Shadow Dragon (19 page)

Pensively, Aranya extracted Ardan’s name-chip from the leather pouch. The chip was mottled with age, almost the size of her thumb. Ardan, she read. And Yoaggaral. She mouthed the unfamiliar word–his family name, perhaps? The last of his clan. Flipping the chip over with the dexterity of one who had spent far too much time playing Staves with Zuziana in the Tower of Sylakia, Aranya puzzled over the rune on the reverse side.

Was that his spirit name?

She could not read runic script, but a word slipped into her mind–
Sha’aldior.
Scarcely had Aranya registered the deep magic behind that word, when a fresh insight struck her with the force of a Dragon’s cold, steely talons slicing into her gut. This was why the Sylakians had razed Naphtha Cluster.
He
was why. They knew, somehow, just as Fra’anior had known, about the rise of a Dragon in the Western Isles. A creature of shadow power.

Thoralian’s response had been swift–extermination.

Born deep in the bones of one of her forms, Aranya knew her intuition was right.

Grimly, she strapped the
ur-makka
about her wrist, and secured Ardan’s name-chip inside as best she was able. Kylara could have the man. Aranya would keep his spirit. On second thoughts, she fastened the strap about her ankle. It fit better there, given the thickness of his wrist, and Yolathion would never notice it beneath the long skirts he so patently preferred for women.

Ha! A Dragoness in skirts? It beggared belief. Now, if she wore Western Isles armour like Kylara, Yolathion would fall over in a gasping, red-faced heap!

Turning again to the forward crysglass window, Aranya gazed out over the rolling, billowing Cloudlands, faintly lit by the Jade and Mystic moons, struck afresh by the incongruity of her existence. She bounced slightly on her toes, wishing to feel faraway breezes ruffling her wings as they sailed ever eastward toward Mejia Island. How was it she could be born to this, the life of a Shapeshifter Dragon? How was it that her life had become the nexus of such overwhelming forces? And why, if he claimed to be her ally, was the Black Dragon driving her into madness?

She would neither be a slave to him, nor lust helplessly for another Human or Dragon, no matter if he came disguised in all the beautiful, magical soul-fire in the world.

Or did Fra’anior and his kin seek to break back into Island-World, through her?

Sapphire’s distressed screech perfectly expressed the chill that this thought introduced to her body. Aranya stroked the dragonet’s neck ruff, crooning softly to her in Dragonish,
Hush, little one. He cannot harm us.

If only she could believe that were true.

C
oMMANDER DARRon Knocked
courteously on the door of Ri’arion’s cabin. Zuziana of Remoy lifted her head from her monk’s shoulder. She had been dozing on the bed alongside him, on top of the covers. “Enter.”

The Commander’s grizzled face cracked into a warm, slightly lopsided smile. Zuziana did not know why, but Commander Darron treated her as his own daughter. She suspected that if she divulged that she knew about his sweet-as-sugar-bamboo spot for her, he’d start growling and spitting feathers like a Dragon fighting a windroc.

Zip pushed her tangled brown locks back from her face. “Do I look like a windroc which has been dragged through a bush backward, Commander?” she greeted him.

“Remoy has never enjoyed a finer hour,” he said. “I’m sorry to have left you this long. Lie down, Princess. That’s an order. Medics patched you up? How fares our Nameless Man?”

“Better,” said Zip.

“I’d also fare better were I treated so well–lie still, I said! If your head dares to leave that pillow-roll, I swear …”

Zip’s tan cheeks flushed. But she riposted, “I suppose you’d also fare better if you were cuddled up to a Princess-Dragon.”

“Nay is what I say to that, lady. Don’t you get too big for your Dragonish paws.”

The Remoyan winced. If he indeed treated her as a daughter, should she be displeased that he chose to discipline her for a thoughtless comment? Aye, it smarted.

The Commander added, “I’ve been married these twenty-nine summers, and never been happier. Caught me a sweet Island girl from the northernmost sliver of Immadia’s Kingdom, I did.” Darron wagged his forefinger at her. “Tell me what went wrong today.”

“What’s your wife’s name?”

“Estalia. You know her. She’s the Steersman on this vessel.”

“Oh. Oh! But she’s …”

“Young? Too pretty for an old buzzard like me?” he grinned. Zuziana shook with laughter as their conversation took a dive in an unexpected direction. “I was a late starter. Much too focussed on the military career, you see. Married in my fortieth summer. Now, I’ll have your report before I have to tan that blue hide of yours even bluer. Tell me about the ambush.”

After relating how the Ferial Islanders had filled their cargo holds with coal storks and dropped them on Ri’arion’s head, Zuziana explained how the mind-meld had broken down.

“Pain communicated between you?” said the Commander. “That’s tough. Aye, and what did the medics say?”

