversation like a boulder tossed down a cliff.

Merely, said Yiisuriel, chuckling massively. Now, little ones, I’ve a job for you. I feel an irritation on the lower base of my shell, down where your paws would be. I need you to take a look.

Leandrial said, Very well. Only nine miles to go, little ones.

Zip tittered, Aye, you Land Dragons are unutterably humungous, Leandrial. You put the shivers of colossal awe into my exceedingly tiny wings.

You’re so eye-wateringly gargantuan, o mighty Leandrial, that I need to dust off my truly outsized thesaurus of draconic hyperbole to merely attempt speech with such a leviathan, Aranya chipped in, drawing a strange look from Huaricithe.

Don’t teach properly civil Dragons your insolent Northern ways, sniffed Leandrial, cracking open her jaw. Shall I eat you now, or later?

Later, said Zip. With a dollop of that delicious sauce the Lost Islanders serve over orrican meat?

The Welkin-Runner dived. Do try to keep up.

Lightning-girl and her Storm-munching sidekick, said the Remoyan, snidely elbowing Aranya in the ribs.

Storm-girl and Lightning-in-her-britches, retorted her friend, thinking something that for a change, made Zip’s belly-fires blush dramatically.

Zuziana chased the surprisingly blue Star Dragoness down into the depths, swimming the precipitous cliffs of Yiisuriel’s great flanks with broad, languid wing-strokes. Below the three-league mark, the ambient bacterial light petered out, leaving just a broad reach of darkness surrounded by ten hazy mountains rising into the murky heavens–their Air-Breather friends. The upper Pit was two leagues across, Dhazziala had briefed them, and narrowed as one progressed deeper than the level the Air-Breathers stood upon. Over the centuries, their heavily armoured shells had fused with the bedrock and each other, making them true mountains, but they could crack that seal at any time and amble off to another location. Yiisuriel, the largest of her kind, measured six point nine two leagues in diameter, her great bulk bordering fully a quarter of the Suald-dak-Doon.

Leandrial’s eye-beam speared ahead of them, picking out the grey-black ramparts of the Land Dragons. They flew down a slope almost entirely devoid of vegetation, and no wonder, for little could grow in that gloom, Zip imagined. As they swung around to a more westerly heading, skimming across Yiisuriel’s flank toward the inevitable encounter with the inner shield which for over a century had concealed the First Egg’s resting-place from the Island-World, they crossed a band of luminous, lichen-like growths which marked the level of Yiisuriel’s upper mouths–sealed on all sides but her eastern flank, where she sucked in and filtered all of her nutritional requirements. Her ear-canals creaked like old leather under strain, protesting the growing pressure.

The saddle, said Huari, pointing ahead to the place where Yiisuriel and her neighbour’s shells converged. Three and a half leagues depth. She groaned and stretched her wings. Pressure’s a headache!

Here, this should help, said Aranya, reaching out to touch the Blue. The Dragoness’ eye-fires flared as white as fresh duck-down. Now, to work on your pressure constructs …

Unstoppable Immadia! Contrariwise, Zip’s attention was drawn ahead. There. A veil of diaphanous, shimmering indigo magic denied access to the inner world. They had travelled untold thousands of miles to reach this place, but as she peered ahead, only one word came to mind.

Dismal.

Chapter 32: Thundering Islands

CHOICE WAS LIMITED. Choice was crucial, an unalienable right of intelligent beings. Choice, her instincts told her, was an illusion bounded by fate and circumstance. Aranya wondered if beneath it all, she was simply afraid of opening her heart to one who threatened to love her for who she truly was–not who she desperately yearned to be, but the new-normal Aranya. Twisted, despised Immadia. Vulnerable Immadia. She who could not fight a single battle against Thoralian without suffering mystical visions and collapsing in a defenceless heap.

Ugh! She curled her left paw so tightly, it shook. How different and distant this Aranya seemed from the girl who had frantically splattered Dragons onto canvas in the Tower of Sylakia.

As Yiisuriel modified the shield-construct in order to allow ingress, Aranya felt a frisson of magic run the length of her spine-spikes to her tail. Magic had so many dimensions. She must bring her utmost strength against the Thoralians. Storm was her right, her heritage and her power.

If it were a matter of willpower, the Thoralians would already be defeated.

She should not feel a hidebound fraud hiding a seventeen year-old Humansoul who still, in her mind, painted Dragons. Odd to be rationalising about her second-soul in this way.

Within, her linked-consciousness said, If we can learn to sing in the colours of Storm, Hualiama, then it must surely be enough, mustn’t it?

Dragoness-Aranya raised her brow-ridges. She was talking to Hualiama in there?

The temperature plummeted as they entered the Pit proper. The four Dragonesses linked minds lightly, sharing strength and overlapping their psychic shields. Senses cast about for imminent danger, but there was none–suspiciously so, Leandrial noted. Her eye-beam prodded the murky darkness and the stillness of long-stagnant air; to her annoyance, Aranya’s nostrils crinkled at a faint, acidic rankness. There were still odours percolating through her shield! What did they have to do to cut off all poisons–stop breathing? The Star Dragoness scanned the terrain ahead as they continued to press downward, working harder and harder against the frigid air congealing around their wings and limbs, as if they pressed through layers of numbing blankets.

After half an hour’s further descent into the blackness, Leandrial vented a resounding hmmmph! That should not be there.

A mile below, the pit ended abruptly in a vast, smooth cupola of gold-infused black metal. Aranya peered ahead. What a strange colour, tricking the eye, seeming to deceive the very light that fell upon it! The slightly curved surface glistened across the breadth of the Suald-dak-Doon, appearing to press upward from beneath like a vast growth that exactly filled the Pit and every serrulation of its edges. Leandrial’s beam bobbed back and forth, examining the phenomenon.

Meriatonium? asked Aranya.

Zuziana said, Aye. Hear that? What’s that noise?

My impression is that something’s drilling under there, said Huaricithe.

They winged downward more charily, thinking the same. The Egg’s rising should have fully been two leagues lower, inside the Pit. How could the Land Dragons have missed this?

Definitely meriatonium-based, but I’m not sure this is entirely … Leandrial’s voice trailed off. If I didn’t know better, if it wasn’t impossible, I’d say this is a derivative of meriatonium. It negates and evades magic in the expected ways, but it … flows. As she spoke, she fed multiple streams of data to Yiisuriel, including a mineral analysis, full-spectrum readings, and measurements of ambient temperature gradients and the air’s mineral content. Down to the base. Let’s take a closer look.

Close for Leandrial was a five-hundred-foot gap. Her smaller companions swam right down to the curved surface; Zip touched the metal with her talon, but could not so much as scratch it. Meantime Aranya wandered to the edge, thinking that if the measurements taken by the previous survey team held true, the strange metal must have overlapped Yiisuriel’s base by several hundred feet already. Not even a mosquito could have squeezed into the gap between rock and metal. And while she had been fed a steady diet of the First Egg’s monstrous power, not so much as a whisper of magic seemed to emanate from below. Meriatonium was famously resistant to magic. Only Dragons possessed the science and technology to mine it, whereas its cousin meriatite, the mineral ore, was open to Human exploitation and fuelled meriatite furnace engines the Island-World over.

Idly, the Star Dragoness scratched a line on Yiisuriel’s flank. This was the kind of place in which a Shadow Dragon might feel comfortable, but how could a star shine in such soulless darkness?

Whang!

Aranya back-winged sharply as the metal vibrated just beneath her. Leandrial … she stared at the spot she had just scratched. Gone. Swallowed up.

By the Great Onyx! bellowed the Land Dragoness, attacking the fluid metal with her Harmonic magic.

The metal surged! Aranya and Zip tangled wings as they retreated. Huari called, Don’t–Leandrial, you’re feeding it!

Feeding? The word pierced Aranya’s marrow with dreadful facility. As the light-beam shuttered, the meriatonium seemed to settle again, having gained another hundred feet. Flying ralti sheep …

Well, that was creepy, said Zip’s disembodied voice out of the darkness.

Ancestors’ blood, what do you think is underneath? gasped Huaricithe.

The silence deepened before Aranya sensed a faint vibration. That must be what Zuziana had heard before. Rather than allow common sense to intrude, she whipped down and pressed her left-side ear-canals against the meriatonium. Not–much. She spider-crawled sideways, trying to work out if the sound changed.

What’s she doing? Huaricithe whispered.

The Azure replied, Well, she has been known to first distract an entire roomful of warriors by running naked into their midst, before changing into her Dragoness and–

Hush, said Aranya. Her talons tap-tapped sideways until she crab-walked her nose into Yiisuriel’s flank. Ouch.

Zip added, Of course, sometimes she is unarguably peculiar.

The Immadian crooked a talon behind her back at her friend.

But we always obey the goddess’ whims. After all, I don’t run around worshipping my family. Doesn’t that rattle your wingtips, Huaricithe?

Looking up, Aranya saw an expression cross Huari’s face that suggested she had bitten into a mouthful of haribol fruit. Time for sympathy before her relative suffered a religious meltdown. Zip, I’m enormously fond of you, but–she waved a talon–grovel. Now.

Thankfully, Zip had the good sense to do exactly that–near enough to the Island, anyways. After conferring for a few minutes regarding the sounds, they startled as Leandrial scooped them aside with her talon, saying that Huari had a suggestion. Balance magic could not penetrate meriatonium, but it could penetrate rock.

She pressed her head against Yiisuriel’s flank, but the ancient Air-Breather already had a partial solution to the problem of angle. Balance can be bent, she rumbled, showing Aranya a construct. Your Dragonfriend knew this technique.

Being definitively less awesome than her illustrious dancing Aunt and the eidetically-equipped super-Pygmy, whom Leandrial did not fail to mention less than nine times in the following hour, Aranya sweltered and gritted her fangs at length over reproducing the fantastically complex magical structure. But after she attained a touch of mastery, the task became straightforward. Leandrial powered up her eye-cannon, Aranya hovered in a precise location to bend her output seventeen degrees, and a picture formed in their minds. Even Yiisuriel gasped.

What appeared to be dark tentacles waved periodically from beneath the meriatonium shield, brushing against the rocky wall of Yiisuriel’s flank. Where they touched, urzul flared and the rocky armour disintegrated, giving rise to that slight vibration they had sensed. As they watched, a soft-bodied creature moved partially into view. The Dragons stared at the boneless, sac-like beast in disgust. Its black-and-grey body bulged and squirmed grotesquely, as though parts of it were unfolding themselves from another dimension, Shapeshifter-like, often appearing through or swallowing other organs or limbs. With a flick of its misshapen limbs, the creature whipped away again. As Leandrial’s beam swept back and forth, hundreds more of the tentacles nipped back underneath the meriatonium shield. Hiding.

Well, now we know what they’re doing, Zip said angrily. Those are S’gulzzi, or their minions, and they’re trying to mine their way to freedom!

KRAA … KAABOOM. The faraway explosion punched their environment, even down in the Pit.

Yiisuriel bellowed furiously!

Then, before the companions could do more than exchange startled glances, the great Air-Breather relayed a call from Dhazziala, Star Dragoness, we need you! Fly!

* * * *

“How the hells do we miss an entire flying Island?” yelled Ri’arion.

“Freaking Herimor glamour!” snapped Ardan. Glaring at an Air-Breather was somewhat useless, given as they inhabited a cave seventeen miles above Yiisuriel’s feet, but his tone communicated the idea.

No, speed combined with urzul-enhanced shielding, rumbled Yiisuriel.

Ardan grasped this instinctively. Generate enough speed and an object would outrun the sound-waves it generated. Swathe an entire Island in clever draconic shielding, and the result was far worse than a meriatite bomb. He did not need science. He needed a solution, because the Air-Breathers were hurting and the outer shield was already in a critical state.

Summoning up the map Yiisuriel’s group had prepared, Ardan drew a mental line from the Vassal States to their Island-Cluster. That was what Thoralian had planned. At last, the disposition of the scattered clusters of Bottom-Huggers began to make sense. Their natural strength lay in the psychic realm, which had led Dhazziala’s Council to dismiss them as a threat when situated so far afield. The strategy was elegant, simple and altogether devastating. Take an Island from the Vassal States. Accelerate it across hundreds of leagues, skipping the Island over two thousand assembled shields like a stone skimming over a pond. Slam a million tonnes of rock into the Lost Islands’ psychic shield at a velocity of over one hundred leagues per hour.

