“Ooh,
strictly
,” muttered Nak, in a way that made Yaethi blush again.
Third year Hardak threw them a jaunty salute. “Ho, hard-working first years. Rider Nak. Mighty Emblazon, Shimmerith. Need an extra hand–or a pair of wheels?”
Pip had heard his story. Hardak had lost most of his left leg and the right below the knee to a feral Dragon, which had attacked a Dragonship he and his family had been travelling in, just off his native Island of Tarraga in the far northeast. He had been the only survivor, saved by a Dragon who happened to see him falling past her roost and plucked him from a certain death seconds before he fell into the Cloudlands.
Emblazon said, “Just wait till you get a Dragon to ride, student Hardak. Wings are better than wheels.”
“Much.” He mopped his forehead. “That was a bit of work. Maylin, would you hold the chair still, please?”
Unclipping his seatbelt, Hardak perched on the edge of his wheelchair for a moment before diving neatly into the pool. He was a powerful swimmer, his chest and arms very muscular from years of having to do all the work.
Pip noticed Maylin make a small gesture to Emblazon. Ha, so it was planned. The Amber Dragon growled, “These students are here to work, Hardak. How are you at polishing fangs?”
“I’ll get straight to the point, o mighty fanged one,” he punned, snagging a hold on a boulder at the edge of the pool. Everyone who was listening, groaned. “Maylin, look sharp there. I’m going to make those teeth gleam.”
“If you don’t, I might have to
fire
you,” offered Emblazon, somehow producing so much smoke that his nostrils billowed like a blacksmith’s forge.
“Stop the torture,” groaned Nak.
“It’s a form of pun … ishment,” said Hardak.
“Mercy, please,” begged the Dragon Rider.
The tinkling notes of Casitha’s harp plucked the still noon air as if the sultry heat were a thick, living thing. Emblazon wriggled down into the hot pool and invited Kaiatha to throw buckets of water over his broad back from the vantage-point of a nearby pumice boulder.
Without being bidden, Nak began to teach them Dragon and battle-lore, but his delivery was not the dry delivery of the Journeymen and Mentors. He spiced up his tales with anecdotes and interesting homilies, and had to be begged by both Yaethi and Casitha before he would talk about himself. Of course, Nak being sweet-talked by two pretty girls was only ever going to produce one result. He sang them several long lays, the epic sung poetry of Dragon lore, to Casitha’s accompaniment on the forty-stringed Remoyan harp. Nak had a very fine baritone voice. To everyone’s delight, Shimmerith and Emblazon joined in, their Dragon voices soaring above the jade-chased lake waters.
Oyda approaches,
said Emblazon, suddenly brusque.
We patrol this evening, thou my beloved. Kassik’s thoughts dwell upon this evil.
Shimmerith stretched her spine luxuriously.
Fly strong and true, my third heart. Don’t you think this additional training of students is a fine idea?
We need more ready Dragon Riders,
Emblazon agreed.
Even these young ones; they are ready. Will you convince Kassik? You have his ear.
I will speak to Kassik, thou my soul’s fire.
Oyda cast the gathering a jaundiced eye. “Why wasn’t I invited to this party? Emblazon?” Her frown deepened as she caught sight of Nak, behind Shimmerith. “Oh, I see–it must be a hardship for you, Nak, frolicking in a hot pool with these students.”
Nak, with a flip of his dark, shoulder-length hair, said, “We were polishing your Dragon, Oyda. Indeed, Casitha is so much your twin, it was as if you were here.”
“What, no poetry for me this day? Or has it been wasted on the Pygmy girl?”
She’s only jealous,
Shimmerith whispered to Pip.
Nak rose to the occasion. “The fledglings burned her clothes, Oyda. What was she supposed to do, borrow mine? Even a greater three-horned toad would have turned up his nose at that idea. No, Oyda, no poetry today. Just my heartfelt admiration for my fellow-Rider, who is as able as she is fair, and commands the respect of Dragons and Riders alike.”
Oyda seemed to be fighting off a smile. “Did you eat some funny mushrooms, Nak?”
“No, did you?”
Again, Shimmerith breathed,
See how she looks at him? If you were a Dragon, you’d know her pulse-rate is elevated, her breathing faster than warranted by her walk, and her pupils dilated. These things denote attraction amongst Humans.
Emblazon put in,
Then can the little one explain how on the Islands, if there’s so much attraction, our two Riders manage to provoke each other so mightily?
Pip shook her head.
Love is a mystery, Emblazon.
Shimmerith said,
There’s a quote by Istariela, the Star Dragon, ‘Love is a mystery greater than Dragon-fire, deeper than the Cloudlands and more beautiful than a Mystic moon rising over the Isles.’
