“What?” Aranya’s wrath plunged into the Cloudlands. “No … no! Don’t say that. What happened?”
“The Sylakians is what happened.” Aranya tried to slip an arm around Jia-Llonya. The girl threw her off, hissing, “They beat us, Aranya. They kicked me in the stomach, and … are you happy, you self-important lump of ralti turd? Are you happy now I’m not going to have Yolathion’s baby?”
The dungeons themselves should split open and bleed from such a wound.
The groan that emerged from her mouth was inhuman, a cry of incoherent rage, sorrow and pain. Aranya curled in on herself, weeping so hard that she felt several blisters burst on her face. Her stomach knotted up. Now Jia was holding her, apologising, smoothing back her hair so that it did not catch on the broken skin of her cheeks. They wept together for their loss.
Aranya learned that the Sylakians had captured Yolathion and Jia-Llonya just hours after she had fled the celebration. She and Yolathion had been brutally beaten with cudgels and boots. After that, two Dragons, hidden in Jos City, had borne them directly to Sylakia. Jia had bled and lost the baby. She began to tell Jia about Yolathion’s condition, but the Jeradian girl declared that she had already been given the ‘two-brass-dral’ tour before being shut in with Aranya, under orders to keep her alive.
“You think I’m soft, don’t you?” Jia-Llonya said bitterly, at one point. “You think I’m just after Yolathion because he’s a handsome War-Hammer.”
“I thought that, certainly.”
“Well, thanks for the past tense. I’m more than you think I am, Aranya.”
“I misjudged you.” Aranya suppressed a sad smile, because to move her mouth was to further crack open her ravaged cheeks. What had Yolathion found himself this time? First a Dragoness, now a Jeradian who suddenly struck her as resourceful and unafraid, even defiant; who knew how to treat the pox? Through the gap left between the pustules squeezing her eyes shut, she levelled her most draconic scrutiny at Jia-Llonya. The girl did not flinch.
“Tell me about yourself, Jia,” she offered. Borrowing an impish leaf from Zuziana’s scroll, Aranya added, “You use kisses for weapons, and …”
“Aranya!” The other girl turned a rich shade of rose. “Here I had you Immadians pegged as the conservative ones. Your magic forced me to–oh, Islands’ sakes! I love Yolathion and no Shapeshifter seductress is about to steal him from me. Or, me from him.”
“I prefer my
men
–” Aranya sighed. “I was trying to strangle you and I’m grateful–however it happened–that I did not! Can you not accept my apology, for the tenth flaming time?”
“Down, Dragon.”
That was the wrong tone to take with her. “How come you presume to know so much about Dragons?” Aranya snarled. “Ah, that came out badly. Look, I’m on a weird, unfamiliar Island … my Dragoness is gone, possibly forever. This collar–”
“It’s called a Lavanias collar,” Jia-Llonya explained. “It’s used to suppress a Shapeshifter’s magical powers, not to destroy them. Along with the Herimor drugs they’re probably slipping into your food or administering in the guise of drugs for this Shifter pox, you’re unable to transform. Your Dragoness sleeps–similarly to Thoralian’s other captives in this forsaken place. There are few left.”
“Few? He’s probably eaten all the others.” Suddenly, the import of Jia’s words struck her forcibly. Aranya shrank back on the pillow-roll, her momentary strength already spent. “How do you know these things, all this Dragon lore? Jia, who are you?”
The Jeradian girl drew herself up, no more the shy mouse Aranya had taken her for, her green eyes clear and steady. Cautiously, she said, “I’m a member of a secret group–mostly Jeradians and Fra’aniorians–who seek to preserve Dragon lore and knowledge.”
“The Order of Onyx?” said Aranya, a flash of blind intuition.
Jia-Llonya wheezed, “How did you know?”
“Oh, I’m more than you think I am.”
“Very funny. I guess I deserved that,” said the Jeradian, chuckling, but she sounded perfectly breathless as she added, “Aranya, listen. I’ve a head so stuffed full of Dragon lore and legends you wouldn’t believe it and I’ve dreamed of them since I was a child, but I never imagined I’d actually meet a Dragon … please, don’t turn me away. This is my life’s dream taken wings!”
“To this dungeon? You couldn’t dream a little bigger?”
Jia squeezed Aranya’s fingers so hard it hurt. “No, you silly ralti sheep. You’re a real Dragon. This is perfect.”