Freaking windrocs, that had to hurt!

Human-Dhazziala dashed into their cavern. “How quickly can we get Aranya out there?”

“Do you think one Dragoness can stop whole Islands thundering into us?” growled Ardan. “They’re a long, long way down. They need to decompress; that takes time.”

“It was a mistake sending her–”

“To discover that the Air-Breathers are being undermined from beneath?” Ri’arion interrupted. “You’ve seen the report. Can we sustain our defences against attacks inside and out, First Hand? Can you calculate that?”

Dhazziala wiped sweat off her brow. “We don’t know. If the S’gulzzi bore deep enough, they will eventually reach areas that hurt even Air-Breathers. But the immediate danger–”

Second Island incoming–brace! bellowed Yiisuriel.

Ardan flexed his knees as a clamour of draconic pain rocked the Islands. They dampened the impact, trying to spread out the backlash, but the sheer kinetic power striking the shield made the Air-Breathers reel. Yiisuriel juddered as she absorbed the pain for others.

“We need to mount an attack on that Island-shooter,” said Dhazziala.

“Exactly what Thoralian will have planned for,” said Ri’arion. “What is his strategy? The drakes? More urzul-rain?”

Don’t remind us, came Zip’s voice, faintly.

Watching the damage measurements stack up in the Lost Islands’ communal mind, Ardan stated, “If the Land Dragons are taking this much damage, we can’t not attack. We’ve no choice.”

The monk put in, “I’ll go with Leandrial. We need to re-establish the location of the Thoralians. Fast. Also, let’s get to work on figuring out a way we can slingshot those Islands over the top and far away.”

Dhazziala said, “Long-range scans show parasitized Land Dragons moving in huge numbers to screen those Bottom-Huggers. We posit the Thoralians seek a pitched battle–either to draw Aranya into the open, or to try to infect our Land Dragons.”

Or just to beat us into a pulp, Zuziana put in.

Always seeing the positives, my Zuziana? Ri’arion retorted wryly.

One more thing, Yiisuriel groaned, and the grief-notes in her voice overwhelmed them all. That last Island was Human-inhabited. Thousands …

The anguish of memory! Ardan crashed to his knees. MURDERERS!

* * * *

Four days later, the consensus was ‘all of the above’, but most especially the ‘beat into a pulp’ part. Aranya flew out numerous times with Leandrial, returning battered, bruised and dispirited. No Thoralians. She had failed to eject any Theadurial from their Land Dragon hosts without killing both creatures. The Air-Breathers could not shape their aerodynamic shield enough to mitigate the impact of Islands against their flanks, nor could they deploy Land Dragons similarly to Thoralian’s legions because of the sheer numbers set against. There was no word from the Dragon Riders of the Vassal States.

“In summary, Sapphire, we are being thrashed from every angle and the Thoralians are glaringly absent from the war front. What are they up to?” Aranya scratched her dragonet’s chin where Sapphire liked it best. “What say you, my friend?”

Ari rest, she chirped.

“I will gladly defenestrate the next person who suggests that,” Aranya declared.

Sapphire not person. Sapphire dragonet, the mite pointed out.

“Alright, Sapphire. You’re safe from the ravaging Star Dragoness, who apparently couldn’t ravage so much as a bread roll let alone anything substantial. I just don’t have the strength to keep healing the Air-Breathers. Their pain is killing me. My storm’s rumbling along like a toothless old Dragon and my family of historical titans is annoyingly silent for a change. What’s with that?”

Aye, she was meant to be sleeping in her simple chamber. But it was way after midnight and Aranya felt wide awake. Keyed up. Not enjoying the hour when Beran said he always had his best ideas. Moodily, she swung out of her hammock, picked up a stick of charcoal–these Lost Islanders had no idea about real art implements–and considered the diagram on her wall. First, she shaded Yiisuriel’s outline, giving the Land Dragoness a profile in keeping with her monstrous stature. She was the lynchpin of the Lost Isles’ defence, the mainstay of her kin, upholding the great inner and outer shields. Five Air-Breathers had already passed on into the Eternal Fires, and a dozen more were critically injured.

Yesterday, Dhazziala departed secretly with a group of Lesser Dragons to try to link up with the Dragon Riders. At least that kept her claws off Ardan. Vixen!

Aranya rapidly sketched Leandrial closing in on the Land Dragons comprising Thoralian’s devastating ultimate weapon, his Island-flinger. His rail-gun, the First Hand had called it–thousands of Land Dragons banded together to accelerate and fling Islands at his enemy, each contributing thrust and levitation along the axis of attack. Thankfully, the assault had slowed over the last day. Perhaps the Thoralians had used up the available Islands. Her quick hands sketched the Mesas, West of the battleground, which stretched over six hundred leagues south of the Vassal States. Where would he strike? What was the next facet of his strategy? For if they continued to be worn down at this rate, the three Thoralians would be able to saunter in and just help themselves to …

The First Egg.

Aranya sketched the cap, the pit, the S’gulzzi. They had no love for the Thoralians. They held the ultimate prize in their–claws? Tentacles? Mental pincers? They knew nothing of the S’gulzzi save rumour and legend. Creatures of the cold-fires, one legend had called them.

Yii, chirped Sapphire, touching the picture of Yiisuriel.

Human-Aranya cocked her head. Gangurtharr, are you snooping out there?

Silence.

KAABOOM!! Another Island. Aranya winced. She was under strict orders not to drain herself healing the Air-Breathers … KAABOOM! Another? So quickly. Why the urgency?

We mourn, came the sorrowful, soul-shadowing bugling of the Air-Breathers. Another death.

Struck by the note in the Land Dragoness’ voice, Aranya called, Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, I adjure thee in the name of the Great Onyx to swiftly speak the truth–art thou injured by the S’gulzzi? Have they penetrated thy Dragonflesh at last?

A vast sigh filled the chamber and Aranya’s mind simultaneously.

When? the Immadian demanded.

An hour ago–

KAABOOM! A smaller impact, but no less devastating, for the Land Dragons could not hold out much longer.

The chalk stick screeched as Aranya’s partial collapse against the wall drew a line connecting Yiisuriel and the stylised First Egg. She stared numbly at the spot, hearing Dragonsoul’s cry within her, No more! He’s picking us off at his leisure! and she muttered to herself, “But what can I do?”

The line made Yiisuriel and the Egg resemble one of the large door-keys from her ancestral home at Immadia Island. Yii. Key. Sapphire had been making a draconic pun-rhyme.

“Aye!” cried Aranya, grabbing Sapphire. “Come with me, you immodest little genius.”

“Genie?” squeaked the dragonet. “Mean clever?”

She ran.

What could she do? She was a Storm Dragon, the queen of improvisation. Free dance sang in her blood, Hualiama claimed. When had she ever gained by dithering? Aranya recognised that now. She knew her indecision had cost lives. Aranya quailed at the awful truth of Thoralian’s triumph over her heart and soul. No longer. She would beat that hegemony into dust.

Picking up her knees, she ran from her chamber toward the hangars, where the Dragonwings were dozing in preparation for the morrow’s endless battle against the drakes. Keeping busy. The siege, wearing down the defenders. Maiming. Killing. No more! She pumped her arms, ruing the dreadful toll the pox had taken on her physical body. And as she ran, she was startled to see herself starting to glow white. Even before her transformation, her Shapeshifter white-fires arose?

No, this is our soul, said Dragonsoul, within her. Or do you think we are not linked?

The Human chuckled softly, madly. I am fire?

You are fire, confirmed her inner presence. We burn as one. There is but one fire, twice enfleshed.

Her soundless flaring briefly brought suns-bright daylight to the long corridor. Aranya giggled as her feet left footprints in the scattered dust, all that remained of her clothing. Except the white scale. Exactly like Ardan’s ur-makka, it survived her fires and her transformations. How? Sapphire turned a celebratory spiralling somersault around her flying hair as the Shapeshifter Princess continued to flee down the corridor. Still Human. That was necessary, because the door at the end was Human-sized.

Shield, whispered Dragonsoul. Sneak out. This is our battle with the Thoralians, petal. No more souls must suffer and die, save us. We are the acceptable sacrifice. This task falls to our hands and paws.

Wreathed in shadow almost as effective as Ardan’s, the naked but invisible girl padded through the hangar, past the part-sleeping part-alert mountain of Genholme, past Bane and Lurax sleeping the sleep of exhausted soldiers beside her, and up to the great blast-doors, which remained wide enough for the watch-Dragons to slip in and out as needed. Auditory, olfactory, optical, tactile, pneumatic and magical shields surrounded her–thank you, Ri’arion and Ardan. She held Sapphire in her arms, inside her enchantment. Aranya froze as a Red Shapeshifter Dragon padded between the inner doors. Right. Stealth, Immadia! She held her breath, but the Dragon noticed nothing as his wingtip brushed over her foot.

Onward. Aranya whirled through the doors and found herself standing right between two further Dragons. Stupid, weak hearing! A tail crossed her path perfectly. There was no other recourse, no way around bulky hindquarters. Right. She could not levitate like Ri’arion, but she could achieve a similar effect with a clever bit of air-shaping.

Aranya wafted between the Dragons.

What was that? rumbled the Grey-Green Dragon on her left.

Night breezes, said the other.

Sapphire chuckled as Aranya silently rose, bouncing off the Dragon’s lazily extended paw on her air-cushion. She flipped over toward his companion, who scratched his neck vigorously as she rebounded off his thickset neck, again not touching the Dragon. Just air. Ha. Technically, she was still a convict. She may as well behave like one. Dragons who had just been reverse-burgled might not take it very kindly, she knew. Aranya drifted around four further Dragons patrolling the interior area between the blast-doors, spying a perfect, starry night beyond. How she yearned to fly, unbridled and unconstrained. Drifting up onto the lip of the fifty foot-thick doors, the Immadian wafted right to the edge. Below was a five-mile drop to the Cloudlands. She knew this view. Only this time, her chains were not metal, but flesh scarred and mortal.

Mother …

She dived into the void.

* * * *

Ardan woke as a huge paw gripped his shoulder. “Shadow! Up. Where’s Aranya?”

He shook the dream-cobwebs out of his head. “Aranya? How would I know? Sleeping, of–”

“In an abandoned chamber?” snarled Gangurtharr.

“What?”

Ten seconds later, he was staring at exactly that–an empty bedchamber.

“Wretched Princess!” His frantic gaze lit on the detailed, strategic map covering the wall. Rushing over, Ardan examined her markings. Leandrial. Dragon Riders. The jagged line connecting Yiisuriel and the First Egg … “Fra’anior’s sulphurous breath–Gang! You were supposed to watch her, you lazy lout!”

Gang’s muzzle could not even fit through the doorway, but his snarl certainly did. “She stole out, that ignoble girlfriend of yours! We need to alert–”

“No. Not yet.”

Fire bathed the corridor outside. “Why not?”

“Because she’ll have a reason for subterfuge. Aranya always has a reason–some crazy, noble, off-the-freaking-Island, insane reason … no! No, no … no!”

“What the hells?” growled the Dragon. “Speak truth-fires, be you a Dragon!”

“She’s gone to take on the Thoralians all by herself. She’s figured out the Dragon’s wings on his plans and she–typical ruddy woman! Why, you vexatious, maddening, beautiful woman! Why?”

“The noble sacrifice?” Gang rumbled, very slowly.

“Aye.”

The old Gladiator stilled his fulminating at once. “Right. We need to raise the alarm, but very, very quietly. I’ll get Huaricithe and Zuziana. Your friend thinks she’s sneaky? We’ll sneak up on her. Meantime, Marshal Tari warms up the Lost Island crews and we try to raise Leandrial and Ri’arion with a coded message. Give nothing away. Nothing. I’ve a feeling in my waters it’s all going to happen tonight.”

“Tonight?” echoed Ardan.

“Aye. Because this is Aranya the Assassin we’re talking about. Fra’anior’s kid grand-shell-daughter. She doesn’t seem to understand the word–”

“–impossible?” Ardan finished for him.

The Dragon snorted, “Or, enough, stop, slow down, be selfish, let it lie, play dead … anything! She has a ridiculously limited vocabulary for a creature of royal upbringing.” He aimed a talon at Ardan. “What’s not to love about that, eh?”

