Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) (45 page)

Fire could not burn a Dragon. Perhaps it could have roasted
Garthion, given time. But his wings looked like sticks. The Red Dragon Shapeshifter had several seconds in which to flap his wing bones and dangling flight struts, which were all that remained of his hundred-foot wingspan after the detonation of an entire Dragonship’s worth of hydrogen right beneath his paws. Twisting in the air, he plummeted like an oversized boulder from the sky onto Izariela’s Tower. The tip of the flagpole speared cleanly though his throat and out through the top of his head.

The Red Dragon shuddered once, and slumped against the stone.

The beating of his three hearts stilled. Garthion’s lifeless weight uprooted the flagpole and avalanched down into the courtyard, over where Zip lay.

Aranya bugled her victory until the skies of Immadia Island rang.

W
ith Garthion’s fall
and the destruction of his flagship, the Dragonships of his fleet began to scatter. Flags and signals flew. Engines slammed into reverse. Turbines whined at their top speed. The half-dozen remaining Immadian Dragonships shadowed them to the edge of the city, until it was clear that the retreat was in full spate. The Sylakian Hammers left on the ground laid down their war hammers and surrendered. Immadian and Jeradian warriors lowered their weapons and gazed about, dazed, hardly able to believe that the battle was over. Acrid smoke drifted over the city.

A
Dragon landed in the castle courtyard.

Dragon-Aranya groaned as her landing jarred the quarrels stuck in her flank and belly. One of her ribs felt brok
en. She limped over to where Garthion lay, awed at his bulk.

He was dead.
The flagpole had skewered his brain.

But three hearts beat beneath him–no, four. Ar
anya let out a heartfelt sigh of relief.

“Zip, oh Zip!” she pawed at
the Dragon. She tried to shove her shoulder beneath that limp mass, but she might as well have tried to move a mountain. “Help! Dad, someone, help me.”

Commander Darron was the first
person to her side. “Immadians! Lend a shoulder here. You Jeradians, help us.”

With a flurry of barked orders, he
rounded up a hundred men or more. Yolathion brought his Jeradian soldiers at a run. Even King Beran fell to the task. Together with Aranya, they shouted and heaved and strained until they managed to roll the Red Dragon onto his side, revealing a rather flattened but still breathing Azure Dragon. Zuziana blinked. Her paws twitched.

“Zip?”
Zip-Zap? Wake up.

“Ouch. Only being alive could hurt this much.”

Sweet relief made Aranya chuckle. “You’re fine, you just want sympathy. Where’s Ri’arion?” She nosed at Zuziana’s paws. “Let him out.”

“I have him safe next to my heart,” smiled the
Azure Dragon, unclenching her grip. There was Ri’arion, looking battered, but his chest rose and fell steadily. “Oh, Aranya, my left wing kills–can you check it? I did it, Aranya. My very first landing.”

“Brilliant,” snorted Aranya. “
Thank that building you destroyed. You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.”

But she rubbed necks with her friend. Zuziana made a sound like a low purr.

King Beran marched up to his Dragon daughter and slapped her on the flank. “A decent morning’s work, Sparky.”

“Decent?” Yolathion scowled. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Down, rajal,” said Aranya, grinning at him. His warriors flinched, but the tall Jeradian did not move or change his scowl. “This would be an introduction to the art of Immadian understatement. Tell him what you meant, Dad.”

King Beran looked from Aranya to Yolathion with a grin that spoke volumes.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. “Yolathion,” he said, pretending to hurt his neck as he looked up at the giant warrior, “for a puny wisp of a Jeradian, you sure managed to put your hammer in the right place a couple of times this morning. Now, my boy, let an old cliff fox teach you about Immadian culture.”

A slow grin replaced the scowl. “Aye, King Beran,” he rumbled, “I see now why my father wrapped you in ralti wool
and fought you blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back.”

Beran clapped him on the shoulder. “He gets it, Aranya.”

Dragon-Aranya nosed between her father and Yolathion. “If you don’t mind, Dad, I’ll take it from here.”

“Gone are the days I put you over my knee, eh, daughter?”

“You can practice on Yolathion.”

Darron scratched his grizzled head. “Sire, what about these Sylakians? And the city?”