“That they’ve put more stitches in him than one of those tapestries you Immadians love,” Zip smiled, but a tear dropped on the pillow-roll beside her head. She placed her hand tenderly on Ri’arion’s still, pallid cheek. “He’ll live to fight again, but not for a few weeks, or … longer. Nothing fatal. As long as there’s no infection, all he’ll have is scars. There might be permanent damage to his left shoulder and bicep.”

“You don’t have Aranya’s healing powers?”

Zip shook her head.

“Right. Need to think about that.” Commander Darron clasped his hands behind his back. “This is a setback for our plans regarding Yorbik.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too. Our strategy with the specialists was imperfect. I should’ve expected a surprise. In battle, it’s the unknowns that kill.” Darron’s hand waved that away. “We took all eleven fingers without too much trouble. Ferial is secure; our troops are swarming over it like ants enjoying the castle kitchens. A few hours ago, I despatched twenty-four captured Dragonships to fetch more soldiers from our allies at Helyon, Gemalka, and more easterly, from Pla’arna and Herliss Clusters–although they are small. Every man will count–and woman, and Dragon–when it comes to laying siege to Yorbik.”

“Consolidating the gains so far?”

“Aye.”

“What about scouting Yorbik Island?”

“Since you offer so politely–get back on that pillow-roll!” he barked. “By the five moons, Dragon lady, can you not keep an order in your head for more than a single minute?”

Ri’arion shifted and moaned in his sleep. Zuziana reached up to smooth his brow, but grimaced as the movement stretched her side. All that thrashing about as their link transmitted his pain to her, had strained the muscles along her right flank. Her scars from Garthion’s torture ached. Ri’arion had noticed that the scales of her Dragon chest and flank were knobbed and rough in places, reflecting the injuries to her Human form. She could hardly believe that had happened less than a year before. How her life–and the entire Island-World–had changed since.

She remembered fainting when she first saw Aranya transform into a Dragoness. How inexplicable that her friend’s decision to steal her from the Tower of Sylakia had led to the Sylakians’ first defeat in over a decade, and now here she was, tucked beneath the covers with a magical monk, who stank of herbal medicines and astringent antiseptic paste.

Life was an enigmatic Island.

Darron’s frown mellowed. “Scouting can wait a day or two. You must rest.”

Zuziana said, “But, who would scout with me? My Rider can’t.”

“We’ll find someone.”

Her Dragon senses detected an almost imperceptible catch in his voice as he spoke. Would he be offended if she missed that signal? “You’re sending in spies, of course?”

The Commander had turned toward the door, but now he paused. “Of course. Don’t think we Immadians can’t match you Remoyans in espionage.”

“Good,” she said. “As you know, we Dragons of Remoy are very fussy about who we allow to ride us.”

“And?”

“Go ask your wife for permission, Commander.”

Just the tiniest smile cracked the corner of his mouth. “Is that an order, Princess?”

“For this Azure Dragon, it is a matter of honour.”

* * * *

Three pairs of eyes, two Human and one Dragon, stared down at the shipyards of Yorbik Island. They had flown in low and fast in the early hours before dawn. Now, a dense wood on the brow of a hill sheltered the threesome from enemy eyes. They needed every scrap of cover available.

Darron thumped Zip’s neck with his fist. “Nice mess you made back there, Dragon.”

“Would you prefer an arrow in the gullet, Commander?” she sniped back.

“You tore his heart out with your talons.”

“Can’t fault me for enthusiasm.”

Estalia, telescope pressed to her left eye, hissed, “Islands’ sakes, husband, stop flirting with the Dragon and take a look at this.”

Zuziana’s eyes ranged over the shipyards of Yorbik Island, which occupied a space between four steep, wooded hills in the precise geographical centre of the Island. Some parts of the sprawling works, subsidiary factories and construction gantries were hidden behind the far slopes, but from their vantage-point they could see enough. More than enough.

Darron grunted, “Tubular catapults?”

“Look behind them,” said his wife.

“Pipes? Am I seeing pipes?”

“By the mountains of Immadia, this is why I’m the engineer and you’re a military man. Those are gas lines leading to gas-powered catapults. I’d stake anything you care to name on it.”

Zuziana ground her fangs together. “I assume you mean the cluster of thirty tubes atop that scaffolding?”

“Aye,” said Estalia. She had a no-nonsense way about her, which jarred with her habitual sweet expression. Beneath a fashionable turquoise headscarf, her eyes were a cool blue that reminded Zip of Immadia’s snow-capped mountains, so different from the jungles of her home. “It’s a rapid-firing catapult machine. Shiny and new. The opposite tower has a similar construction, but by the lines coiled on the platform I surmise grappling hooks, which can be fired to take down Dragonships.”

“To what height?” asked the Commander.

Estalia shrugged. “Gas powered, by meriatite engines? A thousand feet plus. Depends on how good the technology is. Two thousand might be safe.”