Man and Dragon stared at each other, sharing an appalled chuckle. Then, they charged off to battle. Surreptitiously.

* * * *

Aranya winged amidst starlight.

The night was light yet fey, the stars having an especial brilliance as only the White Moon was visible, far above the Lost Islands. It was unusual not to see so much as a sliver of the Yellow Moon above. Seen by starlight, the scene below seemed peaceful, just mountaintops peeking out of immaculate white Cloudlands. One could almost imagine an Island-World devoid of war.

Yet, another Island had struck the great shield as she traversed the hangar.

She must act. It was neither in her nature nor in her hearts to stand still when her friends were dying, and all knew that the Thoralians would never stop until all the Island-World bled upon the alter of his hubris and greed.

She saw nothing of the old Marshals, yet the Dragonsong of her hearts led her once more into the icy heights of the atmosphere. She knew she would find them there.

* * * *

Zuziana snapped, “See anything–Gang? Huari? Ardan?”

The other Dragons shook their muzzles. Strapped in upon Gang’s spike-saddle, which eschewed the usual girth-strap in favour of ratchets affixed to the spine-spikes, Ardan made a flat gesture. “No.”

“Then, follow the oath-magic.”

A chunky warrior Rode a chunky Dragon. Strange how alike they seemed, the Remoyan thought, both grizzled and scarred, yet possessed of mighty hearts beneath their gruff exteriors. She knew her command rubbed the Western Isles warrior against his natural grain, but he voiced no word of protest. Instead, he closed his eyes.

Gang said softly, Too quiet. I don’t like this.

You never liked the quiet before battle, said Huaricithe, her eyes bright upon the Gladiator-Dragon.

Got a fiery spot for that Scrap, he said, stretching easily. Kid gave her tears for me, and look what I got. New scales, new life. What do you think, noble Huaricithe?

After this battle, will you roost with me?

Zip felt her fires blush. Well, it was a romantic night, a night in which the White Moon’s light whispered upon Dragon-scales, and only a matter as trivial as the end of the Island-World happened to be looming–why not a liaison now? No Dragon knew if they would survive the battles to come.

Gang stretched out a wing. Further. It trembled. He warbled, Thou, whose eye-fires are purest starlight to mine third heart …

Thou, Huaricithe crooned back, touching his wingtip with hers. I have always … how foolish I have been, these many years, never to regard thee with true-fires, noble Gangurtharr. I shall be thine, if thou wilt be mine.

The Amethyst Dragoness stared at the White Moon. That was no moon! No!

Forever thine, Gang said.

There’s something I need to tell you, said the Azure, straining her eyesight to the limit. The quality of the light was strange and intermingled, and against that brilliant point, could she make out the shadow of a shadow, a Dragon the size of a forty-foot Amethyst?

What, that Brityx has found us out? said Ardan, pointing downward.

No. Zip shuddered. Look up. That’s not a Moon. It’s something … else.

Chapter 33: Sacrifice

THE THREE THORALIANS turned with one accord, and one mind, to gaze at Aranya as she approached. Backlit by the baleful, pallid light of their creation, the Yellow-White Dragon-triplet appeared almost translucent, their wings like skeletal struts lacking connective tissue, their hides smooth and snakelike, the fires of their eyes almost invisible against the intense ambient glare. Shivering, Aranya remembered Izariela’s teaching about the nature of corrupt forms of magic, that they were sometimes beautiful in their own right; that evil could parade a false beauty yet still be inimical, destructive and wholly abhorrent.

Now, she knew this for truth.

Above the Thoralians, a great ball of silvery-white light had formed against a backdrop of the blackest velvet, perhaps half a mile across, circumscribed somehow by the threads of magic rising from their circling flight. They orbited its base steadily, seeming to eschew the need for ordinary flight, which in itself was a statement of wing-shivering power. A mere hundred feet separated the Thoralians’ wingtips from the seething surface. That ball boiled not with heat, but with a brutal chill that made her once-injured shoulder twinge in recollection. Moisture in the air did not condense upon its surface, but fell away in a fine white dust that made the brilliant ball appear as if it sported a snowy white beard.

The night was unutterably still, here, four leagues above the Cloudlands.

Thoralian spoke in tones of three-but-one thunder, “So, the diseased whelp of Izariela has emerged from her hole at last. Well met, Star Dragoness. I never had any doubt you would cross the Rift-Storm to Herimor.”

“I can’t say the pleasure is mutual, Thoralian,” Aranya gritted out, soothing Sapphire with a touch of her paw.

“Ah, but this was always the plan, the moment of my crowning glory! And now that you have come, the cusp of our collaboration is at paw–”

“If you think I’ll ever serve–”

“What? No rescue of your precious mother? How unfaithful thou art, Aranya of Immadia!” Three muzzles scorned her. “Don’t forget, I still hold that secret.”

“I’ve spoken to Izariela. She’d rather see you dead.”

“You’ve … spoken? How droll.” Yet the oily nuances of his speech failed to disguise his surprise.

“We Star Dragons have our ways.”

Circling. Endlessly circling. Every one of Aranya’s Dragon senses was on the utmost alert, her reactions primed, her magic and storm swelling as Thoralian’s cold tones rolled over her.

You’re nothing but a blighted, ghastly eyesore, Aranya, sneered the muzzles. Once, you escaped my vengeance through your despicable Star Dragoness trickery. Never again!

I wonder what your liver tastes like? Aranya mused. Probably diseased and worm-ridden.

Brave talk from a broken Dragoness. So noble, coming up here alone, but I see your friends gathering below. My armies approaching from the North, chasing those pathetic Dragon Riders you think are going to save you. Aranya glanced both ways, very rapidly. Zip? No! And out on the horizon, just as an army of Dragonships had once broached the far shores of Immadia’s vista, she saw the dots representing a mighty force of Dragons. Aye, my drakes and Lesser Dragons hound them this way, pathetic sheep to the slaughterhouse I have prepared for you and your allies. Attend, Aranya. Below us lies Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, for six hundred years, the mainstay of these pathetic Dragon-Haters. They think nothing can breach their precious defences. I think otherwise.

Aranya observed the three Yellow-Whites picking up their pace, still without any visible wingbeat. Magic swelled, the jarring song of urzul. Light began to elongate from the bottom of the ball, passing right between the three circling Dragons.

Three mouths opened as one. Now, o tragic Princess of Pox, you shall be a helpless observer to the fate of these, the last Clan of Air-Breathers in the Island-World, and my ancillary to the destruction of a civilisation that has plagued Dragons since the time of Dramagon himself. Once I have annihilated the Air-Breathers with my urzul-light-spear, I shall consume you, body and soul, Star Dragon–

You’re deluded!

The Thoralians smiled discomfortingly. Why do you think I risked all to cross the Rift-Storm, Aranya? Juvenile fool, you think in mere years, while I think in centuries, yea, in aeons! I have gained the knowledge to bring you and your worthless line low, the very knowledge once possessed by the fabled Pygmy Dragon!

Aranya trembled, watching the light elongate, fearful of the awful power gathering behind that spear of light. She made no reply. Why did he not attack her with his mind, as before? With three of him it was the Thoralians’ best option, yet he seemed content to bluster, conserving his undoubted power. Why this posturing, unless he assumed that she could never defeat this light-spear he boasted about? It reeked of urzul, at which she despaired, knowing she had not yet worked out how to combat that foul anti-magic.

What if we don’t fight it? Humansoul whispered within.

The Thoralians roared, You shall learn, you foul spawn of a salamander, that not even a Star Dragoness can move faster than starlight itself! BE UN–

Mustering strength born in extremity, Aranya shifted.

She reappeared with a quick-fire, OPEN, BEZALDIOR!

–LEASHED!

Perhaps she could not move faster than light, but she had twice moved faster than Shadow. Aranya rematerialized a mere quarter-mile above her friends, reaching out with magic already fully formed and her talons outstretched. She bent the light.

Yiisuriel’s trick saved the Air-Breather’s life. A spear of pure, urzul-infused light flashed down past her flank, passed right through a theoretically impenetrable shield, and lanced into the depths of the Suald-dak-Doon. Before any Dragon could even blink, an incalculable explosion rocked the area. Funnelled by the Land Dragons’ shield, the retort blasted into the night sky like a volcanic eruption, tossing Zip, Aranya, Gangurtharr, Huari and Brityx aside as though they were flies slapped by a hurricane blast.

The Lost Islands rocked … and did not topple.

Yet, the first sound Aranya heard when her ear-canals recovered was the triumphant screech of the Thoralians, howling, THE FIRST EGG! IT RISES!

Then, animate darkness flowed over the shining Egg and a second eruption began.

S’gulzzi!

By Fra’anior’s beard, what had she done?

* * * *

Ardan was just beginning to follow the yearning of his heart upward into the skies, when the not-Moon shot from above like a harpoon cast into a dark lake. Only a crooked scar of light on his retinae remained to inform his disbelief. Aranya had just seized light in her paws and despatched it in another direction. Away from them. Into the Pit.

Then, a detonation ripped out of the depths, smashing into the shielded Dragons. Meriatonium might deny all magic, but an explosion of untold megatons was a different matter altogether. As they tumbled away, he saw, ever so briefly in the depths of that vast pit, a shining, jewel-like Egg of a size that surpassed his wildest imaginings. It had to be half a mile across. Iridescent. Mesmeric. The greatest magical prize in the Island-World.

Then, darkness lurched within the pit.

Gangurtharr pumped his wings, shooting across the divide as though he knew the tenor of Ardan’s fires, even if his Rider was just catching up. Snaffling the Amethyst Dragoness’ lolling body in his huge paws, he growled, “Aranya! What have you done?”

“Unleashed … ancient enemies …” she whispered. “Mercy, I’ve made a terrible mistake–”

“Correction. You saved a nation,” rapped Huaricithe.

The Thoralians plummeted from on high; still, from that height, they would take minutes to arrive. Brityx mentally triggered the alarm. Immediately, the blast-doors crashed open and the battle-ready Dragonwings poured out. Yiisuriel struggled to re-form the shield which Aranya had so casually ripped open. Ardan could not believe the Star Dragoness’ nerve, but what choice did she have?

Flanks first, the Air-Breather ordered her kin. The mental presence of the Air-Breathers merged, strengthening the shield that protected the cliffs of their flanks.

“Long-range data indicates five thousand Dragon Riders incoming,” said Brityx, briskly interpreting the information fed to them by the Lost Islands communal mind. “Every Land Dragon in a hundred leagues is headed in this direction–it’s the final assault.”

“Look at the Mesas,” said Zuziana, pointing. “Against the snow, do you see that? Actually, they’re already halfway here.”

“Dragons and drakes,” Huaricithe confirmed.

Suddenly, the forces of Lesser Dragons and Shapeshifters rising from the peaks of the Inscrutables did not seem so many or so brave. Seeing the numbers ranged in opposition, and knowing that the S’gulzzi rose out of their pit, the Lesser Dragons shivered and Sapphire leaped from Aranya’s paw to her shoulder. This would be a three-way battle, spoils to the victor.

Ardan said, “You did right, Aranya. Now, we must finish the Thoralian-triplet and these S’gulzzi. How can I help?”

Her eye-fires turned upon him, apricot and carmine, azure and white. “I need my Storm, Ardan.”

His body went rigid in the saddle.

“I need you to think badly of me. Think, this is the kind of woman I could never … marry. Think about my ugliness.” Her voice wept even though her decision seemed set in granite. “Hate me, Ardan. Hate the oath; abhor what it did to us.”

Heat exploded in his head. “You ask the impossible!”

“No sacrifice is too much for our Island-World, Ardan.”

“I cannot … change … what is immutable.”

“Then go freaking kiss Dhazziala–Ardan! Please! I forgive you already … just do it. If you must, do it for me, but you must fool the oath-magic. It is the only way.”

Wretched woman. This was one way, but was it right? Must he once more toss his integrity to the windrocs?

Immadia, you cut my very soul! he growled, letting the nuances of Dragonish suffuse his response with so much more than words. It was all he could think to say, but anguish sang eloquently in her eyes before Aranya lowered her gaze.

She whispered, Oh, Ardan … it can never …

So much hurt! Ardan at once admired her denials, made for the sake of the greater cause, and hated what they meant for him. Was he man enough to do the same?