Aranya did not have the heart to tell Jia-Llonya that the Amethyst Dragon was gone forever. Instead, she said, “Let me tell you about my friends, Jia. There’s an Azure Dragoness called Zip, and Ardan, he has Shadow powers …”
K
ING BERAN PINNED
Ardan with a glare fit to stop a Dragonship in its tracks. “Kylara’s right. Are you quite hale in the head, man?”
Fitfully twisting the
ur-makka
around his wrist, Ardan glanced to the door which Kylara had just slammed in his face. Another dream of Aranya calling to him in great distress, the uncanny knowledge that he knew where Thoralian had imprisoned her, that she was alive … Kylara’s volcano had just erupted. Now Beran. His day had barely started, and he was walking on lava.
Sha’aldior!
His Dragon name had echoed across the leagues, heard at a level different to anything he had experienced before–save the soul-fire. Ardan grasped that he and Aranya were linked. Did she have a secret Dragon name, too? Or was it only Aranya who had the power to call him from afar, as she claimed the Black Dragon called to her? Sha’aldior. He shivered, rubbing his arms.
Should he be concerned that Kylara would add a second dent to his thick skull, deeper than the first? Aye.
The truth was, only a colossal fool gave up a girl like Aranya. He was that fool.
Beran said, “I don’t want to patronise you, Ardan. But let me make this clear. I’ve lived a few summers upon this Island-World, and I’ve seen the way you look at my daughter, and aye, her eyes lingering upon you. What’s going on? As her father, I’ve a right to know.”
“Nothing.”
After an awkward silence, the King of Immadia said, “Isn’t it beneath the honour of a Western Isles warrior to lie to a man’s face?”
Stiffly, Ardan replied, “It’s for Aranya to–”
“Man to man. I too have my honour, stupid and useless as it is at times, and I am going off-the-Islands crazy … please, Ardan. Don’t make me beg.”
They took each other’s measure.
“You are the Immadian Fox,” said Ardan, returning to his seat beside the Immadian King’s desk in the navigation room of his Dragonship. “The whole Island-World knows your mettle. But I fear my honour is as dust blown into the Cloudlands. I mean to go after Aranya and rescue her. I want you to know that, Beran.”
“My daughter was dead and returned to life as a Dragon,” said the King. “What could be worse than that?”
“A father’s righteous wrath?” suggested Ardan, before catching his breath. Idiot!
Beran’s grey eyes turned wintery. His fingers twitched on the desk as though they itched for a sword-hilt and a free swing at Ardan’s neck. He ground out, “You had better not be suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”
“Unfortunately, I think I am. Aye.”
* * * *
Aranya sat rib-deep in a warm caustic soda barrel-bath, wincing, having her skin peeled. She griped, “Is that cloth or strips of skin you’re tearing off, there?”
“Don’t whine, it’s unbecoming in a Dragon,” said Jia. “More over here, Doctor Chikkan.” He called himself by the nickname of Chikkan, as his Herimor name was utterly unpronounceable.
The tweezers pinched. Aranya ground her teeth together. The sensation made her imagine Dragon claws delicately flaying her skin, inch by agonising inch. Fresh tears streaked her cheeks. Fine, her sores had to be cleaned. They had to get the cloth out and the caustic in, because apparently that was good for healing and for the itching. She wished she could split open her skin and step out of it like a butterfly sloughing off its chrysalis. Torture! How casually she had used words like ‘unbearable’ or ‘suffering’ in conversation, before. Now, she knew their true meaning.
She had craters on her face. One exposed her left cheekbone.
Aranya had flung the mirror across the room in horror; only, she was not strong enough to strike the wall with it. It lay forlorn on the bed. She thought she could still be a butterfly? O, woe to Immadia. She had turned into a mange-scarred rajal.
Chikkan said, “Yesterday at dawn, Thoralian departed for Yorbik Island.”
Aranya stiffened. Quietly, behind her, Jia asked, “What’s he so interested in at Yorbik, doctor? The shipyards, of course …”
“No. I mean, aye.” Metal pinched her skin as Aranya tuned her ears with care. He breathed, “Thoralian’s cleared this place out, see? Rumour is that his brother Dragons grow impatient with his eating habits. Thoralian said, ‘I must impress my new recruits.’ That’s what I heard.”
