Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) (22 page)

Her membranes fluttered shut. When her healing magic surged into Zip, her friend sighed. “Oh, that itches–nicely.”

Zuziana applied the ointment and bandaged her leg with strips of cloth torn from their spare clothes. She pulled on her trousers and clucked in annoyance as Aranya’s muzzle got in the way of her fastening the armour again. She pushed the Dragon’s muzzle away ineffectually. “Aranya. It’s nothing, so stop your mothering.”

“Here come the Dragonships,” sa
id Aranya. “Mount up, Zip.”

“Those specks? I want your eyes.”

“I can also see a message hawk.”

Her Rider climbed quickly into the saddle and buckled
in. She said, “So, let’s stick with the plan. Can you chase a hawk?”

“I hope so–for short periods
, at least. Nak said they’re faster than Dragons between Islands.”

It took three arrows and some lung-straining flying to catch the speedy hawk, but Zuziana finally downed it with a lucky head-shot. After that, they headed north for Tyrodia
Island, making no effort to conceal their presence. That would come later.

An hour
’s flight brought the pair to the steep edge of Remoy, and a view of the layers of glistening, serpentine terrace lakes which were Remoy’s signature feature, reflecting back the last starlight before the gathering dawn. Vast numbers of water birds nested on their shores; their populations so dense that the lakes were outlined like mouths with white lips. Here they surprised a patrolling Sylakian Dragonship and sent a fireball spinning into the lakes, at the expense of two non-serious arrow holes punctured in Aranya’s left wing.

“Marking our trail,” said Zip. “Wasted an arrow, though. We’ve only got fourteen arrows left for the invasion fleet, if it’s still at Tyros.”

“Let’s make every arrow count.” Aranya glanced back at Zuziana. “Do you think our Pygmy friends might help us out with some arrows? Could we stop there on our way back along the Crescent?”

“You’re still bent on returning to Nak and Oyda, aren’t you?” Zip took a sip from her waterskin. “Well, I think it’s a good idea, even if it does land us
back on Sylakia Island. Don’t think they’d expect that. We’ll need to see how it goes at Tyros, before deciding where the roving troublemakers fly after that.”

“All in the spirit of partnership based on mutual idiocy?”

“Speak for yourself, Dragon.” Zuziana gazed out at the Cloudlands as the rising suns bathed their billows in rosy hues, a carpet stretching to the horizon, deceptively calm and even. “Is it just me, or do you feel rather naked flying in the daytime?”

“As naked as a Dragon in her Dragon-hide can be.” Raising her head, Aranya declaimed, “Fellow-Islanders of this immense demesne, I foresee a day when Dragon
s and Humans shall co-operate in beautiful harmony, in a partnership based on mutual trust and–”

Zuziana’s
exaggerated snort made her burst out laughing.

“What? I just wanted to use the words ‘immense demesne’ together in a sentence.”

“Well, if silliness helps you navigate the long road to Tyrodia Island, then by all means, be silly.”

“Road?” Aranya vented a snort of her own. “What road, o ignorant Human? Doth our road not lie in the skies most vast, beneath the beneficent gaze of the five moons?”

“Mercy. I’m getting some sleep. In fact, you’re boring me to sleep quite effectively.”

As though the world held its breath, a brooding stillness surrounded Rider and Dragon as they winged away from the relative security of Remoy Island and out across the
Cloudlands. Not a breath of wind stirred apart from the Dragon’s steady wing beat. Being in her Dragon form still felt marvellous and weird. Much that she took for granted about her Human form, such as running or leaping or breathing or being ill, seemed tinged with novelty and wonder when viewed through a Dragon’s eyes. She had some sense of her stamina as a Dragon, a growing appreciation of her flying ability, but as yet little idea how to use the magic she sensed still lay latent within her, apart from her healing power.

Carrying a Rider was foreign, too, Aranya thought. On one level they were friends, on another, she was responsible for her Rider
. Zip said she felt the same sense of responsibility toward her Dragon. It added an unexpected dimension, a mutual dependency as they set out on a mission … to do what? Laughter echoed hollowly in her hearts. Overthrow the Sylakians? Stir up a bit of trouble until the hammer came down? How long could they goad the great beast of Sylakia?

