Strength to you, my love,
she said, flooding the channel with everything at her disposal.
You … keep … flying. Control the shield!
Even Thoralian could not keep up that output for long. His chosen method of attack having failed, he pulsed commands to his drakes. They flapped hard, catching up with the Azure Dragon and her Rider.
He’s controlling those animals with his mind.
Ri’arion wiped his nose; blood came away on his fingertips.
Mercy, he’s powerful. You surviving there, Zuzi? You just saved my bald monk skull from a roasting.
My pleasure.
Can you maintain the shield? Those drakes have fire attacks.
Zip kept accelerating, but the drakes kept pace with her adrenalin-fuelled efforts. She panted,
Ri’arion, I’m losing … I don’t have the strength.
Fire crackled against her shield. The drakes’ cawing grew more fervent. Should a hunter know what it was to be hunted? Suddenly, molten anger ran down her throat to ignite in her belly. Dragons faced their foes with fang and claw, not with the pathetically trembling tip of their tail waving before their noses.
Zuziana,
her Rider warned.
I’m focussed, Ri’arion. Help me keep the shield–will it allow fireballs through?
She gulped.
Oh, I’m being stupid. That’s the one-way construct you explained, right?
A drake swerved in front of her. Zuziana did not waste a millisecond. Shaping a fireball with her tongue, she fired it straight at the drake’s muzzle. What? Her fireball was a tight ball of flame with a distinct blue tinge, as though she had set copper afire. With a sharp
skish!
of lightning which jagged across its scales, the drake seized up and plummeted toward the Yellow-White Dragon, still stalking them from below. Zip’s neck snaked about, shooting half a dozen fireballs at the nearest drakes in rapid succession. Several fell away, but there were plenty more to replace them and their claws were sharp, scrabbling against the shield, pressuring it in dozens of places now, a moving mob. Her Rider shouted helplessly, sweating and straining to maintain the integrity of their shield despite his condition, when a dark shadow swooped.
Ardan!
Her hearts danced. If any Dragon could take on Thoralian and his drakes, it was him.
Ah, Ardan,
said Thoralian.
I was hoping you’d join the banquet.
* * * *
Ardan slewed into the strange red creatures, scattering them as a fox scatters fowl. He struck with claw and tail and fangs, but the drakes were tenacious, sticking together in the knowledge that the many could destroy the great, if only they worked as one. Kylara fired as fast as she could draw and reload. He caught a glimpse of the monk’s ashen face. Their shield was about to fall.
Islands’ greetings, friend,
said a voice in his mind.
Ardan blinked. A bright light intensified between his temples, until it filled his entire world. It was so exquisite, so delicate. He could think of nothing else but allowing the light to charm his soul.
You will do as I command. I am your master, now,
ordered the voice.
Turn around. Go destroy King Beran’s Dragonships.
Aye, master,
said the Shadow Dragon.
Thoralian said,
Attacking the Nameless Man here at Fra’anior was premature. I will not be unprepared again.
No, master.
Monks spilled out of a group of Dragonships arriving nearby, forming themselves into clusters as if they were wasps preparing to defend their nest. The sky around the Azure Dragon and her Rider filled with fire; drakes snarled in an aerial brawl with the warrior monks, spitting flame and snapping their jaws as they called to each other in their harsh, guttural tongue. Men and animals fell. Fire flared almost continuously as the battle spread out over the southern peninsula of Fra’anior Island, and up to the city itself.
Ardan and Thoralian set a collision course for King Beran’s Dragonship group.
The Shadow Dragon spared a backward glance at the Azure Dragoness. She seemed to be fighting clear of the drakes, with help from the warrior monks.
She’s the enemy,
said the voice in his head.
Aye.
He launched an enormous fire-bomb down into a village as they passed overhead. The houses exploded in sheets of flame forty feet tall.
See? That will be Beran’s fate.
Thoralian laughed.
Good.
The woman on his back howled at him, but her words were as unintelligible as the voice of the wind sighing mournfully over his scales. She pounded his back with her heels, even with the hilt of her scimitar, but could not hurt a Dragon of his size.
