Shadow Dragon (20 page)

The Azure Dragon flexed her talons. Grr.

“Right, to work, Dragon,” said Commander Darron. “You sing out the numbers; I’ll scribe. I want a detailed map of this place before sundown, right down to the number of fangs in those Dragons’ mouths. You don’t think we can peek inside that hole, do you?”

“Not likely,” said Zip.

“But it’s intriguing, isn’t it?”

“As only a hole in the ground guarded by half of Sylakia could be.”

Perhaps Ri’arion’s magic could have seen within. Perhaps it would only have alerted the Dragons lazing in the suns-shine down there. Darron’s quill pen scratched across the scroll, sounding startlingly loud in the silent forest. A forest in which every animal smelled a Dragon, and would not dare to stir until she departed.

Zip peeked over the Commander’s shoulder. “Right. Time to correct all your mistakes, old man.”

He jabbed at her muzzle with his quill. “Shut the trap, you insolent, overgrown reptile.”

They worked steadily, filling in detail after detail.

An hour later, he said, “My guess is that Thoralian’s a thousand leagues away.”

“How do you know that?” asked Zip, losing count of the number of grappling hook emplacements. She hissed in annoyance.

“The fortifications,” said the Commander. “Dragons, Dragonships, new technology … we can’t attack here. He knows it. Thoralian will be elsewhere. Plotting.”

“Aranya could flatten this place and serve up those overgrown wild pigs for dessert afterward,” Zip declared, stout in defence of her best friend.

Darron raised an eyebrow. “Bravely said, Princess. But you see what I see, don’t you? The air’s secure. The ground’s secure. The only way Immadia could raid this shipyard is if we burrowed beneath the Island, like the mythical Land Dragons of old.”

“Which are not nearly as mythical as you think, Commander.”

“I wish your Nameless Man could be here to see this,” said Darron, ignoring the smoke wafting from her nostrils. “What’s that wife of mine doing back there?”

“Rajal prints,” said Zip.

“Ah, disguising your lizard-mess?”

Zuziana showed him her right foreclaw. “Shall I draw a map on your back with this?”

But they both knew their jokes were only a disguise of a different kind. Immadia could no more attack this place than they could know what mysterious world hid beneath the Cloudlands, or what lay beyond the legendary mountain-wall that surrounded their Island-World, twenty-five leagues tall. Perhaps with the help of Aranya’s storm powers, Zip thought, an attack on the shipyards might be possible, or if they could attack before those Dragons exercised themselves into shape, which might take weeks. But Aranya was also weeks away, hopefully engaged in a conquest of Jeradia Island.

Zip’s sigh flattened the grass in front of her muzzle. If only her friend would send word. What if Aranya encountered this new technology without being pre-warned?

Evidently, Supreme Commander Thoralian intended to reintroduce Dragons to their Island-World–his Dragons. Given enough Dragons he’d have an unstoppable force, especially since the Dragons of old had conveniently disappeared. There was no balance. No counter-force to give him pause. Did that mean he had been keeping Dragons captive? Or were these all members of his family? Clearly, Thoralian had the Islands in the grip of his hand … or paw. When these Dragons were ready for war, he would smash the Immadian forces in a single stroke.

Suddenly, she shifted her head. “Commander, to have a hope of taking this place, we need Aranya. Ri’arion needs Aranya. The place to join Beran’s forces is at Fra’anior Island.”

“But we need to secure the northerly route to Immadia,” said Darron.

Zip curled her lip into a smile.

“Oh, very sneaky, Remoy. Aye, that could work. If our intelligence pinpoints Thoralian’s location, we’d know what he’s up to. You could rush over to Fra’anior and brief King Beran about what we’ve seen here, because he needs to know about these Dragons and the new weapons. Take Ri’arion. Get Aranya to heal him–but how would we do it? Can’t go in a Dragonship equipped for war.”

“A small force sneaks westward around The Spits, just as we planned,” said Zip. “We take the long passage to Remia, skipping Jendor and Horness. Swiftly on to Noxia, then Rolodia, and then Fra’anior lies within striking distance.”

Darron snapped his fingers. “Those long-distance trader Dragonships we captured at Helyon. I knew I’d find a use for them.”

“Exactly.”

“Disguise for an Azure Dragon, plus excellent range and speed,” he said, nodding with increasing enthusiasm. “Meantime, I’ll order my spies and specialists to sabotage these works. A few well-placed attacks will create havoc. We fortify the northern route at Ferial and Helyon, building up our forces, not wasting them in a major but futile attack here. We put Yorbik Island to siege.”

Dragon-Zip’s chuckle was full of ominous rumblings.