“Many will not be Sylakian,” Yolathion put in.

Beran nodded. “I know the Sylakian ways.
Commander Darron, would you take charge of the city clean-up? Appoint as many marshals as you can find. Round up any stray soldiers who wish to surrender and bring them to this courtyard. I’ll address them as soon as I can. Give them water. Get our engineers working; get the fires put out and the rubble cleared. Release the women and children as soon as the city is safe. Organise shelters for the homeless and food distribution from the royal kitchens. Yolathion, round up our Dragonships. We need to scout the Island to make sure there are no bands of Sylakian Hammers still causing mischief out there.”

“With respect, Sire,” said Yolathion, “a Dragon could
cover the entire Island in the time it would take you or I to walk to the gates.”

“Aye, pup, but that beast has more holes in her hide than I care to count.”

To her intense annoyance, Yolathion put his big hand on Aranya’s muzzle to quiet her hot response. She seethed as Yolathion said, “But this is a Princess of Immadia you’re talking about, you old fox, not some vain, useless creature who serves only to prettify a realm. Take it from me. I fought against this Dragon and her Rider and lost, even with the reserves of the entire southern Dragonship fleet at my command.”

“He tried very hard to kill Aranya and I, is what he’s saying,” Zip put in.
“Sylakian Hammers, crossbow quarrels, the whole ralti sheep.”

“Oh?” King Beran’s brow lowered. “Oh, is it?”

“Dad! Stop it. Please …”

“Why don’t you
whisk the overgrown Jeradian mountain up there, daughter,” suggested her father, pointing at one rather lonely cloud in the sky, “and dangle him by his toes from ten thousand feet, and see if he repents of how he treated you?”

“
Dad!
” Aranya’s breath smoked out of her nostrils. “You’re so embarrassing. Yolathion, don’t listen to him.”

Yolathion’s throat bobbed as he looked up at the sky. “
I think I’d rather prefer my boots on the ground.” But before the disappointment could seep into Aranya’s bones, he added, “For today, at least.”

Zuziana, with a sympathetic glance at Aranya, interrupted
them. “Let’s get a physician to see to these crossbow quarrels in her side and belly, first. Yolathion–why don’t you use those Dragonships to quarter the city for stray Sylakians? Ri’arion and I will try to get Aranya back on the wing.”

“Good,” said Beran. “Darron,
summon those Sylakian troops milling in the gateway. I’ll speak to them first.”

Ri’arion said, “So, Garthion was a
Dragon Shapeshifter. Who would have thought? No wonder you feared him, Zuziana, for so great an evil is not easily hidden.”

“
All along while the Sylakians were killing off the Shapeshifters, they were only concealing their own secrets,” said Aranya, shivering. “Why didn’t he transform before? With his size and power, he could have destroyed us all. Why cower in hiding? What happened, Ri’arion, to make him transform at the end? And–this means his father’s a Shapeshifter, too.”

“Or whoever his mother was,” said Ri’arion, examining the quarrel jutting out of her flank. “We need to cut this one loose, Aranya. But it isn’t difficult. The one in the belly, however–that one’s
in deep. And your wing’s a mess.”

The physician had never operated on a Dragon. The poor man trembled and shook in the presence of two Dragons, but Aranya and Zip greeted him cordially.
Aranya thought she should remember his name, but it would not come to her immediately. When he learned that Zip could transform back into Human form, he quickly suggested she do just that so that he could align and splint an arm rather than a wing. Ri’arion disappeared to find Zip’s clothing while the physician poked at the quarrel stuck in Aranya’s side.

“Caught
between the ribs,” he said. “I’ll need to cut a bit to extract the flanges.”

“I’ve healing power. Do it.”

Although he seemed taken aback, the physician pulled out his knives, before clearly having second thoughts about the size of his patient and switching instead to his Immadian forked dagger.

Aranya watched her father gathering the Sylakian soldiers
to address them. He balanced on a chunk of rubble, which put him at the same level as a band of dour-faced Jeradians behind him. Whatever did they feed those Jeradian men? Bamboo shoots? Rajal meat? Yolathion was the tallest of the lot. Trust her to pick a man who was clearly ambivalent about any future involving the Princess of Immadia. Ri’arion and Zuziana had it so easy in comparison. Love–simple for Remoy, discouraging for Immadia.