Rasping of breath, the Amethyst Dragoness wriggled out of Gang’s paw to measure the Thoralians’ approach with narrowed eyes. She had already dismissed him from her mind, he thought angrily. Now, he caught fragments of her distress. The Immadian Dragoness thought upon Thoralian’s torture. The pox. Yolathion’s poor, crushed body spread upon a ghastly machine, screams so piteous they turned his blood to ice, and the dying of thousands of souls trapped upon the Islands Thoralian had launched across the Cloudlands. She had the clarity and imagination of an artist born. Details seared his awareness like acid rivulets, mirrored by tears spilling unheeded down his scarred cheeks.

Aye. For what Aranya had seen, and suffered. For unrealised grief, certain to come at the Thoralians’ paw. He must act.

Darkness boiled over the lip of the Air-Breathers’ inner shield. The S’gulzzi seemed akin to huge bats, having appendages similar to wings and paws and tails, but they were strangely twisted, as though some ill-formed template had become corrupted in the womb. Nor were they fully embodied. Ardan had the impression that these accursed creatures had sought to copy physical forms based on a misapprehension of the world far above their natural realm, hoping for bodies that could survive the enormous pressure differentials–even as he watched, some bodies crumbled or slumped in lifeless heaps upon Yiisuriel’s flanks, where they hissed and steamed and ate into the rock as though they exuded acid. Yet those few were instantly overwhelmed by the millions rising behind, filling the pipe to bursting with their innumerable congregation. Many took to the air, rising in a dark cloud above the softly moonlit peaks of the Air-Breathers. Their eyes were slits of lava; dark, reddish-orange pits in the head region, sometimes four or five in number.

Then, Ardan realised that he was looking over his shoulder at a receding view, as Gang sprinted for the North. For Dhazziala.

* * * *

The skies filled with the chittering of the deadly drakes and the swishing of tens of thousands of Lesser Dragons’ wings as the massive forces converged. Below the Cloudlands, Zuziana knew that Leandrial and Ri’arion commanded a running battle as they sought to return the depleted Land Dragon forces to the beleaguered Lost Islands, already under attack by Thoralian’s Theadurial-infested allies. It seemed to her that the entire draconic world had received the command, ‘go feral’. Dhazziala, in close communication now with the communal mind, had just committed her entire force to the air.

The Thoralians descended upon the rising tide of S’gulzzi, flying in a complex helical pattern that gathered white ice about them even as she watched.

When the forces collided, it was not with the booming concussion of Islands, as she expected. Instead, the impact seemed despicably delicate–far too soft and quiet, a hateful lie considering the magnitude of destruction that immediately ripped through the disparate forces. Dragons locked together, fang and claw. Metallic Fortress Dragons fired all of their Bullets at once, scorching the air with a hail of projectiles. Dragon armour sizzled and bubbled in the grip of S’gulzzi tentacles and limbs; many already raining from the sky, clinched in mortal struggle. Such an eruption of fireballs scorched the air, the skies turned into a ghastly, reddish radiance, as if a bloody eclipse ripped the night’s innocence asunder, and the stars themselves bled.

The Yellow-Whites fell upon the S’gulzzi like three vast white war-hammers, striking such devastating blows with their Ice-attacks and another, shrieking attack that Zuziana realised must be the fabled Shivers, that they singlehandedly stalled the dark tide rising over the shield and spilling onto Yiisuriel’s back. Then, the dust-covered mound of bodies heaved and fresh S’gulzzi swarmed upward, still inestimable in number. The plummeting Thoralian-triplicate vanished beneath the throng of sooty black bodies as though swallowed by a single vast maw.

He wants the First Egg! Aranya roared.

With a jerk, Zip clapped her wings together to shadow the Amethyst Dragoness into battle, with Brityx and Huaricithe, her fellow-Blues, hot on her tail. Now, in the press and adrenaline and snap of combat, the Star Dragoness began to find her fire. Pfft! Pfft! Two signature blue-hot fireballs raced away, blowing apart a knot of drakes. The three Blues tidied up with Lightning strikes as they looped rapidly over Genholme’s back, hunting the Thoralians. Aranya began to change colour again, moving more toward her gemstone Amethyst, gleaming as though lit up from within.

Zuziana smashed a drake with her tail and frazzled another which had intended to grapple with her best friend. Not today. Not on her watch. Then they wheeled amidst the flitting S’gulzzi bat-things, shielding against thousands of dagger-sharp mental attacks, their natural dark-fire magic impacting like fireballs against the Lesser Dragons’ minds. Brityx and Huaricithe drew tight, protecting her and Aranya. They sliced contrariwise through a dark tide, heading from Yiisuriel’s crown toward the Pit of Despair, briefly catching sight of a Thoralian amidst the hundreds of thousands of rippling black bodies, throwing back his muzzle and screaming as though he were drowning.

Would it be too much to hope that the Thoralians had bitten off more than even three mouths could chew, this time?

Then, she remembered her babies. Thoralian had to die. All of him.

* * * *

The Storm Dragoness powered through the battle, trying and failing not to expend her energy on the drakes and S’gulzzi darkening the starry night skies. Everywhere she turned, there was another dark body or another underslung jaw champing at a Lesser Dragon, or S’gulzzi clamping onto a Metallic Fortress Dragon, their acid-like magic chewing through armour as though it were a soft, sweet treat. Drakes mobbed the battling Dragonkind and S’gulzzi in their tens of thousands, clearly summonsed by the Thoralians to try to bail him out of the cesspit he had landed himself in. His clarion mental calls cut through the fray like shards of ice, rallying his troops and calling in the Land Dragons and drakes for additional support.

For long minutes, the battle seemed deadlocked, with the drakes and S’gulzzi killing each other off at the same rate as which they arrived, and the Lesser Dragons stalking each other through the resulting mayhem.

The Amethyst snaked her neck about, firing a barrage of precision fireballs with the aim of clearing a path to the Thoralians. She must not let them reach the Egg. That was her paramount concern, yet for now, the sheer numbers of S’gulzzi kept him afloat, as though he burbled atop a geyser of living bodies. Drakes rolled over her small Dragonwing in a shrieking wave, forcing the Lesser Dragons to fight for their lives.

Pfft-pfft-pfft! Behind her came the sharper hss-crack! of Zip’s lightning attacks, and from her right shoulder, the shrill battle-challenge of a dragonet. Sapphire touched her, soothing a rent wing-membrane and a talon-strike she had taken to the throat. Wow. The dragonet had a few tricks up her scaly sleeves. Aranya only hoped she could see her friends safely through this conflict. The numbers of fallen already beggared belief. This would change the Balance of draconic powers and magic in the Island-World. It must.

Where was Ardan? And where was her Storm? Why, o Fra’anior, could she not summon that power when she needed it most–o Daughter of the Whispering Zephyr?

Despair occluded her Dragon-hearts.

* * * *

Ardan imagined a carter hauling up his animals with a screech of brakes as Gangurtharr executed a fancy brake-flip-turn, one of his Gladiator moves, and fell into formation with the Cobalt-Green Dhazziala, who headed up a monstrous Dragonwing of Dragon Riders and their heavily-armoured Dragons. He had never seen Dragon armour like theirs, scaled and banded, tooled by masters to protect the neck, flanks and upper limbs. Even their wing-primaries boasted shaped armour cladding.

The First Hand turned to him without preamble. Report, Shadow.

In terse, staccato sentences, Ardan described the situation as he understood it.

Right, so what do you need me to do? Dhazziala asked at once. Not for her nuance, nor concern for his integrity, Ardan thought sourly. Oh! An idea …

He said, How good are you at wiping specific memories out of minds, Dhazziala?

She glowered at him. Expert.

Good. I’ll need you to modify my memories, too. Can I ask for a volunteer–not you, with respect–First Hand? Someone attractive enough that I might feel … uh, passionate … about her?

Meaning to rouse the oath-magic to wildfires?

Aye.

Dhazziala showed him a dazzling thicket of fangs. Thing is, Shadow, you wouldn’t remember the slightest detail. What do you think–Gangurtharr?

The Gladiator-Dragon almost tangled up his wings in shock. What are you suggesting?

Her rich laughter belled over them. Oh, you males. Let me inquire among our fearless Dragon Riders if any woman dares essay this unpleasant task. After all, to scorn a Star Dragoness is not a deed lightly undertaken. But you, Ardan–I would give my left wingtip to romance your Dragon!

Ardan’s legs twitched sharply as that deep, deep magic wrenched itself into wakefulness. Oh no. What had he and Aranya agreed to now?

Then, a vast Green winged up to Gangurtharr’s other flank. The female Dragon Rider on his back, a giantess so wild and forbidding of mien that Ardan felt every hair on his nape crawl in different directions at once, stood up in the saddle, crashed her armour-plated fist to her breastplate, and roared, “Aaaarrrgghh, he looks a tasty morsel! I accept with pleasure, noble Dhazziala!”

Ardan blenched.

Every Dragon, Human and Shapeshifter in the vicinity burst into laughter. The oath-magic fizzed and danced.

* * * *

Storm lifted her. It bubbled in her veins and seethed in her stomachs. The song of Storm crackled along her limbs and filled her skull with an exquisitely intense pressure, like the wildest of Dragonsong mingled with drumrolls of thunder and the acrid tang of ozone.

Aranya withheld.

* * * *

Zip saw the moment her friend changed. They were dodging through the thick of battle, supporting Genholme as she forged a path steadily toward the last place where they had seen the Thoralians, when Aranya seemed to shudder. Her talons contracted. Her wings flared sharply, cupping the air. A rare gleam entered her eye, a white so intense and beautiful, the startled Azure Dragoness decided it represented every colour crammed together, making that unique white at once pure, and the most complex colour in existence.

The Amethyst Dragoness drew a single, unending breath, and the Island-World seemed to inhale with her. Thunder shook the Islands. Branch lightning crackled in thousands of locations around the horizon’s edge, lighting the deep night with a sinister amethyst radiance.

FOLLOW ME!

Sevenfold thunder slammed out of her throat.

That was what shook the Azure. So much power, rising–could Aranya keep from going feral? Who could hope to master such magic? Her friend lurched again. White burst from her scales. Again! Fire raged from her nostrils, burning so heatedly, it scalded the air in waves of white.

FOR THE ONYX!

The peal of her thunder swept aside drakes and Dragons as though she shrugged fleas off her hide. Aranya exploded, pyretic. Zip thought at first that the Land Dragons had arrived in numbers, that the beams of many eye-cannons split the night, but it was the song of tempestuous, uncontainable Storm that filled the Star Dragoness now. Dragons and S’gulzzi scattered as she waded through the fray, tiny yet majestic, cutting and burning and obliterating any who dared to stand in her way. Even the notoriously aggressive drakes turned and fled, tails tucked between their legs like scolded hounds. Aranya burned them all across a swathe of miles. Gestures of her talons called down a rain sulphurous fire and blistering hail–if that was its true nature–from the suddenly clouded heavens, and somehow, Zip saw, the Amethyst discriminated between friend and foe with an instinct deeper and faster than thought.

It seemed Fra’anior’s battle-challenge belled in a voice of heavenly lamentation. Shovelling drakes aside with blasts of wind, Aranya crashed spears of ice through their heads and left them for dead. Storm winds screeched over her scales, buffeting the spitting, sparking dragonet on her shoulder and the single white scale flapping wildly at her throat, yet she and Sapphire seemed forged in oneness. Was the dragonet helping? Aye, smaller but no less scorching bolts of lightning sparked from the dragonet, seizing up four S’gulzzi that tried to sneak up behind the Amethyst.

Zip risked a half-glance aside. The Dragon Riders were close, perhaps ten minutes away from the main battle. With a Storm-powered roar, Aranya curled up a wave of semi-embodied S’gulzzi and rammed them back down into the Suald-dak-Doon, crushing tens of thousands. Only the Thoralians resisted, shielding somehow with a shriek of urzul magic that cut across Aranya’s windstorm, making silvery sparks fly from her leading wing-edges, talons and scales.

Pausing at last, the Amethyst eyed her battered foes balefully. The First Egg is mine, Thoralian. Yield or die.

He snickered, Very impressive, little Dragoness. You’ve learned a thing or two since we last battled. So have I–and I have a power you know nothing about.