Star Dragon? Wow!
The mind boggled, Pip thought. Just when she thought she had learned a few things about Dragons, they sprang another surprise on her.
Oh, look! That’s too precious,
said the Dragoness.
They can’t be a day out of the egg.
Pip felt a surge of motherly protectiveness from Shimmerith as they watched a mother Dragon bringing her two Red hatchlings, a male and a female, down to the hot spring. Emblazon immediately shifted to make room. The hatchlings were at least twelve feet long from nose-tip to tail, but they were so young that their legs wobbled and their scales had a baby-soft, crinkled appearance. They goggled at the Humans. Emblazon’s smile had them scurrying behind their mother’s legs.
These are Humans, my brave little fire-breathers,
explained the mother.
We’re friends.
Kaiatha smiled at them. “Come here, cuties.”
Mamafire! She bared her teeth at me.
That’s called a smile. It’s friendly. Now–no claws, son. Their skin is soft and easily broken.
They’re smaller than I expected,
Pip said to Shimmerith.
Dragons double in size within the first year of life,
she replied.
The Dragon mother added,
If you eat all of your sheep brains, my brave hatchlings, and practice your flying every day, you might even grow as large as Emblazon.
Ooh,
said the female, her baby eyes wide with wonder.
He’s as big as an Island, Mamafire. Isn’t he?
Huh.
The second Red snorted, very close to Pip.
They’re all girls. Yuck.
He sniffed her outstretched hand curiously.
Mamafire, why does she smell like a Dragon?
C
asitha came back
glowing from her first patrol with Oyda and Emblazon, a surprise assignment from Master Kassik. He seemed grimmer than usual when he spoke to Pip and Casitha, having tracked them down in the infirmary. Pip wondered what weighed down his Island. The following evening, it was Pip’s turn. Training. Always training–much more for her now that Kassik had extended her schedule.
“The school always seems so quiet after the cuts,” said Oyda, showing Pip how to fasten Emblazon’s saddle-girth. “Tuck the straps right beneath the armpits. Buckle it as tight as you can. The strap should run just behind the bulge of the primary flight muscles, or his first wingbeat will snap it like a suns-brittle thread. Good, Pip. Always check the condition of the leather. You don’t want to lose a saddle in battle. Your Dragon might catch you, but if he’s tangled up with another Dragon …”
“I flew bareback on Zardon,” said Pip, wondering where in the Island-World the old Dragon might be. He had promised to return. “This seems much more secure.”
Oyda nodded. “Armour, Pip?”
“The blacksmiths haven’t adjusted the fit as yet.”
“Ay, they had to do the same with me. A leather jacket’s better than nothing. Right. Weapons check? Do I spy a pair of Immadian forked daggers on your belt, Pip? Where did you get those?”
“They were a gift from Master Adak.”
“Oh?” Oyda waggled an eyebrow at Pip as they mounted up.
“Along with, ‘I expect big things of you, Pip.’” She chuckled, knowing exactly what Oyda was hinting at but refusing the bait. “These are three inches longer than Immadian standard, apparently. Perfect for me. With the double blades, I can capture and even snap an opponent’s weapon.”
The Rider added, “And they’re sharp enough for surgery. Sweet.”
Pip buckled herself in, one spine-spike behind Oyda on Emblazon’s broad back. He was built like an Island’s foundation. She checked the quiver of arrows next to her left calf. “Ready, Dragon Rider Oyda.”
“Let’s go burn the heavens, Dragon.”
Oyda’s cry fetched a low, eager rumble from the cavernous depths of Emblazon’s chest. His was the longest saddle-girth in recorded history, Oyda had told her. Oyda checked the hairnet holding her long, nut-brown tresses captive. No-one wanted a face full of hair when they were trying to dodge enemy fire–either the war crossbows and catapults of ground emplacements and Dragonships, or the Dragon fire of an unfriendly Dragon. Pip checked her own hairnet. Good. Despite the trim required after Blazon had inadvertently burned her trousers and frazzled her hair, her thick braid, teased out of her curls before they became unmanageable, still reached most of the way down her back. Pygmies never cut their hair. She buckled the chin-strap of her helmet.
Emblazon launched out over the lake with a powerful flexion of his thighs. He swung to the south, accelerating smoothly, flicking his wings to ‘bounce’ them over the volcano’s rim before settling into a southerly sprint.
“He loves to stretch his wings on patrol,” Oyda shouted over her shoulder to Pip. That was all she could manage against the roar of wind blasting into their faces. A large male Dragon could fly forty leagues an hour in short bursts. Air crowded into her mouth and nostrils. Emblazon’s body rippled as he poured power into his wing-strokes, a torrent of pure exultation that made Pip giddy with excitement. She was grateful to be buckled in. Zardon had never made the air roar past her like this.