“Impress?” said Aranya, trying to square this with what little she knew of Thoralian. It made no sense.
Jia put in, “Why leave us here? What if we escape?”
The doctor laughed as though she had brightened his morning. “Lady, you’re buried inside half a mile of solid rock. A thousand soldiers and twenty Dragons guard this place. Only rats and cockroaches get in and out. Look, I’ve said too much already. It’s Dragon politics. Thoralian’s kin demanded just one thing of him–exterminate Beran. Then he can enjoy his delusions of grandeur.”
Aranya glanced up at Chikkan, picking his way along her collarbone now. Slit eyes? Why would she never have heard a single legend about a creature like him? She had also known nothing about Chameleon Shapeshifters, though.
“Do you miss Herimor?” she asked, abruptly.
The doctor’s hand jerked, dropping his tweezers in the bath. “Curse your intuitive Star Dragon powers,” he hissed. “Have you been meddling in my mind?”
“Ah–just a lucky guess,” said Aranya, feeling about for the tweezers. She had Star powers like her mother? Thoralian’s instincts had been right. “Could you tell me–”
“No.”
“Please, doctor, I need–”
“No! Shut your trap, girl. You’ll have Thoralian down on us both.”
After that, he and Jia-Llonya completed their work in silence. The doctor bade Aranya lie on a rubber sheet to dry off. Then he bolted as though a feral Dragon were breathing down his neck.
“That was fascinating,” said Jia.
For the first time in however long she had languished in Thoralian’s dungeon, Aranya sensed her brain bubbling like a meriatite furnace. “Aye. Jia-Llonya, riddle me this. Yolathion once told me there was no such thing as a secret Dragon Rider Academy in northern Jeradia.”
“Shows how little he knows.”
“So, where is it?”
“What do you know about the Academy?” Jia countered, her green eyes cool and calculating.
“Well, I happen to know two Dragon Riders who used to live there, Nak and Oyda–”
“Nak and Oyda?” the Jeradian screeched, before clapping her hands over her mouth. “They’re legends! I can’t believe you know them. The Academy’s real, of course. Was real. My great-great-great grandfather–I think that’s correct–used to live there. He was called Balthion. That’s how I–I always thought he was Sylakian, with that name, and–his son Durithion escaped with Kaiatha when their Dragons were lost–”
“Slow down, Jia,” Aranya laughed.
Jia’s strong fingers squeezed her hand. “Now I know we have to escape, Aranya! I have to meet Nak and Oyda. They’re heroes, characters ripped right out of the scrolls. What’s Nak like? Tell me.”
“One piece of advice,” said Aranya. “Keep your clothes on around him.”
She began to laugh at the image of lecherous old Nak in her mind, but Jia-Llonya stormed, “If you weren’t so sick I’d smack you to the next Island, Dragoness or none! How dare you?”
“What?”
“You’re just too much of a precious Princess, aren’t you? Why don’t you just spit it out–that Jeradian slut, don’t you mean?”
“No.” Aranya wanted laugh again, but her poor body would not take the shaking.
“Then what?”
“Firstly, I’m Sylakia’s number one enemy, a convicted criminal. Secondly, I meant Nak, not you. He’s incorrigible around women. Now will you wipe that stupidly affronted look off your face and listen to what I have to say? And then you will tell me what you know of the Academy.”
Manic laughter filled Aranya’s mind. She always started off by fighting like a maddened windroc with her friends. Did this mean Jia-Llonya was destined to become a friend, too?
Peculiar winds blew across the Island-World, these days.
* * * *
Ardan, feeling strong–and guilty–had chosen the direct flight to Sylakia via Talda Island rather than brave the longer, more southerly route via Xinidia, Erigar and Archion Islands. Erigar had been a staunch Sylakian ally since anyone could remember. He and Kylara had agreed they did not want any distractions as they flew secretly into the heart of enemy territory in search of Aranya.
He pulled up behind the nearest cloud, swearing unhappily. Kylara had been imitating an icicle on his back for the day’s flight it had taken them to reach Talda Island, given the icy but helpful breeze. Now, she shivered before kicking his scales. “What?”
“Dragons,” said Ardan. “Take a look at those hot springs.”
“I see dot–is that an Island?” Kylara said acidly. “I don’t see like a Dragon. Unless your excitement means you’ve spotted Aranya?”