She growled, Oh? What’s that?

As a greasy, burning magic seized her mind, the Azure mewled in distress, yet no sound emerged from her throat. Her womb twisted as though caught in the throes of labour. Privately, Thoralian snarled, Now is the hour you choose the future of your egglings, Zuziana of Remoy. Do not fail them.

To her horror, she saw her paws curl, talons fully extended from their sheaths. Aranya winged just below and ahead of her. Darting forward, Zip sank her talons into her best friend’s neck and triggered her lightning power.

Chapter 34: Requiem of Dragons

AGONY SPEARED INTO her neck and head, cutting off the flow of her Storm power as though a spigot had been stoppered. For a long, long moment, Aranya could not understand what had happened. She smelled the sickly sweet stench of charred flesh–her own. The only Dragonkind near her had been Zuziana and the dragonet on her shoulder, but Sapphire’s spitting fury provided a vital clue, as much as Zip’s wild sobbing as she tore her talons free.

Kill her! snarled Thoralian.

Sapphire hissed, Traitor! Shoot her, Ari! It was Zip!

I … cannot. N-N-Never, sobbed the Azure.

The pain throbbed so sharply, Aranya could not feel the rest of her body. Flinging Zuziana off her back with a convulsive shudder, she stared blankly at her best friend. Zip? Zip, you …

Talons dripping golden blood. Eyes, distraught and terrified beyond comprehension.

Icy talons seized Aranya’s mind. Kill each other.

Zip quivered, still sobbing, but she rebuffed the Thoralians. I’d rather kill myself. I’d kill my babies first before you have them–never, Thoralian. Never!

Thoralian … Zuziana! What had he done to her? Molten fury ignited in Aranya’s breast. Yet in the split second she began to release her fire, the Thoralian-triplicate roared, STOP!

The Word froze her. Aranya could not flick a claw, nor move a muscle. Her lungs would not inflate.

He turned to Zuziana. Kill your friend. KILL HER!

Only the very fringe of his crushing, triple-strong mental power washed against Aranya’s mind, yet she almost succumbed. As a linked triplet, Thoralian was exponentially stronger than before. No need to cajole. He aimed to diminish, to engulf and dominate and destroy lesser minds, yet Zip was beyond reaching, now; the instinct of a mother fearing for her babies stronger than anything the Thoralians could throw at her.

Sobbing, she dug her talons in toward her womb. Don’t. I will kill them first, I swear, Thoralian. I will never betray my friends for you, even should it cost my life.

You seal your doom, little Azure, sneered the Yellow-White Dragons. I always knew you lacked the courage. Yet know this, I can stop you, too, before your talons do more than draw golden Dragon blood. With the Egg’s power, I will extinguish your mind and leave a husk which shall bear my progeny. All you will know is eggs swelling so large in your belly they will split your flesh like an overripe melon–STOP!

Zuziana halted mid-sob. Her paws quivered. Oh, Zip! Aranya had never loved her friend more. Thoralian had forced her into this by some vile trickery or threat against her egglings, yet she had balked.

Thoralian disparaged her, but the Amethyst saw the true face of courage.

* * * *

A Word of Command! Ardan gasped as the constant singing of oath-magic within him, arrested. Paralysed. It seemed his soul was ice, that he must also be paralysed. He could but observe from a distance of a mile and a half as the Dragon Rider wing forged into the heaviest fighting yet, as the Thoralians seized both Amethyst and Azure with that most legendary power. None could resist. And even from this distance, his mind quailed at the font of strength that was Thoralian, at the malice shining from three pairs of sallow eyes as the triplet circled his victims-to-be, bludgeoning them with his mind.

He must intervene. How could he reach them?

Brityx and Huaricithe screamed in, but a touch of the Thoralian-mind mobbed them with hundreds of drakes. He saw the surface of the First Egg briefly appear amidst the miles-wide sea of S’gulzzi; almost, the prize was within reach. Aranya had risked all to bring this situation about.

Then, his sharp, searching eyes caught a flash of sapphire scales on Aranya’s shoulder.

Sapphire!

What could a dragonet–

Inverse, Dhazziala interjected, sounding so mournful his mind attuned instantly to her words. You are the Shadow. Not a lesser being. The Shadow has power in its own right. It is the inverse of light, its muse, its companion, its ever-present antithesis. Only you can find a way. Magic is opposites, Ardan. Opposites, and antagonistic forces.

He could not touch Aranya. Her mind was beyond his reach, now. Nor Zuziana. But the spark of Sapphire’s consciousness welcomed him, and her clever little memory played back not so much the Word Thoralian had spoken, but the extraordinary, immutable constructs of magic that held them fast. He saw Sapphire’s gift and smiled at the mental image the faithful dragonet showed him–that of a parakeet. She was an imitator. Therefore, might she not also un-imitate?

Ardan wrestled the ideas through his thick-as-mud mind. He must reach beyond incapacity and disbelief, and the inner devaluing of his existence. Thou too art mine, Sha’aldior! Fra’anior had predicted Aranya would need him. Was Shadow of Onyx, the darkest of strength? Let it be!

Suddenly, he surged, snapping the saddle-straps as though they were crumbling scrolleaf. Beneath him, Gangurtharr’s wingbeat hitched in surprise. Ardan? Did you Shift?

Nay. He only wished. But his vision was clear. There was another way.

His chest swelled. I AM SHA’ALDIOR!

Ardan’s core strength flooded forth, not directed at the unattainable song of his heart, but to flood into the smaller but no less worthy Dragon-heart that gripped Aranya’s shoulder with her talons. Should a Dragoness possess a fourth heart? Its name was Sapphire.

Immediately, the dragonet parroted back the draconic rune-language he invented, like the relief effect of an engraving. Oddly, this emerged as, Be free!

Sha’aldior chortled gleefully as Aranya’s sevenfold wrath split the night asunder.

Sorry, Thoralian, he chortled. All bets just shifted to the Dragoness who’s about to flay your stinking hide and kick the remnant into oblivion.

* * * *

Oath-magic was deep and ethereal, operating below even the subconscious level in her Dragoness’ perception. But the grieving anger of her Humansoul was real and palpable, and the germ of her Storm worthy of the majestic panoply of her grandfather’s most shattering wrath. It was so visceral, that threat against Zuziana’s unborn babes, that Aranya found herself catapulted beyond rational response. She waded across the Pit of Despair, smashing the Thoralians with blast after booming blast, her thunder pummelling the triplets like ragged cloth dolls across the Suald-dak-Doon. Lightning poured from her clenched fists in concussive blows. Boom! Boom! BOOM! The three Yellow-White Dragons shielded and dodged and deflected, carving canyons through the swarming S’gulzzi as the force of Aranya’s overwhelming attack pounded them up and down, back and forth, and in that fury there was a sobbing of thunder and a hysterical storm-wind that shrieked the exact notes of her ravaging grief, the suffering of a Dragoness and the anguish of an Island-World at war.

Maddened, the Star Dragoness punished the Thoralians while the urzul magic in the Pit sang a low, fervent song. This was true power. Inciting. Spellbinding. A voice of untrammelled magic.

Then, Aranya became aware of a gentle touch upon her shoulder. Ari scary! Not forget self?

Sapphire, terrified–of her!

Gradually, by degrees, she relented, until Aranya faced the tattered, smoking Thoralians across a short space. She wheezed, Give it up, Marshal. Your power is broken.

All for nought, spat one of the Thoralians. Whole fangs dropped from his broken mouth as he slurred, You see, Aranya, your mother’s condition is untreatable. I can show you.

Knowledge lurked at the edge of his mind, hers for the taking. Despair instantly sheathed her bones in ice. Aranya knew his words for truth. Perhaps for the first and only time, Thoralian spoke honestly, for by this, he meant to break her hope. They had used a complex, unique formulation of Shapeshifter poisons on Izariela, seven of which had no known antidote. Despair! Her Storm surged …

Unnecessarily, viciously, the Thoralians added, You can never save your shell-mother. There’s no way, by any form of magic or physical substance, she can be saved. Whatever enters her body will complete the corruption of her Shapeshifter form. She’s as good as dead.

If Aranya had cried for Izariela, her tears would have constituted the killing stroke.

She reeled. No … no, no, no!

Thoralian cried, Now, let my Theadurial–ARISE!!

Gleaming in the fell light of the moons and the fires of the Dragonwings writhing in fatal contest above the Lost Islands, Land Dragons poured up the flanks of the Air-Breathers and attacked the final shield still separating the Island-World from the ravaging S’gulzzi.

* * * *

All was ice. Her world, shattered. Aranya floated above the Suald-dak-Doon, unable to think, unwilling to process what she had just heard. Lost. Thoralian must pay. Yet she was powerless to lift a talon.

Below, the darkness stirred, assuming a new form from which even the S’gulzzi fled like rabid curs. Flapping and screeching and thrashing about in their millions, the shielded pipe between the Air-Breathers emptied to attack the legion Dragons and drakes above, but Aranya’s gaze was drawn to the gloom below; the moving coils of darkness, embracing the First Egg’s gleaming beauty with loving malevolence. The enormity of the creature down there, its eyes glowing like old coals.

A debased form of Dragonish roared over her, filled with clicks and nuances and haunting power of a kind she had never heard before.

SO, YOU THINK MY MINIONS WERE THE TRUE S’GULZZI?

Its power was that of the Rift-Storm, eroding her white-fires magic. Earthen-fires? Or urzul? The Star Dragoness drifted backward, separating herself from the Thoralians as she struggled to preserve her sanity and magic.

Gazing up at the Thoralians, the creature bellowed, THIS IS MY EGG! YOU GAVE UP THE URZUL, YOU FOOL!

The S’gulzzi had stolen the secret of urzul from Thoralian? When?

Eye-cannons blazed in concert, inundating the creature’s enormous obsidian coils with Harmonic magic and light. It shook the Air-Breathers with the bellows of its pain and rage, and the shield disintegrated. What a sound! Aranya could not think before it, feeling as if her very bones were melting. The creature was urzul personified. Already, Lesser Dragons and drakes, Land Dragons and Shapeshifters and even the S’gulzzi themselves wilted before the wash of its corrupting power.

The Thoralians cried, The First Egg is mine!

Never! Aranya surged toward them, gathering her Storm, only to trigger the Yellow-White’s maniacal laughter.

The Egg or the friend, Storm Dragoness? he said. My corrupting spirit is ready, present and potent within her body. I, at least, shall survive this encounter.

The Yellow-White drifted downward; Aranya tried to read his intent. Zip still hovered motionless, not falling, just stuck in the sky as though pinioned to a taxidermist’s dissecting table. The Star Dragoness saw, with the eyes of her sixth Dragon-sense, the corruption lurking in her best friend’s body, enclosing the womb, poised to poison her egglings just as the Chameleon Shapeshifters had left their mark upon Aranya’s own body.

Daimonic spirit! she howled.

The Thoralians folded their wings. The First Egg is mine! Enjoy your friend’s demise, Amethyst.

He hurtled into the conflict below, the Land Dragons scrabbling over each other in a bid to be first into the Pit of Despair to secure the Egg; screaming at the putrefying touch of the creature that awaited them, curled around that priceless jewel, its mere breath enough to turn their flesh to dust and their bones to water, the song of its destruction cutting into the Air-Breathers as the Island-sized Dragons began to flee, drifting apart with cries of agony indistinguishable from the general chaos.

Aranya saw the instant the Thoralians’ vicious magic whipped toward Zuziana. Yet, even telepathy travelled only as fast as thought.

Zuziana!

Starlight glimmered across the divide.

* * * *

Ardan shuddered together with Leandrial and Ri’arion as their force was inundated in a sea of bodies, but the Theadurial-infested Land Dragons had no further interest in fighting them. All they wanted was the First Egg, and the press of their bodies piled up an under-Cloudlands wall ten miles high and fifty wide, crushing tens of thousands. He fed Leandrial’s command pictures of the obsidian-scaled Dragonworm lurking inside the Suald-dak-Doon, the S’gulzzi of all S’gulzzi. Now, they knew what had been lifting the First Egg for two decades. They knew what had been hidden beneath the meriatonium cap concealing that subterranean realm.

The Air-Breathers howled.