Ardan snarled up at her, “Shut your trap or I’ll kill you.”
“Ardan, what the blazes is the matter with you?” she shouted back. “Listen to me. Listen, you idiot! Thoralian’s done–”
Shut her out, Shadow Dragon. I am all you need to hear,
Thoralian instructed.
He snuffed her out, living only for the light.
They blasted through the crowded sky, the Shadow Dragon with his fireballs, and Thoralian with his breath of winter’s ice–a discharge of Dragon-breath so powerful it froze metal, and reduced soldiers to unmoving statues. Thoralian took three crossbow bolts in his torso, but fought on as though he were untouched. Monks barred their way. The Azure Dragoness bugled her challenge; a pathetic mewl, Ardan thought. Thoralian destroyed another Dragonship. One of his Reds fell under a concerted assault from dozens of shaven-headed warrior monks, but many of the men and women fell, too.
As the tides of the Cloudlands moved, so too the tides of battle. The warrior in Ardan knew the numbers were against them. Beran’s forces were too well organised and disciplined; his monks had tipped the balance. Catapult shrapnel burst through his right wing. Simultaneously, a monk stabbed a hole in his left wingtip.
And then, the Azure Dragon came racing past them as though shot by a catapult of her own. Magic? How had she done that? Lightning jagged across the sky; he saw black, while Thoralian howled in pain.
Then, agony flared in his back. Kylara had killed him! No, but the nerves of his right wing were ablaze. His own Rider had shot an arrow into his shoulder muscle, and by chance, nicked the secondary nerve serving the right wing. Numb, he slewed off course.
* * * *
“Honestly, you’re carrying this idea of a soul-fire connection with another Dragon way too far,” Jia-Llonya insisted, waving her bread roll at Aranya. The bread was stale; the vegetable soup served for their dinner, thin and tasteless. “Speaking to someone who is five hundred leagues away is impossible–physically, spiritually, even magically. No matter how gorgeous you think he is.”
“So is speaking to Fra’anior. Who does
not
look like me.”
“I’ve seen you in your Dragon form,” Jia pointed out. “How many times have you seen your Dragon in a mirror–your head, for example?”
Aranya had to think back. “Once. Nak showed me.”
“See?”
“It’s your silly imaginings,” said Aranya. “Anyways, I had a sense earlier he was in trouble, but now I feel nothing. Happy? Ardan is–
yaaaaa-ouch!
”
The wooden bowl of soup clattered to the floor, along with her spoon. Aranya clutched her shoulder, grimacing.
Jia said, “Nice mess.”
“Roaring rajals, it hurts. Will you check? Please?”
Rolling her eyes in a way which never failed to set Aranya’s teeth on edge, Jia rose to check her back. A second bowl crashed to the floor. “You’re bleeding! What the …”
Ardan. Oh … a nerve-shock running down into the fingers of her right hand, the eerie capitulation of his mind. What was that presence inside him? Orienting toward her as though it knew she was there? She recoiled, gasping, “Thoralian!”
Hatred was the consuming song of her soul. Aranya howled,
You can’t have him! Ardan, my Sha’aldior–know me. Know who I am, for we breathed Dragon fire together, ‘Thou, my soul’s eternal fire’. Fight the evil! Reject it!
Aranya?
His mental voice expressed confusion and resignation.
Focus on my fire, feel my powers …
Then, she convulsed. Aranya fell against the bed, and from there to the floor. Darkness consumed her.
I
t Was Ardan’s
turn to pin King Beran with the glare of a Dragon who stood eighteen feet tall at the shoulder when he crouched down, and had a hundred fangs longer than the average man’s arm to make his point clear. Between those fangs, he spat, “With respect, I refuse to lie on this stupid lump of rock for one second longer, while Aranya languishes in Thoralian’s dungeons!”
“Your injuries–”
“Are my own fault.” Flame licked around his muzzle as he spoke, yet King Beran stood so stiffly before the Dragon, he resembled a petrified tree. “My wounds are superficial, apart from the arrow my Rider fired into my back.”