Zip squirmed as she imagined a grappling hook slamming into her belly. Fired by one those machines, they could doubtless pierce and reel in an unlucky Dragon, too.

The Commander said, “We don’t have enough troops for a ground assault.”

“Or Dragons who can avoid thirty crossbow bolts at once.” And that was just one of three or four dozen such emplacements scattered throughout the shipyard. Although her tone was light, Zip stiffened beside her companions. “Oh, roaring rajals. We’ve a bigger problem.”

“What?” said Darron, scanning the shipyard with efficient sweeps of the telescope.

At least two dozen Dragonships lay in their bays, in various stages of construction. Zuziana noted three of the huge, armoured Dragonships she and Aranya had tangled with before. They were being fitted with the new catapults and crossbows, smaller than the ground emplacements, but just as deadly. Her Dragon sight allowed her to pick out a dozen tubes per bundle, slightly angled to ensure a spread of quarrels or shot in the air. These Sylakians clearly had no love for Dragons. The aerial forces patrolling the shipyards were no less well-equipped. Zuziana counted three dozen Dragonships aloft, and they had passed silently beneath another dozen at least on their route southward across Yorbik’s enormous hardwood forests.

Thoralian was assembling a mighty fleet once more.

The Commander blurted out a few colourful words, drawing a chuckle from Zip, “Seen him now?”

“Report, Darron,” said his wife, as though she were the commander.

“It’s only the fattest ruddy Red Dragon I have ever seen,” said Darron. “That beast is so obese it can’t possibly fly.”

Estalia, with a wink in Zip’s direction, relieved her husband of the telescope. “Your eyesight’s failing, old man.” But after a moment, her knuckles turned white on the instrument. “You’re right. A hundred feet if he’s an inch, nose to tail, and as fat as an overfull wineskin.”

As one, the two Humans turned to regard their draconic companion.

“I’m not afraid of that flabby red ape,” she protested. “Um, I suppose you don’t get apes on Immadia?”

“We understand,” said Darron.

“But you failed to mention his friends,” Estalia noted, peering again through the telescope.

“What?” Darron and Zip gasped in concert.

“I see three Reds, a Brown, a Green … over there, by the sinkhole. Not one of them is less podgy than that fine specimen of a Red.”

Zuziana’s belly-fires announced their discontent at this statement.

Her gleaming Dragon eyes focussed on the scene below. The girth of those beasts beggared belief. For the first time, she realised that she and Aranya could only be described as slender girl-Dragons–but surely, the size of those Dragons had to be unnatural? Just look, they were forced to lift a Red out of the pit by a towering hawser-and-pulley system. Surely adult Dragons did not reach such an overweight state under ordinary conditions? The Brown’s belly was so grossly distended, he had to drag himself across the ground on stumpy-seeming legs, which had to be thicker in the upper thighs than her entire torso.

So, were the Sylakians secretly breeding Dragons?

Her gaze leaped to the sinkhole, that thousand-foot-wide black pit slap in the middle of the shipyards. What was Thoralian hiding down there, she wondered? New inventions? New ways of killing Dragons? And, clearly, he was assembling a whole new Dragonwing of fully-grown adults to supplement his already mighty forces. How many years had the Supreme Commander been planning this? How many of these beasts might be Shapeshifters, like Garthion, who had tortured her so pitilessly?

“Easy, girl,” said Darron, patting her neck.

Zuziana realised she had whimpered, and hung her head.

“Strength to you,” said Estalia, reaching out to touch the Azure Dragon, too. Her tone suggested she knew something of the Remoyan Princess’ history. “That’s in the past.”

“Garthion burned for his deeds,” said Darron. “We’ll spend the day spying on these overgrown slugs, before taking our intelligence back under the cover of darkness, best we can. The Yellow moon’s waxing tonight, more’s the pity. Look. That one’s flapping his wings as hard as he can, but he can’t move an inch off the ground. They’re–”

“Training,” Zip whispered.

The Commander froze in the act of stroking his beard. “Aye. That they are. How has Thoralian hidden this mystery, I wonder? These are no juveniles.”

“Why are they in such poor condition?” asked Estalia. “That Green has patches that look like fungal growth. You’d never let yourself go like that, would you, petal?”

Now Zuziana understood why Aranya had always bristled at being called ‘petal’. It was such a ridiculously off-the-Island descriptor for a Dragon. On cue, a deep growl issued from her throat.

“I thought not.”

Darron said, “Right, wife, I’ll have my quill and–”

“Wife–in that tone of voice? Who am I, the windroc’s mother?”

“Shall I leave you two alone?” Zip griped, after a brief interlude. “Couples of a certain age should not, well–”

“Should not what, petal?” Estalia interrupted, with a wicked grin. “You go marry your monk, then you can complain all you like.” But she wriggled away beneath the undergrowth, claiming that she was ‘off to bury the Dragon’s kill’.