Leandrial cried, Steady, my kin. The mountains will break apart. Then, we must be ready to fire. We will be the cannonade of Fra’anior’s justice against that S’gulzzi fiend.

Aye! roared a thousand Welkin-Runners.

Aye, rumbled the enormous stellated Shell-Clan, overshadowing even the Runners gathered before them.

Link minds, said the monk. Then, he cried, Zip, no!

Ardan saw light flicker right over where Zuziana had been. What? Where was she? Where were they, the Star and the Azure?

His Dragonwing drew together at Dhazziala’s command. S’gulzzi surrounded them on every side, like a living, pulsing river of oil, so thickly gathered that they entirely obscured the battle. Their reddish eyes glowed in what Ardan realised was pleasure at the destruction to come. Briefly, he spied Bane and Lurax peering out of one of the Bullet Dragon slits on Genholme’s mountainous back.

Those boys trusted him. But he was no Shadow. He was a Dragon-less … Dragon. Aye, he might not have his Dragon, but he did remember a big-mouthed Western Isles warrior claiming something about starlight shining best against shadow, or some such mystical malarkey?

How could he lift up a Star, if not by helping her to shine?

Across the mile separating them, he called, Even stars must dance to a new song, Aranya-my-soul!

And to the Dragons around him, he cried in a great voice, Art thou Dragonkind? Thou art pure as white-fires, as noble as the suns, as proud as the day is long!

Ah, a tingle of Nak in his bones! Leaping again to his feet, Ardan declaimed, This is Gangurtharr the Great-Hearted, who roost-lived with a Star Dragoness. Over there is Genholme, the Fortress of our hopes! And here is Dhazziala, First Hand of a mighty nation of Dragon-Lovers!

The S’gulzzi stared at him as if he had gone moons-mad. Arguably, he had. They neglected to attack as the Shadow Dragon’s voice rose stridently above the sounds of thousands of wings beating the air, and the booming of Land Dragons. He bellowed:

I AM SHA’ALDIOR, SON OF SHADOW!

Well, that sounded impressive. But he could do one better, for his throat thickened at a touch of Storm borrowed via his oath-connection. Ardan’s song boomed over the Islands:

Arise in wrath magnificent, thou sons and daughters of Fra’anior,

Thou pride of his right paw, thou voices of infinite justice,

Dragons of Herimor! Unite to smite the foe!

Ooh, Nak would be chortling now.

* * * *

Aranya whirled in mid-air, frantic. Where was Zip? Sapphire? She called to them, forlornly, but the silence mocked her desolation. Where were her friends?

She stared at paws white as starlight. Betrayed? How?

When she finished this task, she might ask her questions.

Furling her wings, the Amethyst Dragoness plunged toward the Suald-dak-Doon, entering a howling maelstrom of Harmonic magic, screaming urzul and bellowing Land Dragons, intensely aware at the same time of the proliferation of S’gulzzi and the guttering of so many fire-souls. This was wrong. Destruction fed urzul as nothing else–that was what had roused the creature in the first instance. She apprehended her mistake now. When she had poured forth the paean of her Storm-powered anger and grief, the S’gulzzi had supped well. Now its song rose triumphant, brutalising the Dragonkind. Minds snapped. Theadurial writhed. Lesser Dragons fell senseless into the Cloudlands and Dragon Riders screamed. The S’gulzzi swelled in power and stature, glutted on the terrible cry of their god, or whatever that thing was. They would gut the Dragonwings.

Dimly, she heard Ardan sing within her mind, yet his notes struck her profoundly, at the level of her soul and their oath-magic:

Even stars must dance a new song, Aranya-my-soul!

You alone can bring us the starlight,

Be the star.

Sparked by his belief, incredulity gave way to insight. Choice. A choice framed in love so raw and potent, it galvanised her inmost being with wings of white-fires. She knew clarity. Just as she had demanded of Fra’anior, she had a choice now, at this crucial moment. It lay in her paws.

She could chase the First Egg and ultimate power, or she could change the Balance.

Her Dragonsong could espouse destruction, or she could sing the greater song Ardan alluded to, an anti-urzul song, the song of a true Daughter of Storm. For that was urzul’s power–annihilation. Anti-creation, anti-life, anti … anti-love.

Ardan?

A-A-Aranya? He grasped this truth burning lambent in her breast!

Ardently, she called, From this day forth, Ardan, I promise to be authentic with you. No more hiding. No more falsehoods, Ardan-my-soul’s inmost fire, for I … I have played thee false, wretched fool … I am … her mental voice cracked. I am for thee, and thee alone, if thou wilt have me. Eternally.

He choked out, Thou … I love thee, heavenly Immadia. I’ve always … helplessly–

And I thee, Sha’aldior.

I-I am for you. And, I would … have you. I will–forever!

They spoke brokenly, yet the oath was forged afresh, and in that burgeoning beauty of oath-fires, Aranya saw a new way. Her heart seemed to tip onto a new axis, recalibrated, Balanced.

The star believed.

The First Egg sank steadily into a morass of writhing, smoking, crumbling bodies. Thoralian and the S’gulzzi clashed over it, and the conflict they created would devastate all, for its power brutalised her senses with mind-numbing force. The pile collapsed faster and faster as the badly injured Air-Breathers fled the battlefield at their maximum speed, a stately walk.

Yiisuriel, I need your strength, the Star Dragoness commanded. Ardan, summon your Shadow. Dhazziala, turn your people to my command.

Seconds stole away from her as her friends organised themselves.

Then, Aranya seemed to rise on weightless wings, sovereign over the Island-World, for the immense resources of an Island-nation of Dragons, Humans and Shapeshifters shifted into her mental paws, but she was only the vessel. She was the focus and the filter of a merciful, nascent Dragonsong.

She lived in fire. She was the purity of starlight.

Aranya exhaled.

Starlight exploded from her breast, her body, her paws and wingtips and tail. It shot outward in a series of concentric rings of pure splendour, washing over and through the moving mountains and the mounded bodies and the ranks of S’gulzzi and Dragon Riders, and all the armies of the Lost Islands, lapping from the puffy white clouds now fragmenting to reveal a twinkling night sky, to the floor of the world hidden beneath the Cloudlands, and over every living creature ensconced within the warm ambit of her love. The soundless soul-concussion whispered of broken chains and freedom from corruption. It spoke of an end to urzul’s ghastly song. It breathed life into brokenness and dissolved the Theadurial still greedily sucking upon the brain-stems of Land Dragons, and blew the marauding S’gulzzi away like pollen on a breeze.

Perhaps her power was a zephyr of starlight, after all. A greater Storm had never struck her Island-World.

Aranya touched the white scale hanging just beneath her throat on its slender leather thong. Miraculously, it had survived everything. Thus I honour thee, Istariela, shell-mother of my lineage.

A mighty chorus of Harmonic magic answered her song as the Welkin-Runners and Shell Clan fired down into the Suald-dak-Doon, enveloping the S’gulzzi giant in a blinding stream of light. The ghastly obsidian of its corrupt flesh began to crumble beneath an inexorable onslaught. Vapours shrouded the S’gulzzi as it voiced a single, final blast of defiant fury, and that blast fizzled into a violent hiss that presaged its protracted demise. At the last, the Star Dragoness gave of her song to finish the beast, as the coils incinerated from within in great bands of dusty black Earthen-fires.

Then Araya saw the First Egg tumbling end-over-end into the gloom, already eight leagues deep and plummeting as though sucked away by the S’gulzzi still hiding beneath the Island-World’s crust. No Lesser Dragon would catch it now, not even Leandrial’s kin who chased the Egg into the deeps.

Where were the Thoralians? Destroyed in that final, titanic blast?

Victory!

A pyrrhic victory, for she had failed to succour the Pygmy Dragoness and at the last, had allowed the First Egg to slip through her talons. So many souls snuffed out. And Zip. Oh, Zip and her egglings, and precious Sapphire! The cost was unbearable.

Aranya lowered her muzzle, and wept.

* * * *

Upon the melted brow of Yiisuriel-ap-Yuron, Ri’arion stood as stiffly as an aged plank as the Star Dragoness did a passable job of drowning his boots. Ardan understood tears. After all, he had cried more in these last months than he suspected he had ever cried in all the years of his warrior-life before. The night’s work had been storm winds and lightning and starlight. Dawn’s work, clearly, was the wet and wild end of Aranya’s Storm-making, and in true Aranya style, she was letting it all gush out. The floodwaters were rising.

All around, Dragons slowly congregated upon that stone peak as the first light of dawn pinked the eastern sky. Riders milled about, checking their Dragons. Human soldiers conversed or just stood by, dazed. Leandrial and fifty Welkin-Runners perched atop the great stellated carapaces of Shell-Clan just offshore, shining their light-beams on all who needed healing–they used their Harmonic healing-song, rather than plying their destructive eye-cannons. The Air-Breathers had halted their flight, desperately injured but no longer in immediate danger. The area below their mountain flanks seethed with Land Dragons, especially Shell Clan and Living Springs attending to the healing of their kind, and the nimbler Runners diving and returning with fallen Lesser Dragons, some of whom could be resuscitated.

Most especially, they watched the girl they had come to know as the Star Dragoness.

Kneeling before the painfully embarrassed monk, Her Celestial Majesty, worshipped by three quarters of Herimor and feared by the remaining quarter, the incomparable Enchantress of Immadia, granddaughter of an Ancient Dragon, Islands’ sakes, vanquisher of the powers of evil and a legend whom balladeers would swoon over for centuries to come, clutched Ri’arion’s bootlaces and blubbered and bawled and tore at her hair …

“Don’t,” said Ri’arion, capturing her wrists gently.

“I lost my best friend!”

“I’m not convinced about that,” said the monk.

Aranya wailed, “I destroyed her babies!”

“Now, we’ll see–”

“Sapphire! Zip! Oh, Ri’arion.”

“We’ll find them.”

“I b-b-burned them … i-in starlight … in a s-s-star …”

Drawing the tall girl to her feet, Ri’arion said firmly, “No. That’s not what I saw, nor Ardan.”

“I don’t have your faith!” she shouted. “How do you know? I killed them, Ri’arion. I’m a wretch, a beast–don’t hold me! Curse me, Ri’arion! Curse these hands–”

“No!” Again, the monk held her, but not roughly, trapping Aranya’s hands as she gouged at the already-ruined flesh of her cheeks. “Calm yourself.”

Aye, it was enough. Stepping forward, Ardan declared, “You had faith enough to illuminate the Island-World with starlight.”

Aranya blinked past Ri’arion’s shoulder. “What?”

“Faith enough,” Ardan laced his fingers into hers, “to stand up to an Ancient Dragon, and to carve out a new future for all Herimor.”

She made an unconvincing noise–dissent, of course.

Disentangling himself from Aranya’s arms, Ri’arion impelled her toward Ardan, adding, “Faith that conquered a tyrant and his hordes, through the power of oath-love forged mid-battle.”

“Uh …”

Ardan loved it when the Shapeshifter Princess was lost for words. Now was such a moment, as he drew her resolutely into his embrace. Her gemstone eyes were wells of amethyst, never more luminous, never more lovely. Slowly, he lowered his lips toward hers. “Faith enough …”

“Ardan, I–”

“Immadia, enough is enough.”

“But, Ardan,” she protested, suddenly a-tremble. Aye, she had never trembled like this during a battle, but that was Aranya. Beneath the adamantine will and Island-shaking powers lay a heart craving and deserving to be wooed. He twined his arm around her trim waist, and added a brief headshake as he gazed longingly into her eyes. Aranya spluttered, “Oh. But … mmm?”

A tremulous, wistful smile spread either side of his silencing finger.

He said, “Today’s work is finished.”

“Why, you obstinate–” Aranya inhaled sharply as her yearning Shapeshifter locks weaved their way around his upraised fingers and wrist, and from the shoulder of the arm that drew her irresistibly against him to his waist, binding them together in ropes of multifaceted glory. “Well, if you must insist, Shadow Dragon.”

“I most certainly do insist,” he growled, and deliberately shifted his hand to shield their protracted, passionate kiss from the onlookers.

Nonetheless, the cheers of thousands rocked the Islands.