Kylara’s low chuckle did not improve Ardan’s mood.
“And you say Aranya saved–”
“My worthless hide, aye.” Mortification stimulated his belly-fires, forcing the Shadow Dragon to close his throat lest he burn someone. “Zuziana made the vital blow when Ri’arion’s monk-group levitated her sideways–as I understand it. Then, Aranya supplanted Thoralian’s hold on my mind. I don’t know how, but I’m grateful. And sorry!”
Zuziana said, “Ri’arion has transferred some knowledge of these warrior-monks’ mental disciplines to me. I’ll try to train you as we fly down to Sylakia, Ardan. I need to learn as well–we all do.”
“Can’t I just snaffle his brain?” grumbled Ardan.
The night had that preternatural echo of a battle’s aftermath. People moved slowly to their homes, to their neighbours’ houses, to see if their livelihood was wrecked or whole. Soldiers brooded or hurried about their assigned tasks, trying not to think about the fallen. Nervous glances checked the sky for more Dragons, but there were none. All was still, yet the repercussions would continue for days. Families mourned their dead. The monks gathered in tight, exhausted groups, squatting to tend the wounded or banding together to help clear the debris and restore order.
The Shadow Dragon lay where he had fallen near Fra’anior’s Royal Palace; his allies gathered around for a midnight conference, their faces grave, streaked with soot and blood.
His Rider put in, “You deserve worse, falling for that flying toad’s tricks.”
“
GRAAAAAAAAARRRGGGHH!
” thundered the Shadow Dragon, waking half of Fra’anior Island to the depths of his frustration and shame.
“Feeling better, my little mutton chop?” asked Kylara, very sweetly.
“Actually, yes. I suppose you think I deserved the crash-landing as well?”
“Actually, yes,” she echoed, apparently unconcerned by the ominous growl her teasing provoked. The Warlord deliberately settled her hands upon her daggers. “What are we waiting for? Thoralian and his two Reds are still fleeing for the Spits, and showing no signs of stopping. King Cha’arlla wants to know what he’s supposed to do with a captured Red Shapeshifter Dragon. Ri’arion’s spoiling for a fight, and Zuziana was ready to leave for Sylakia three hours ago.”
“Excellent summary,” said King Beran. “Here’s the plan.”
“Great Islands, do you never stop?” said Prince Ta’armion.
Beran grunted, “Not when my Commander’s probably eating Dragons for breakfast up north, and my daughter’s an honoured guest of the Sylakian Empire. Last time, Ta’armion, I did nothing. This time I intend to send my best weapons after her. You, Kylara.” He surprised everyone by singling her out. “I have chosen you to babysit those two Dragons–”everyone ducked as the two Dragons expressed their indignation with involuntary snorts of fire “–as you raid Sylakia’s Tower. You will leave tonight. And if you have to destroy the whole filthy place to find Aranya, be my guest.”
“And mine,” said King Cha’arlla.
“Meantime, we will make repairs with all speed, before we set sail for Rolodia.”
Ardan’s thoughts returned to the first time he had met Kylara, beneath the prekki-fruit tree. Little more of his past was clear, only that his destiny had truly begun to unfold on that day. Now he found himself in excellent company–Beran and Ignathion, the Warlord Kylara, and the Prince and King of Fra’anior. There was Lyriela, ever in the Prince’s shadow, and Zuziana, for once without the company of her not-very-tame monk, who had five healers fussing over him in a nearby palace room.
His brooding gaze returned to Lyriela. That one would not remain in the shadows for long. He needed to convince Ta’armion not to leave her behind, for they needed every Dragon–if she could learn to fly, and fight, in time. Thoralian would find his way through the Spits, of that there could be no doubt. The Dragon was bound for his lair. Yorbik. The answers lay there, he felt. The place where Thoralian would be at his most powerful.
“Don’t dawdle, o King,” said Zuziana. “We’ll catch up.”
The Immadian King’s expression remained sober. “You said she’s injured, Ardan?”
“Aye,” said Ardan, not using the word ‘tortured’, although everyone was thinking it. “King Beran, you can rely on us.”