This was flying! This was what Kassik thought she could do.
It was all rather premature. She had never transformed, as the Shapeshifters called it. However, the mere thought made her neck prickle. What if she allowed her imagination to run wild …
The Master had warned her sternly. What could a Word of Command do, if she used it to trap herself? If she ‘stopped’ herself as she had done to Shimmerith, would anyone or anything else in the entire Island-World be able to free her? He was right. She had to learn more about her magic before taking that risk again–yet another aspect of her planned training.
They blasted over a tangled wilderness of depthless blue gorges, smoking waterfalls and serried volcanic peaks. Emblazon searched with his fantastic Dragon sight for pirate Dragonships or feral Dragons, or any other sign of trouble.
“Let’s take her above the clouds,” said Oyda.
Pip thought he could not possibly have heard her soft command, but her stomach suddenly lurched as Emblazon pointed his tail to the mountainous Island and his nose to the heavens. A solid cloud-bank loomed above, perhaps a band of bad weather. She ducked as if she might strike her head on a roof, but instead, grey closed about them. Mercy. Her brain told her the grey had to have substance and thus should slap her cheeks, but rather, the sensation was like brushing against feathers very fast. She sniffed the moist air, jungle-senses alert …
Pip stiffened at a tell-tale prickle of magic. At once, she called,
Emblazon, danger. Left flank.
“Danger, my Riders,” he echoed.
Emblazon punched out into the dying rays of the suns-set above the clouds. Immediately, he jinked to his right, dodging a Dragon’s slashing claws. He found clear air–not much of it, just enough to give them a glimpse of a Red Dragon, beleaguered, limping through the air, under attack by two smaller Reds. A third, bigger Red swooped down on their tail. Two Orange Dragons homed in from high to the west.
“Pirates,” cried Oyda.
“Zardon,” Pip yelled at the same time, recognising the old Dragon. “We have to help him.”
Oyda snapped, “Emblazon, we’ve Pip to think of.”
“Forget about me!” she exploded. “Zardon’s in trouble. Oyda, how can you possibly–”
You’re right,
Emblazon said. “Oyda, our duty is to help Zardon. It’s five against one and he’s wounded.”
“Go, Emblazon!” Oyda turned in her saddle. “Pip. Be careful. This is real battle and they’re going to try their best to kill us. Understood?”
Pip nodded. “I’m ready.”
For the first time, Pip heard the battle-roar of a Dragon. She was thankful for the helmet to muffle his thundering, even a little, for it rattled her from her toes to her teeth. Emblazon’s acceleration shoved her against the spine-spike at her back. He closed in on the two Red Dragons harrying Zardon at a fantastic rate. One side-slipped, falling away from Zardon, but the other chose to confront Emblazon, who spun in the air as his hind claws slashed a ten-foot rent in the other Dragon’s flank. Pip’s head spun as fast as Emblazon turned. Mercy. Much more of that and her head would fly off her shoulders like an overripe melon.
The Red Dragons beat a retreat.
“They’ll be back,” said Oyda. “Pip, alright?”
She wiped her forehead, scanning the sky. “Dizzy. Fine. What’s next?”
Oyda measured her response with a grim, approving smile. “Be strong, Pygmy warrior. Warm up that bow. If they attack again, aim for the Dragon Riders. Emblazon, check on Zardon.”
Well met, mighty Elder,
called Emblazon.
Need a helping paw?
I was saving you some of the glory,
said Zardon, but he sounded as exhausted as he looked. He had been thoroughly chewed over by something. Pip saw the huge puncture marks of Dragon fangs in three places on his neck, weeping streamers of thick, golden Dragon blood, and a further wound on his haunches where a six-foot strip of hide flapped loosely, displaying the dense strands of muscle beneath. Blood dripped steadily from three rents in his right wing, his neck, and numerous wounds on his sooty, fire-blackened flanks.
Can you make it the Academy, Zardon?
Emblazon asked.
We’ll watch your back.
Pip called,
Zardon, you have to keep going.
Zardon’s eyes flashed crimson in realisation. His wingbeats gained strength as he stared across the hundred or so feet separating them in the air. In a voice congested with Dragon emotions she could only begin to guess at, he said,
Little one … oh, can it be?
Not yet. We think so. Kassik is confident, anyway.
She smiled, hoping he could see that detail with his Dragon sight.
Now fly, you old bag of bones. We’ll race you to the Academy.
Fire blossomed from the old Dragon’s nostrils in response.