Chapter 35: Second-Soul Enigma

UPON YIISURIEL’S MOUNTAINTOP, the Shapeshifter Princess received the fealty of the peoples of Herimor. She had argued the odds, but Huaricithe and Brityx, Dhazziala and Gangurtharr, Ardan, Leandrial and Ri’arion, and finally, the irresistible, venerable voice of Yiisuriel herself, determined her course. Oaths must be made. Fealty observed. The all-important honour of Herimor Shapeshifters, Humans and Dragons must be restored, in order to shape the future wisely.

Aranya put on her best royal face, donned a magnificent robe of samite, and stood erect even though she was utterly bone-weary, and endeavoured to speak her utmost, gracious, fiery, worthy-of-Fra’anior words to every creature that approached her impromptu throne–Gang’s paw.

Naturally.

First came the Air-Breathers, the stateliest of the Dragonkind. Then the powerful Shell Clan Stellates in all their varieties made homage, and following them, Mist-Runners and Welkin-Runners, Blue- and Deep- and Current-Runners, and fifty minor varieties besides, and with Leandrial, the Thunderous Thirty who now numbered two hundred and five individuals–tripping rather less snappily off the tongue, Aranya chuckled inwardly. After these came the Land Dragons who could not easily rise above the Cloudlands, but were lifted upon the shells of Stellates to make their obeisance, such as the Living Springs and Fire-Sporters, and the Cerulean Potentates with their more illustrious cousins the Cognates. From the deeps came the booming rumble of the Deep-Dwelling Clans making their oaths; they could not survive passage into lower pressures.

Ardan pressed a water gourd into Aranya’s hand. “Drink.”

“Overnight, you appear to have grown a touch demanding,” she observed drolly, with classic Immadian understatement.

“And as possessive as a gold-glamoured Dragon,” Ardan said just as deprecatingly, dropping a kiss upon her fingers before pressing a seeded bread-roll into her hand. “Eat.”

“Um,” said Aranya, eyeing the throng pensively–still thousands strong.

“Tell you what, my scrrrrrrr-umptious petal,” he said, so Nak-voiced she chuckled again, “you stick to thrashing despots and tipping Islands. I’ll go supervise your sycophants.”

And so, for five hours straight, Aranya shook hands, bobbed her head, bowed straight-backed and Fra’aniorian-flowery, growled where appropriate, and fretted without trying to seem as if she were fretting. Zip! Oh, what had become of the mischievous, irreplaceable Remoyan? She could not remember, for that moment had passed in a flash, too fast even for a Dragoness’ eyes to register. She had leaped for Zip, meaning to stop the urzul from breaching the barrier of her womb, then flash! Nothing. No Zip, no Sapphire–and she knew she had not left Sapphire behind. She had checked.

Once the bulk of the Lost Islanders and Lesser Dragonkind were dealt with, save those too severely injured to approach her, Aranya made to step down.

“Not yet,” said Gang, who had been enjoying a little snooze in the bright suns-shine while others did the real work. “Just a few more.”

Aranya saw Huaricithe and Tari and … “No. You. Get out of line!” she complained, pointing at Ri’arion. “In fact, all of you–shoo.”

“Stay put, Scrap.”

“No.”

Gangurtharr growled, “Stay put, or I shall sit on you.”

Aranya give him her most sizzling stare. “I haven’t forgiven you for letting Ardan kiss … whoever it was, whom you’ve all conveniently forgotten.”

“I’m not convinced he didn’t plant a smacker on my gorgeous backside,” claimed the Gladiator. He was looking somewhat worse for wear, having been liberally chewed in the wings and tail, and oozing blood from a dozen flesh-wounds, but he was otherwise hale and downright curmudgeonly–as usual.

Spying Marshal Huaricithe in her Human form, an irresistible urge to foment trouble suddenly bit Aranya. Aside to Gang, she said, “Wow. Huari’s really pretty. What do you think about kissing her?”

The Dragon made a strange, almost strangled noise in his throat as his magic wavered. “It is … inappropriate, as a Dragon.”

“Don’t you desire her in both forms?”

“I …” He snapped his fangs together above her head. “Shut your blasphemous trap, Scrap. I do not …” Gang managed to imitate a hundred-and-forty foot, armoured ralti sheep as he evidently realised what his wobbling voice communicated.

Aranya gave him a mental prod, and a sample of special magic. “You transform like this, Gang.”

That was how the Princess of Immadia ended up sprawled on her backside in front of her friends, for with an audible pop! Gangurtharr snapped into his Human form for the very first time.

Those closest to Aranya hushed as the Dragon gazed at his hands in slack-jawed amazement. He tried to take his customarily belligerent four-pawed stance, and promptly fell flat on his face. “Aranya!” he howled. The Dragon sprang to his feet, flexed into a muscles-popping angry-male-Dragon pose, and toppled backward. “ARRRRAAANNNYYAAA!”

“Aye, Gang?”

“What have you done?”

“Me?” The Immadian offered him her hand. “Easy, Dragon. You’ll soon get used to the change in perspective and senses.”

Bewildered, the huge man scrambled to his feet, having to employ Aranya’s shoulder for balance. That almost staggered her, for he was built like a Dragonship through the beam, all massive, smooth muscle up to the crown of his head, seven inches taller than Aranya herself. He had to weigh four or five times what she did, the Immadian thought in admiration.

Since no-one else appeared capable of comment, Aranya beamed at Huaricithe. “Well, what do you think?”

The Shapeshifter blushed spectacularly. “Um … aye!”

That was when Aranya remembered that Shifters transformed sans coverings, which was fine for a Dragon, but patently impressed or embarrassed most of the women out there. Thankfully, Ri’arion whipped out a piece of cloth and set about draping it around Gangurtharr’s hips.

The Dragon’s eyes bulged in amazement. “What is this?”

“Humans wear clothing,” said the monk. “Well, mostly, anyways. Clothing is complicated.”

“And you … kiss?”

“Smack on the lips,” said Ri’arion, with the confidence of recently acquired expertise. “We don’t nuzzle and twine necks like roosting Dragons.”

“Who pinched my Dragon? Scrap? You’d better start squalling, or … I’m a Human?”

With a twinkle in her eye, Huaricithe sashayed forward to take Gang’s paw in her tiny hand. She peered up at the giant from her five-foot-nothing height. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of questions, Gang. I’ll help you settle in. But first, let’s make our vows to the Star Dragoness. In my culture, men bow like this.”

Gangurtharr turned to Aranya. Copying Huari, he bowed deeply from the waist. This action promptly deposited the cloth at her feet, thereby presenting several thousand Humans and Dragons to his rear a singularly unforgettable view.

* * * *

Ardan stalked into the hangar bay-turned-infirmary, more than ready to yell at Aranya. But he found her tucked into Dhazziala’s forepaw. Someone had covered her shoulders with a thin blue blanket. The wounded Cobalt-Green was deep in earnest conversation with a grizzled Dragon Rider Ardan had recently met, Kantuka of Ergani, the leader of a Vassal State which had lost fifty-three Islands to the Island-shooter. Like many of the Herimor Riders, Kantuka was a proper giant, easily topping seven feet, and that was before the clunky boots and armour better suited to a Dragon than a man.

He let out the breath he had been holding. Mercy, in that pose, with her raddled cheek tucked away, he could almost imagine Aranya lay untouched by the pox. Ardan wiped his left eye. Leaking again? Precocious enchantress of Immadia!

“Dragon Ardan,” rumbled Kantuka. “The Star Dragoness was treating Dhazziala, then we spoke, and she grew more comfortable than expected.”

“Exhausted herself, against orders,” Ardan said flatly. “How fare your wounds, First Hand?”

The Dragon Rider chuckled massively, rising from his small stool to grip Ardan’s forearm in the manner of greeting these Riders preferred. “You would issue orders to a Star Dragoness?”

“She could stand taking in paw,” said Dhazziala, not without a hint of resentment colouring her words. “Noble Ardan, I lost my left hind paw, five feet of my tail and the outer left wingtip to the S’gulzzi horde, but I am undismayed. To see the Thoralians cast down was more than worth these trivial wounds.”

“You are brave,” said Ardan, meaning it.

“I was being eaten alive when Aranya vaporised the S’gulzzi.”

“I wish I had my Dragon.” Perhaps he betrayed more bitterness than he ought, Ardan thought, feeling ashamed.

“You were singing her songs,” Kantuka joshed.

Dhazziala purred, “Don’t puncture that idea with your Dragon lance, Kantuka. He was Shadow Dragon enough to turn the course of the battle–thrice. The Star Dragoness herself made that clear. She told us you broke the power of a Word of Command, Ardan.”

“Which ranks alongside plucking stars from the heavens, in my humble estimation,” added the Erganian Rider. “Would you take her to roost now, Dragon Ardan?”

“I … shouldn’t disturb her. Or you.”

“Are we that obvious?” asked Kantuka.

“Obvious?” asked Dhazziala. Ardan could not tell if the Dragoness was dissembling–shrouded in her habitual, devious Herimor glamour. He could never have loved such a woman. Give him Aranya’s unadorned simplicity any day!

Then, he laughed. Unadorned simplicity–Aranya? Who was a prize ralti sheep, Ardan?

“There is much diplomacy to conduct between the Inscrutables and the Vassal States,” said Kantuka, managing to turn his bland statement into a declaration of unshakable romantic intent. “When will you dive for the First Egg, Dragon Ardan? You do intend to complete your mission, don’t you?”

“Of course.” His eyes turned compulsively toward the Princess of Immadia. “I’ve several missions in mind. Urgent missions.”

The Dragoness and the Dragon Rider laughed simultaneously.

“Aye?” prompted Dhazziala.

“Aye. I’ll make no secret of it,” said Ardan. Sinking to one knee, he tucked the blanket beneath Aranya’s chin. “She’s dreaming. Look at that magic shining beneath her eyelids.”

Amethyst. Ruby. Onyx. White-fires. Did a Star Dragoness dream of the beauty of stars?

Wonderingly, mostly to himself, he said, “I hope she’s dreaming Zuziana back into existence, wherever she might be. And of healing her mother. We’ll find a way, Dhazziala–don’t you see? Fates yield to the Storm Dragon’s song. When my Shadow Dragon returns, we will dive together into the Suald-dak-Doon, and wrest the First Egg from the S’gulzzi, wherever it might be. And then we will breach the Rift-Storm and turn history to its rightful path. Along the way, I will find a way to heal this woman, for if love can find a way …”

In Dragonish, Ardan whispered, Let it be!

Aranya stirred in her sleep, mumbling, “Ar? Sapphire?” She settled again, but her eyes flicked rapidly back and forth, and the light shone ever more brightly through her skin.

Ardan touched her febrile forehead, and stroked her cheek with his blunt thumb. “Sleep easy. Dream of miracles, Storm Dragoness. Dream of Azure.”

* * * *

For once, Aranya did not have to scale the cliff or fight storms to reach her soul-space. One moment she was reliving the terrible moment when she lost Zip, the next, she stood alongside her slumbering Dragoness on a flat, onyx mountaintop. Human-Aranya let out her breath soundlessly. Her Amethyst manifestation mirrored her scars, now–what did that mean? Was this place a product of her dreams, or a real connection between her Shapeshifter souls? Why did they call it a second-soul, when both Izariela and Hualiama had stressed the ‘one soul, two manifestations’ mantra?

Did she have a schism in her soul?

Almost, Aranya rushed over to wake her Dragoness. Her foot paused, toes delicately poised as if readied, prelude to a dance. What had she just heard?

Dream of Azure …

She scanned the cosy mountaintop, and everything from the edges of her domain to the starry horizons. Suspicious. No, Fra’anior was not hiding behind a storm, baiting her. Ardan was not so much a joker, although her first impression of a stern warrior melted daily into a rather more complex understanding. Imagine him singing to her mid-battle? Which had only changed her mindset from raging vengeance to healing–just that minor, destiny-distorting fillip.

She could paint the Azure, if she had the materials.

Painting inside of her soul? And the Daughter of Storm leaped gaily off the Isle of insanity …

No. What if Ri’arion’s faith-claim were true? What if Zip had vanished–uh, somewhere she could not imagine as yet–and only needed to be educed into actuality? Aye, insert an old Immadian joke that compared Enchantresses to cracked pots.

If she yearned strongly enough, could she evoke her friend? Aranya’s right big toe described a circle on the dark, warm stone. What a magical night sky. The kind of night when anything could happen. Anything at all.