“You’ll be our dark spear in the underbelly of the Sylakian Empire.” Beran chuckled unexpectedly. “Bring that girl home to her Dad. I haven’t whacked her in far too long.”
The Shadow Dragon scrambled onto his paws. “Kylara. Zuziana. Time to fly.”
* * * *
Two nights later, in the last hour of darkness before dawn, Aranya stirred from a sickening nightmare of the Shadow Dragon, in which she was powerless to prevent him from liquefying her brain and slowly sucking it out through her ear canals. Caught in a state halfway between dreaming and wakefulness, she opened her eyes to see the dungeon wall bulging above the bed. Dragon scales? The stones had turned into Dragon scales, she told herself. A black brow-ridge pressed in through the solid rock, followed by a Dragon’s eye, roving around the room before fixing upon her.
Sha’aldior?
Aranya moaned softly.
Am I dreaming?
The scale-wall shifted, bringing part of a Dragon’s muzzle into the room. The eye loomed above her pillow-roll, gazing at the Immadian Princess with evident pity. Magic washed against her senses, evoking memories of the mysterious soul-fire she had breathed with the Shadow Dragon.
Aranya. I have come.
A-Ardan?
She sat up so fast, her head passed into the space occupied by his insubstantial muzzle. Aranya had forgotten how enormous he was. His head alone threatened to fill their entire dungeon.
Ardan, it’s really … you? Flying through rock?
Terribly clever, aren’t I?
A sob wracked her body; Aranya pressed her fist against her mouth, but she was unable to control the tears splashing down her cheeks.
Happy … so happy …
Likewise, overjoyed,
he said, with such tenderness that it redoubled her tears.
Aranya, Kylara and Zip are on their way inside. Had to dodge a few Dragons out there, but we made it without being seen.
She began,
Everyone else–
All alive,
said Ardan.
Hurry. Wake up your bed-mate while I rip this stupid chain out of the wall.
Flushing hotly at what he implied, Aranya reached beneath his muzzle to shake Jia-Llonya’s shoulder. “Wake up, Jia. We’re escaping.”
The Jeradian woke to the sight of a Dragon’s disembodied paw descending from the ceiling. Jia-Llonya scrambled across the bed. Ardan carefully inserted a talon through the ring to which their chains were locked, solidified his digit, and then ripped the bolts bodily out of the wall. Poor, awestruck Jia! Her eyes bulged, but she could not even force out a scream.
“That’s Ardan,” said Aranya, softly. “He’s friendly.”
“Friendly?” spluttered Jia, ducking as Ardan’s insubstantial head swung over toward their barred cell door.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Aranya. “There’s a guard outside, Ardan.”
“He’s dozing,” said the Shadow Dragon. After a short pause, he added, “Mind you don’t slip in the puddle of blood. Quick. I’ll try to shadow you, but you need to move fast. Our diversion won’t fool the Dragons for long.”
“And the door?” Aranya asked, swinging her legs off the bed. She grabbed the pitiful cloak the Sylakians had supplied. “Jia, time enough to admire Ardan later. Hop to it.”
‘Great Islands,’ Jia-Llonya mouthed., shuddering. Her eyes followed the Shadow Dragon compulsively.
“Stand back.” Ardan’s paw solidified. He punched the cell door off its hinges.
“Controlling the power must be tricky,” said Aranya.
She wished she could articulate just how over the moons she was to see him, but Jia’s presence made her hesitate. Aranya had to settle for pasting a smile upon her ruined, scar-twisted lips. Then she dropped her gaze. What must he think of her now?
“Aye,” growled the Shadow Dragon. “Ri’arion said that if my concentration slipped even for a second, I’d entomb myself forever. Apparently brains don’t take to being embedded in solid rock. Aranya, I am so–” The words stopped in his throat. Ardan stared quizzically at them. “What was that?”
Aranya’s voice rose. “By the mountains of Immadia … an earthquake?” The shock came again, making her stagger against Jia, who linked arms with her.
“Quick, Aranya,” she urged.