Emblazon grunted,
Perfect, Pip. His hearts soar.
Oyda was right. The three Red Dragons attacked in concert, two trying to slash Emblazon’s wings while a third aimed a fireball at his belly. Emblazon countered with a snap of his jaws that sheared several spine-spikes off one of the Reds, while Oyda’s arrow shot plugged in a Rider’s armour. Pip missed her aim by the width of a Dragon.
“Pip, watch those Oranges. They have Dragon body armour and lances,” said Oyda. “The Reds will distract while the Oranges go for the direct attack.”
Pip had seen the thirty-foot metal lances at school. Seeing a pair strapped to a Dragon’s harness, ready to pierce a Dragon’s heart or lungs, earned them a new respect in her eyes–especially when she was sitting on their target.
Emblazon shadowed Zardon as the massive Red Dragon swooped down into the clouds. As they entered the world of grey, Zardon warned them with a quiet word of a course change. Emblazon said, “Smart–learn from him, Pip. It’ll throw off a surprise attack through the clouds based on our previous heading.”
True to Emblazon’s word, an Orange Dragon burst through the clouds off their right flank, lancing empty air. Zardon sniggered and sent a fireball his way, but the Dragon dodged adroitly, taking a glancing blow on the side of his tail. Now the other Dragons burst through, queuing up to attack Zardon. Emblazon bellowed another challenge. They clashed with two Reds, a snarling, biting, snapping brawl which Emblazon shook free of by dint of knocking one of the Reds half-senseless with a mighty blow of his tail. Oyda did an impossible upside-down contortion in harness, opening a slash on a passing wing-surface.
Pip shot arrows this way and that, narrowly missing a Dragon’s eye and striking a Rider on his armoured arm. She muttered unhappily.
“They’re pirates,” Zardon called, helping them with a fireball. The Orange Dragon’s Rider howled as flame engulfed his leg.
Emblazon swirled in the air, latching onto one of the Reds. A champing bite of his massive jaws to the neck, and the Red Dragon squealed in mortal agony.
And die!
Emblazon released his claws, sending the enemy spinning down into the Cloudlands. The fury of his bloodlust washed across Pip in a tidal wave. She found herself snarling between her teeth.
“Lance,” cried Oyda.
Pip fired an arrow point-blank into the second Orange Dragon’s mouth as Emblazon dodged the blow, but the lance still pierced his side, low in the flank.
“Can’t hit a single shot,” Pip shouted.
“Flow with the Dragon’s flight,” Oyda returned at once. They circled back above Zardon, watching the four remaining enemy Dragons closely. “Learn to flow with him, Pip. That’s the best I can describe it. You’re thinking too hard. Feel the shot, as if you’re firing an arrow on the run.”
“I suppose that’s something a Dragon Rider learns?”
“Knowing your Dragon? Ay.”
The enemy Dragon Riders were well armoured, Pip observed, and carried bows and swords apart from the huge Dragon lances. They shadowed Emblazon and Zardon, just a little ways off. What were they waiting for? Her eyes flicked forward. The volcano was still several leagues off. But if they could hold these Dragons at bay for a few more minutes, they might come within range of the Academy’s Dragon sentries.
Then, a dark Dragon descended from the clouds. He was a sooty red-black in colour, almost as large as Emblazon or Zardon, and heavily scarred from countless battles. He wore a harness which housed two war crossbows either side of his spine-spikes, weapons which could fire a six-foot bolt several hundred yards with great accuracy. Four Dragon Riders rode upon his back, two of whom manned the catapults. Pip sensed Emblazon’s hesitation in the air. So did Zardon.
Rambastion,
Zardon called.
Let us pass. This is not your battle.
Emblazon said, “He’s a Dragon pirate from the south. A mercenary, if you will. Rumour has it he came across the Rift, from Herimor.”
“How does a Dragon cross the Rift, Emblazon?” asked Oyda.
“I don’t know. It’s meant to be seven days’ flying. Impossible.”
Rambastion laughed, a low, unpleasant blast of sound.
Zardon, you woolly ralti sheep. You’re looking unwell, old friend.
I have already dispatched three of your mercenaries to their doom in the Cloudlands, and two will never fly again. Do you send hatchlings against me? Why don’t you fight me, you snaggletoothed mongrel?
Rambastion’s eyes glittered like jewels in a darkened room.
Strange tidings arise from your Academy, Zardon. My Master seeks word of an Ancient Power. Give it up, and I might make your death a merciful one.
You have a Master, Rambastion?
Zardon’s scorn seared the air.
How low you have fallen, that you crawl and fawn at the foot of another. Who is this Master you serve?
You don’t know, Zardon?