Zip was dead. Slain by her best friend’s starlight. No, her instinct had been to protect, to love, to enfold–aye!

Her toes traced long, flowing chestnut hair. An impish nose. The notes of Zip’s laughter lifted her feet. She remembered Hualiama’s lesson, but in her mind, replaced her Aunt with Zuziana. She had never painted her friend, had she? Now, she must correct that oversight.

Aranya closed her eyes and painted with her dance. She lost herself in the imaginings of a Remoyan laughing, celebrating, teasing, crying, dancing, blushing at that first sight of a monk’s chiselled torso … fainting at Aranya’s first Dragon-manifestation, dying, being reborn. Her limbs moved with the increasing freedom and facility of her newfound belief. She flung back her head, laughing with the joy of all she had shared with Zuziana and with Sapphire, her devoted saviour. Her feet danced on air, over her Dragoness’ slumbering form and back again, dancing the length of a body which still sometimes struck her as unfamiliar and exotic. A miracle of magic that by rights, should not exist.

Her heart must dance. Her soul must desire nothing greater in the world, or beyond the world, than the gift that was Zuziana.

A single tear of joy, all she had left, dropped onto her Dragoness’ damaged calf muscle.

As if that droplet of magic had wrung her out, Aranya spun, and then whirled into a graceful finale. She bowed to her unseen partner. “Thank you for the dance, o Zuziana, joy of Remoy. In sorrow, we–”

“Aranya?”

She whirled. “Z … uh? Zip!”

“Aranyi!”

A chestnut-haired blur flung itself over the space at Aranya, squealing with childlike delight–and now a flash of blue, as an Azure Dragoness ambushed the sleeping Amethyst! Aranya’s Dragonsoul woke with a snort of incredulity, and then voiced an unending bugle of pure delight as Sapphire whizzed overhead too, gurgling with such a surfeit of joy that she could not even chuckle or sing properly. The Dragonesses nuzzled fondly.

Human-Aranya and Human-Zip whirled each other around and around until they were dizzy, shouting:

“Aren’t you dead, Zip?”

“No, petal.”

“Really?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“I must be dreaming in the colours of starlight!”

Zip stamped her foot, laughing merrily. “Which part of you shall I pinch to prove it, petal? I’ve never felt more alive.”

Aranya stopped, staring wildly about her. Sapphire thumped into her chest; she cuddled the dragonet. “How many babies?” She pointed at the Azure Dragoness, then the Human. “Six?”

“Silly Humanlove,” said her Dragoness. “There are, of course, three egglings or foetuses displaying six manifestations–and don’t roll our eyes at us.”

Aranya cried, “It’s impossible! They aren’t really … are they? Love can’t make this happen, surely?”

Little Zip folded her arms rather crossly. “Don’t make me start, Immadia! Do I need to lecture you on the nature of love? Love enfolded my womb in starlight. Love stole my babies away from the taint of urzul, and before that, your love gave me the power to resist the Thoralians even though I betrayed you. I took the higher path because of you, Aranya. I wasn’t afraid anymore.”

Suddenly, she reached up to touch Aranya’s injured neck. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Aranyi. I’m so, so … desperately …”

Aranya took her friend in her arms, and the Dragonesses embraced simultaneously. “We love you, petal. Uh, petals? Whatever! You’re forgiven. I can only imagine how that threat must have torn the living pith from your hearts, but you beat back the Thoralians! You! Zip, how can we get you back? Are you inside of me? How did you come to be inside my soul-space, if I’m not dreaming?”

“You folded me away, like a monk in a handbag.”

That made Aranya’s Dragoness and Human burst out laughing at once. “Oh, Zip! You’re a hoot.”

Human-Zip said, “I’m serious.”

Then, the Azure Dragoness added, “You see, Ardan loves you. You love him. And now that you’ve worked that out–certainly took you long enough, you obdurate offspring of a storm in a puddle–you have freedom from fear. It’s about finding the way to the light. You of all people should understand that, Aranya. You are light.”

* * * *

Aranya woke with a song in her heart and the wind in her heels. She ran out of the hangar and found her way to Ri’arion and Ardan’s room. Bang-bang-bang!

“Ri’arion’s at breakfast–Aranya?”

“Come with me, Ardan! Call–call everyone!”

She ran two doors further. Bang-bang! “Gang, you scurvy old reprobate! Shake a wing. Stop cuddling Huari and come listen. That’s an order.”

Laughter trickled out from beneath the door.

Tari! Leandrial! Yiisuriel! Genholme! Wake everyone and come with me, all you Dragonkind. Watch-Dragons, sound the bugles of joy! Let there be joy!

Uh … we don’t know those protocols? Dhazziala’s mental voice puzzled.

Aranya’s crazed feet winged her down the corridor, down five levels of circular stairs, and out into the kitchen quarters of Dhazziala’s fortress. Dimly, she heard Ardan charging after. “Aranya? Alright, madwoman, I’m with you!”

To the winds, she shouted, Work it out, First Hand! You’ve thirty thousand minds to help. Thunderous Thirty! Wake the Dragons of dawn! Shake the suns in their eternal courses!

BRAAA-BOOM!!

Well, their instinctive response certainly swept the cobwebs out of a few sleepy heads.

By the time Aranya found Ri’arion in the third mess-area she tried, her lungs burned and she skidded to a coughing, spluttering halt at the table the monk shared with Bane and Lurax. Judging by the diagrams on the scroll lying unfurled on the table, Ri’arion was teaching the boys warrior-monk lore. His finger paused mid-point to take in the whirlwind that was Aranya.

“What?” he said.

“Wait.” She coughed violently.

“What is it?” Ri’arion’s voice rose; his lips quirked upward in response to her helpless, jubilant smile. “Aranya? What’ve you done now?”

She made him wait for the others to crowd into the room, and for the mental congregation to be watching through their eyes and ears and magical senses, even though she wanted to burst for sheer exultation. Then, she whispered, “Well–”

Ri’arion cried, “Aranya, please … just tell me.”

“She’s here!” She thumped her chest. “Zuziana’s right here. Inside of me.”

“What–what are you saying?” the monk demanded. “She’s … dead?”

“No, alive.” Aranya tried to explain about her soul-space and what she thought she had done, but she fabricated such a dreadful, muddled explanation that Ri’arion’s brow drew down and his face turned to graven stone. The grief was too close, too visceral. Eventually, Aranya broke off to plead, “This isn’t a joke, Ri’arion. I’m not that kind of person. I feel so awful, so awkward … I truly believe–Zuziana, you tell him.”

She beckoned inwardly. Zip?

But before Zip could speak, a chorus of melodious, chirruping giggles popped out of Aranya’s mouth. Ari silly petal. She gasped. Sapphire tell truth. Star-Ari have six souls. Six! Is babies and Ari and Zip-Zip and me! Clever-me, yes, yes?

Ri’arion’s jaw unhinged; Aranya shrugged helplessly. That dragonet. Give her one ounce of attention …

A second voice emerged. Hush, Sapphire. Monk-love, it’s me–Zuziana, with all three of our babies. We’re safe in here, and well. Aranya’s not a dreadful hostess, mind, but we’d really rather be with you.

The ashen-faced monk could only mouth, Zuziana?

I love you dearly, husband, but I’ll have a word with you. The voice took on a waspish, unmistakably Zuziana snap. Under no circumstances does this equate to any bedtime cuddling with the Immadian!

Aranya clapped her hands over her mouth in shock.

Zip! bawled Ri’arion.

And then such a clamour of celebration broke out as to shiver the dawn, and truly, the Islands danced for joy.

End of Book 3

I invite you to join Aranya in another epic Dragonride in 2017!

Until then, may your song soar, wild, stormy and draconic.

About the Author

www.marcsecchia.com

Marc is the bestselling author of over a dozen fantasy books and published in three languages. Born in South Africa, he lives and works in Ethiopia with his wife and 4 children, 2 dogs, a rabbit, and a variable number of marabou storks that roost on the acacia trees out back. On a good night you can also hear hyenas prowling along the back fence.

When he’s not writing about Africa or dragons, Marc can be found travelling to remote locations. He thinks there’s nothing better than standing on a mountaintop wondering what lies over the next horizon.

If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review on Amazon.com. Every review matters and I read them all!

Where you can find me:

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Twitter: @marcauthor

Email: marcsecchia@gmail.com

Other Books by Marc Secchia

Shapeshifter Dragons: (Young Adult and older readers) Three allied series of bestselling Dragon adventures. Prepare to wing away to a unique world of mighty Dragons and volcanic Islands above the deadly Cloudlands!

In chronological order (Island-World timeline):

Dragonfriend series: Dragonfriend, Dragonlove and Dragonsoul and Dragonstar coming in 2017

Shapeshifter Dragon Legends series: The Pygmy Dragon and The Onyx Dragon

Shapeshifter Dragons series: Aranya, Shadow Dragon and Song of the Storm Dragon. Part 4 is planned for 2017

Standalone Book: Dragon Thief

Set in the same world as the Shapeshifter Dragons series, join Zhialeiana in an oceanic adventure with Whales and Sea-Dragons:

IsleSong series: The Girl who Sang with Whales and The Girl who Loved the Whales, coming soon

The Equinox Cycle: (Young Adult and older readers)

Trapped in a car wreck, crushed by a train. In seconds, Zaranna’s world is torn apart and she must start life anew, as a survivor. A double amputee. Yet why does this promising equestrienne remember a flash of sulphurous fire, and a crimson paw hurling her mother’s car onto the train tracks? Why does a tide of beguiling butterflies flood her increasingly chaotic dreams?

As Zaranna Inglewood adjusts to life minus legs, plus gorgeous Alex, the paramedic who cut her body from the wreckage, she learns the terror of being hunted. Relentless and inimical, the enemy lures her to a world where dreams shape reality. Equinox. A world of equinoctial storms; lashed by titanic forces of magic, dominated by the Pegasi and their centuries-old enmity with Human Wizards and the Dragons. This is a world where a girl can Dream her destiny. Where her soul can fly, or be chained forever.

She is Zaranna, the Horse Dreamer. Survivor. Fighter. A girl who doesn’t need legs to kick an evil fate in the teeth. All she needs is courage–the courage to Dream.

The Horse Dreamer (Equinox Cycle Book 1)

The Shioni of Sheba series: (Middle Grades and older readers) Unique African historical fantasy adventures set among the myths and legends of ancient Ethiopia.

Shioni of Sheba #1: The Enchanted Castle

Shioni of Sheba #2: The King's Horse

Shioni of Sheba #3: The Mad Giant

Shioni of Sheba #4: The Sacred Lake

Shioni of Sheba #5: The Fiuri Realms

Shioni of Sheba Box Set – Books 1-5

Epic fantasy (New Adult and Adult readers) Epic length tales of unique worlds and powers.

Feynard

The Legend of El Shashi

Table of Contents

Song of the Storm Dragon

Author’s Note

Map of the Island-World

Chapter 1: Oaths and Lessons

Chapter 2: Farewell to Yorbik

Chapter 3: Deeper

Chapter 4: Up for Breath

Chapter 5: Mighty Mites

Chapter 6: Volcanic Colours

Chapter 7: O Fra’anior!

Chapter 8: Visions of Dragons

Chapter 9: Seeking Dragon Lore

Chapter 10: A Dance of Stars

Chapter 11: The Far Shores

Chapter 12: A Royal Handfasting

Chapter 13: Southerly Spear

Chapter 14: Riding the Storm

Chapter 15: Promises

Chapter 16: Escaping the Storm

Chapter 17: Ripped Asunder

Chapter 18: Ardan’s Harem

Chapter 19: Hair and More

Chapter 20: Defiance

Chapter 21: A Star Descended

Chapter 22: Gladiatrix

Chapter 23: The Thunderous Thirty

Chapter 24: A Princess Purchased

Chapter 25: The Assassin Unleashed

Chapter 26: Thoralian’s Bequest

Chapter 27: Vassals, Hassles and Tassels

Chapter 28: Dragon Kisses

Chapter 29: Straight through the Straits

Chapter 30: To War, Dragons!

Chapter 31: Battle Joined

Chapter 32: Thundering Islands

Chapter 33: Sacrifice

Chapter 34: Requiem of Dragons

Chapter 35: Second-Soul Enigma

About the Author