“No.”
“Then do use a few words to communicate with me, Ardan.”
“Fine. I see … ten Red Dragons sunning themselves around some hot springs. Fast asleep. No, one’s just got up to have a swim.”
Kylara borrowed a couple of his more unsavoury words to let him know that she felt exactly as he did.
Ardan agreed, “Aye. And I’ll wager four Islands to a snake’s fart that they’re headed for Fra’anior to warm us up.”
“Well?” she said.
“Well what?”
In dangerously honeyed tones, the Warlord replied, “I assume you’re still planning to go after Aranya, leaving Fra’anior at the mercy of these Dragons? They’ll burn it as they did Naphtha Cluster.”
Ardan inadvertently coughed out a fireball of surprise and fury. “No!” One of the Dragons below glanced up as the bright Dragon fire streaked the sky. “Oh. That’s torn it. They’ve spotted us. Back to warn the Island, then. It’ll be some haul against that wind. Could we stop on those rocks we saw, or would those be too low in the Cloudlands for you?”
Kylara’s rough laughter halted the flow of his thoughts. “Ardan. You’re a Dragon, right?”
“Aye.”
“And that’s the enemy down there, right?”
“Aye!”
“Imagine ten bright red ralti sheep, ripe and juicy, just waiting for you to sink your claws into them.”
Fierce, unruly Dragonsong bubbled in his hearts. Aye. A double paw-full of fat Dragons, warm and lazy from the suns-shine? An attack from a lone Dragon and his Rider was the last thing they’d expect.
He growled over his shoulder, “Shall we go make friends?”
“And then, at the last second–
whap!
” Kylara smacked her fist into her open palm.
They shared savage grins.
Ardan dipped his left wingtip and spiralled downward, checking the flexion of his talons. He had no doubt he could outfly any one of those ten mature Dragons. The only snag was that the other nine would swarm all over him like army ants on a fresh carcass. He had to be cunning, striking fast and cleanly without becoming entangled in a fangs-and-claws battle. If he used his Shadow powers, Kylara and the saddle would fall. No, he had an idea. Experimentally, Ardan tried to focus his power on his tail. It blurred at once, while the rest of him remained solid. Now, if he could only attain that level of control in the heat of battle …
“Keep sharp, girl, but act innocent,” he said.
“Great Islands, you clearly don’t know the first thing about women,” she shot back.
“What, daggers concealed in fluffy lamb’s wool?”
“All the time,” said Kylara.
Four of the Red Dragons spiralled upward; the rest clearly felt too slothful to deal with the intruder. Good. Dragon-Ardan liked these odds better. He would have only one opportunity to surprise them.
As they neared the Red Dragons, Ardan called,
Fiery greetings, old ones. Where do you hail from?
Sylakia
, said the foremost. His three fellows drifted apart, aiming to surround him, Ardan saw.
Are you the Dragon of the Western Isles?
I am he.
The other waited. Dragon-Ardan saw his chance slipping through his paws. At least one of them was wily enough not to trust his apparently friendly intentions.
Quite the young beast, aren’t you?
Ardan considered his words.
I am Ardan. How are you named?
Our leader is Karathion,
said the shrewd Red.
I am Furion, called ‘the furious’. My shell-brothers are Teldion, Jakkarion, and Cazuthion.
Jakkarion drifted closer to Ardan’s tail. He sensed a bite incoming, but pretended not to notice; rather, he side-slipped slightly as if pushed by the breeze, bringing Jakkarion so close to Teldion that the latter was forced to stall to avoid a collision. He sensed Kylara stiffening in the saddle. A tiny tap of her boot on his left shoulder muscle alerted him. Go that way? Or an attack from that side? He extended his senses. Was that a fireball warming up in Cazuthion’s belly? Aye!
With a triple flexion of his wings, quarter-beats, Ardan ‘bounced’ in the air as Aranya had taught him–just fifteen feet upward, but that was enough to avoid the main blast of Cazuthion’s opening salvo. The fireball passed between his hind legs and roared toward Furion, who bugled in alarm as he ducked, unsighted by Ardan’s swift manoeuvre. Furling his right wing while beating powerfully with the left, Ardan pivoted, whipping his tail around with the aid of the centrifugal force generated by his rotating body. The bulk of his tail smashed into the side of Teldion’s head, while Jakkarion missed his bite by inches.