Long enough to
make them pay for her trip to the Cloudlands. Long enough to ensure Garthion knew what his brutality had cost his people.

She wondered what was left of him after being burned like that. Part of her hated him; another part regretted what she had done.
She tried not to dwell upon the Dragonships they had destroyed, or all the men they carried. ‘How does Dragon-Aranya feel about the killing, Zip?’ she whispered. ‘Sorrowful. And lonely.’

Could she be the last Dragon in the Island-World?

Aranya shook her head. No, she would not give up the search for others. Maybe she’d find other Dragons in Herimor; or maybe on the Island her mother had come from, Fra’anior, which lay west of Sylakia, perhaps five or six days’ travel by Dragonship.

She rested a moment, gliding steadily toward the Cloudlands. Aranya experimented with the angle and extent of her wings, trying to find the best gliding configuration. She looked to the Jade and Blue moons, both in their crescent phase, and tried to remember the precise direction Zuziana had instructed her to take. Navigation by the moons was another complication entirely. Sneaky of her to study Ignathion’s navigation charts during that journey down to Sylakia, she congratulated herself.
If she had the slightest inkling she was about to discover she was a Dragon Shapeshifter, she might have paid proper attention, too.

Aranya missed Tyrodia Island by ten leagues to the west.

Zuziana worked out the error in her navigation and how to correct it. So it was a very tired Dragon who, around midnight, sighted Tyrodia at last.

“
You keep that map in your head?” Aranya asked.

“Mostly. It’s a skill that runs in our family. We liked to play memory games–name the Island from its shape, name the main cities of each Island, name the Islands from south to north …”

She hooted at the expression on Aranya’s face.

But, after they had rested an hour
, Aranya and Zuziana took to the air to discover their miss had been a blessing. Aranya drifted along as she described what she could see.

“It’s a line of Dragonships strung across the route we should have taken up from Remoy,” said the Dragon. “Do you think they got a message hawk through? They’d have had the time because of how far off track we went, don’t you think?”

Zip nodded. “We should assume they’re forewarned.”

“And what’s that sly smile saying to me?”

She pointed upward. “Look at those pretty cumulous clouds.”

The weather had been either clear or stormy, Aranya thought. She was not familiar with Southern weather patterns. But those clouds would be handy, if she could fly high enough. Perhaps they would provide enough cover, despite the moon Iridith bathing the night with a gentle, almost-lamplight glow as
it spanned fully two thirds of the horizon. Her Dragon eyes narrowed as she noticed shadows, huge shadows, traversing Iridith’s face. Dragons? No, they were the wrong shape. What on the Islands were they?

But Zuziana was chattering to her, talking about their next raid. She was right. Aranya wrenched her attention back to the problem at hand. All the while, Tyrodia loomed before them, seeming to grow larger by some eerie magic unrelated to their flight.

“I see that gleam in your eye, my friend,” said Zip. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Once her Rider was settled, Dragon-Aranya climbed straight for the clouds. The air grew chill. Greyness closed about them, then receded as they flew into a gap. Aranya reported the layout of the Dragonships to Zip. She pointed with her chin to the faraway lights of Tyros Town.

“The camp is still there,” she told Zip. “I vote we attack where the Dragonships are moored. That’ll cause the most chaos.”

“Those bumps? They do look close together.”

“Very.”

Zip’s grin flashed in the moonlight. “Take us overhead, o Princess of Fang. Keep those clouds as close as a ralti wool cloak.”

“We shall fall upon them as lightning from a storm.”

“Dragon-you does love a dramatic turn of phrase,” Zuziana observed. “Keep those claws sharp and your ears peeled for the sound of catapults and crossbows.”

Oil glugged into the pot. Zuziana struck the spark-stone several times before the flame caught. She settled her helm on her head and gripped her bow in her left hand. Watching over her shoulder, Aranya smiled at how warlike Zip looked. She furled her wings
and plummeted out of the clouds.