King Beran’s voice carried clearly over the courtyard. “Soldiers of Sylakia,
I am King Beran of Immadia. I know that you served the Supreme Commander and carried out his orders to attack and destroy my kingdom. I also know that most of you are not Sylakian. You have surrendered. If you return to Sylakia you will be tried for treason and executed. That is the Sylakian way. But Immadia’s way is different. Listen closely. I offer seven years of service to the crown of Immadia for no pay. You will be fed and clothed and have a roof over your head. You will labour in public works, as do all who serve in my army. But if you commit any crime under Immadian law, however small, the punishment will be death.”

The men watched him, stony-faced. “I know most of you will not have families. But those in positions of command often do, because the way of Sylakia is to ensure loyalty by threatening your families. I offer to bring your loved ones here, under the Immadian flag, at my expense.”

This caused an incredulous murmuring.

“At the end of those seven years, if you have served well, I offer you freedom to go to the Island of your choice. I hope that you may choose life here on Immadia Island.
Many are the families who have lost fathers and brothers and sons this day. To tell you the truth, we need each and every one of you. I would be grateful for every man’s help in rebuilding this city and this Island. But if you choose otherwise, it will not be held against you. You who hear me, hear the sworn word of the King of Immadia.”

His gaze travelled
over them all. There was power in him, Aranya realised. He held these men in the palm of his hand, with simple words spoken from his heart. “This is my offer. You may of course refuse–in which case, I offer you free transport to the nearest remaining Sylakian outpost.” Grim laughter accompanied these words. “If you take an oath of service and spurn it, I will send a Dragon after you.”

More laughter, and nervous looks at the Dragons.

“Those who know me and have fought against me–you veterans, I see you here today–know how Immadia evaded and taunted the Sylakian windroc for twelve summers. Now, Immadia is grown more powerful than ever. Choose wisely.”

Aranya hissed as the physician drew the
quarrel out of her side. “Clean wound,” he muttered. “How do you close a hole like this, Dragon?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I can try to stop the bleeding. Clean it with whatever you
use to stop infections, Shirmar–”

“You remember my name?”

“I do. You’ve treated the royal family for as long as I can remember.”

“Well.” He dusted something into her wound. “Blood’s clotting already. Magic?”

Aranya nodded.

“Lady, this one in the belly’s going to hurt. Can you lie
down on your side? Hmm. I’ll check the knee after that. And about fifty other cuts on your belly.”

As the physician fussed over her, t
he soldiers of Sylakia began to come forward one by one to take the King’s oath. A scribe noted down their names, ranks and Islands of origin, in a thick ledger. They signed or made their mark beside their name. A small number refused the oath. Commander Darron had them taken to the dungeons under guard. One man tried to strike her father. Aranya blinked at the speed of his reaction–clearly, King Beran had been expecting as much. He sidestepped and punched the man crisply on the point of his jaw.

Ri’arion, having returned with clothes for Zip, glanced briefly at the man lying in the dirt. “King didn’t like his oath? Here. Hide behind Garthion and for the Islands’ sake, try not to jar your arm.”

“Don’t look,” said Zip.

The monk pretended to take offence. “Well, I’m not about to leer at those Sylakian troops, am I? I’ll have to help you dress, Remoy.”
Ignoring Zuziana pointedly as she transformed, he added, “I know my curse didn’t change him into a Dragon, Aranya. But I don’t understand how he hid it. You and Nak taught me that a Dragon form must be fed. Could he hibernate? Could his Dragon somehow have been so suppressed within him that this was the very first time he transformed? Yet I did not sense it was so.”

Aranya nodded. Her intuition said the same. She would dearly have loved to discuss the mystery of Garthion’s existence with Nak and Oyda. But she knew they had to secure Immadia first, put out the fires and ensure the Sylakian forces were not regrouping somewhere off shore.

“Under-shift, please,” said Zip.

“What’s an under-shift, o peerless Remoy?”

“Shall I slap you both now and later?” Zuziana grinned behind his back. “The
very
thin one.”

“See-through?” asked Ri’arion, reddening.