They slipped out of the Shapeshifter holding cell, gathering up the trailing lengths of chain. Just as Jia-Llonya stooped to raid the dead guard for his keys and war-hammer, the ground lurched. Jia fell to her knees. Aranya skinned her elbow against the wall.
Ardan swore unhappily, a string of Western Isles expressions Aranya barely understood. He snapped, “That’s no earthquake, ladies. You need to run.
NOW!”
The disquiet in his voice galvanised them. Jia thrust Aranya forward. On the wings of panic she sprinted the first section to the stairwell, and even partway up it, before the tightness in her chest turned into desperate wheezing.
Aranya stopped, doubled over, blowing hard. “Leave me here, Jia. You go.”
“Are you ralti-stupid? We’re chained together.”
“It’s not the Brown Dragon, is it?” puffed the Immadian Princess. “Powers of earth–”
The stairwell shook. Rock and dust pattered down from above. Grimly, Aranya set her foot on the next step, then the next. No pain was too much. She had to escape. Jia yelled and leaped past her, swinging her hammer in a low, vicious arc. A soldier screamed as the hammer crushed his knee. He tumbled past them.
“Go meet Zip and Kylara,” said Ardan, his muzzle appearing briefly above them. “I’ll clear the way.”
The Shadow Dragon slipped back into the rock. Aranya shook her head. A neat trick if you could do it. No place was safe from him.
Thump.
The ground bucked against her soles. She slipped and skinned her knees on the rough steps. No time to pause. Using her hands to help her climb, Aranya pushed herself up the stairs. When she fell again, she crawled, seeing black spots dancing before her eyes. The Shifter pox had stolen more than just her looks. She knew it, and despaired.
At last, with lungs afire and her breath whistling like leaky bellows, Aranya broke out into the dungeons above. Level ground! She wanted to laugh with relief, but she had no breath left to laugh. Instead, she allowed Jia-Llonya to draw her arm over her shoulder and support her as they stagger-ran along the corridor, past a knot of guards Ardan had already butchered.
“Help me!”
The voice issued from a cell to her left as they dashed by.
“The doctor,” said Jia-Llonya. “We can use him.” Doubling back, she fumbled with the keys she had taken. She shouted through the bars, “Where’s Yolathion? Where is he?”
“Beside the machine,” said the strange man from Herimor. He blinked eagerly at them as Jia found a key that fit and swung the door open.
Aranya gasped, “You’re not taking Yolathion?”
“If he’s alive,” Jia insisted. “You can heal him with your magic, can’t you? We have to try.”
No, she was incapable.
“There they are!”
Shouting excitedly, a brace of Sylakian Hammers pounded toward them, brandishing their war hammers. Now, Aranya heard a clash of weapons up ahead, just around the corner of the secondary tunnel, which intersected the main dungeon corridor one hundred feet ahead. Again, the entire Tower of Sylakia jumped and trembled … under attack by some monstrous, unimaginable force. Aranya blinked as her mind served up a picture of a Land Dragon drawn from the hallucinations she had seen during the storm. No. Surely not. Why would a Land Dragon attack here, unless …
it sought her.
A beastly chill made every hair on her body stand on end. But she had no time to dwell upon it. The ground’s movement knocked the two soldiers together. Jia-Llonya sprang into the attack, denting one of their shields with a powerful, ringing blow. She dodged a hammer-strike in return, bending backward with a supple flexion of her spine. Aranya flung the chain she was holding at the second soldier, capturing his arm more by accident than design. She yanked hard and raised her knee simultaneously.
Crack!
The man tottered, holding his chin. Jia finished him with a roundhouse hammer-blow to his left temple. “Come, doctor.”
Soldiers spilled around that corner, most not intent on them, but on fighting for their lives. Kylara spun gracefully through the melee, lashing out left and right with her scimitar to deadly effect. Somewhere nearby, deafening Dragon-challenges shook the caverns. Aranya heard the distinctive sizzle of fireballs and a slap of flesh against stone. Gurdurion and his cronies, she thought, fighting to keep a wretched, magic-less Star Dragon’s daughter from escaping.