Closer and closer came the Sylakian camp, the sprawling staging ground for their impending invasion of Herimor. Aranya wondered why they were gathered here on Tyrodia and not many leagues
to the south, closer to the Rift. Perhaps the Supreme Commander did not want to scatter his forces too widely. The bulky Dragonships lay closely moored in clumps over a tent-city comprising thousands of Sylakian warriors. She looked for Ignathion’s symbol of the rajal, but did not see it. But she saw a Dragonship of the Crimson Hammers, and several others of types she had never seen before, three oblong balloons side-by-side, perhaps for carrying heavy cargo, she thought, and slim, narrow Dragonships that could hardly have carried ten warriors each.

Behind her shoulder, Zip called, “Armed.”

Aranya tilted her wings to catch the wind, bringing them out of the dive and into a whistling swoop at high speed, aimed like a javelin at the first clump of Dragonships. A trumpet sounded the alarm just as Zip released her first shot. The fiery arrow struck the very top of one of the vessels and stuck in a netting rope, burning brightly.

“Quick, another.”

“Oh, mercy, some of these Dragonships are armoured,” Zip cried.

“Shoot, Zip!”

A huge explosion lit the camp all the way to the hills beside Tyrodia Town. A second followed, Dragonships flaring like torches behind them as the first arrow burned its way through to the volatile hydrogen.

Aranya veered sharpl
y as crossbow quarrels, arrows and a spray of catapult-fired shrapnel burst across their path. “They’re firing sharp metal,” she panted, “trying to shred my wings.”

“Try not to get hit,” said Zip, lighting another arrow.

Her next two shots missed as they came under heavy fire. Aranya felt strikes against her belly and beneath her tail. A crossbow quarrel passed so close to Zip that she could have reached out to catch it. They snaked between a brace of Dragonships before Aranya levelled out momentarily. The instant she heard Zuziana’s bowstring twang, she dove sideways again, swerving into a muscle-straining gyration. She realised why the Dragonships were moored in clumps–it left open ground between them, ground that had to be covered by Dragon and Rider, a space which allowed the archers an opportunity to take aim. If this was Ignathion’s doing, she had to admire him for it.

The Remoyan cried out as an arrow smacked the cheek-guard of her helmet.

Aranya rose to avoid a hail of catapult-shot. She grunted as an unseen quarrel pinged off the bone of her shoulder near the base of her right wing. It made an excruciating pain spurt through her wing, momentarily paralysing her. The shock incensed Aranya. A sheet of blood seemed to descend across her eyes. Dragon-Aranya forgot who she was or where she was flying. Flame roared within her, roiling in her belly, so hot and intense and agonising that she had to expel it or she feared she would burn from within. It felt as though lava-bubbles were popping up into her throat. The muscles of her neck worked. Her body jerked spasmodically and her flight became erratic, stuttering and slowing.

Somewhere, someone was shouting, “Aranya! Aranya!”

Her mouth gaped open. A melon-sized fireball rocketed out. The next was larger. The third, larger still, and aimed directly at a clump of Dragonships. Aranya thundered her agony to the skies. Her throat! A Dragon’s fire seared the Tyrodian night.

A swathe of tents burst into flame, right across her path. The Dragonships exploded in a pyre of flames a hundred feet tall, five or six at once, the nearer ones setting off those moored behind them. The
din was deafening, pummelling her sensitive ears. Aranya jerked and roared as she slammed into a catapult, snapping the struts and sending the weapon crashing to the ground.

“Aranya
, stick with me, girl,” Zuziana called urgently. “Aranya, remember who you are.”

Slowly, the red receded. Words–she remembered, now. Her Rider’s words pushed it back. She was Dragon. She was Human. She was a Shapeshifter.

She tried to speak, but could not. She had scorched her throat. She needed water, cool water to flood her throat and take away the pain. Aranya summoned up the healing power. But that drained her. She felt tired, so tired.

“Aranya? What’s
the matter, petal? Speak to me, please. Aranya?”