But Darron’s eyes rose to the horizon. “First War-Hammer Ignathion will attack at Jeradia Island, because every man is a crazed rajal in defence of his homeland. I hope Beran is prepared for the battle of his life.”

A
Ranya Placed A
tray before Yolathion. “Brought you a treat.
Surg-gogi.
”

“It isn’t every evening my dinner arrives so beautifully dressed,” he said, easing his splinted leg. “Islands’ sakes, I can’t wait to be rid of this thing.”

She smiled, “One more week.”

“Aye, thou art beautiful, Immadia,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But why you are wearing neither Immadian purple, nor amethyst to match your eyes?”

“Flying right off to a new Island,” she said, trying not to wilt at his tone. He hated the dress, evidently. “White for the Immadian snows.”

With a twirl that wafted her expensive dorlis-flower perfume in his direction, Aranya, every inch the Princess, slipped into the chair opposite him.

“Although, I’d love to see you in a traditional Jeradian dress,” he mused. “You have the height.”

Aranya masked her irritation by adjusting the position of the dishes. Dragon-Aranya thought the meal smelled delicious. Her Human part was not nearly as certain. Meat, certainly. But not any type of meat she had ever eaten. It smelled … sharp. Gamey. Probably richly spiced, in the way of most Jeradian dishes Yolathion had introduced her to.

Right. Tonight was about reviving their relationship. She would not let his obsession with all things Jeradian ruin their evening. She was finished with that meddling Ancient Dragon. She harboured no more desire for Ardan. This Dragoness would fly to her own stars above the Island-World; nobody else would choose them for her. But Aranya had to quash a mindfulness of inner storms, embodied by the thunder rumbling behind their Dragonship as it sped on a direct course for Jos, the capital city of Jeradia Island. Deny the magic, she ordered herself. Bite down on the weeping rains, the swelling thunderheads of guilt, and the pregnant hailstorms of betrayal.

She said, “What’s this dish, Yolathion?”

“First, you must taste it,” he said. “The meat goes with these peppered flatbreads. You slice the bread open with your knife–like so–and then spoon in a few curried string-beans. Take it easy on the miniature sweet chilli-pods, they’ll set your mouth afire. Now, a healthy helping of the main attraction–here. Take a bite.”

Aranya almost gagged on her mouthful. The meat was foul. She had to think Dragon-thoughts just to force it past the knot in her throat.

“Good?”

“Distinctive,” she mumbled. Her tongue smarted as she discovered one of the chillies. She gasped, “Oh–water, please. You rotten fiend!”

“A pinch of colour to those pale cheeks,” Yolathion teased.

“While I’m dying over here!”

“See, we Jeradians know about breathing fire,” he claimed, but Aranya’s coughing and teary eyes brought him gallantly out of his seat to help. Patting her back was pointless, but the kisses which followed improved the situation dramatically.

Aranya swatted away an opinion that Ardan’s kisses had been far more enflaming. She had returned his
ur-makka
before she destroyed it in one of her transformations. How did he do it? The wristlet vanished when he assumed his Dragon form, only to reappear when he turned Human again. That would be a trick. She could keep her clothes on, for a start, which would reduce the opportunity for embarrassment. She felt Ardan’s eyes upon her even when he thought she was not aware. Did he not realise that Kylara must notice? Women were shrewd about these things, and the Warlord of Ur-Yagga was no fool.

“So,” said Yolathion, returned to his seat and shovelling the
surg-gogi
meat dish into his mouth with great zest, “who will ride the Dragoness into battle tomorrow?”

“Not Ardan, in case you’re wondering.”

“No, not him.”

Aranya could gladly have bitten her own tail for mentioning Ardan. “After all, you’re my Rider,” she added belatedly. Lame, Immadia. “Two of Kylara’s archers have volunteered. We’ll be fighting your father, Yoli. You saw the intelligence. How do you feel about that?”

“My duty is to stand with King Beran.”

Clearly, a taboo subject. Drawing on her years of courtly training, Aranya smiled at him over the rim of her water goblet. “So, what is that meat? Rajal brains?”

“Excellent guess. You’re right.”

“You’re joking.”

Yolathion’s jaw tightened. “I said, you’re right. Brains and heart. There’s an old Jeradian tradition which says that to eat the heart and brain of a rajal is to become as wise and courageous as the great predator itself.”

She slugged down her mouthful with the aid of a swig of water. “I hope people don’t think that of Dragons.”

“Only those who can slay a man’s heart with their beauty,” he said, saluting her with his glass, and then he spoiled an interlude in which Aranya’s heart was sighing over his handsome smile, by adding, “of course, we Jeradians excelled at hunting Dragons–feral ones, or Dragons which chose the paths of evil, raiding our towns and villages. Jeradian warriors used to be hired by our neighbouring Islands in the great Dragon hunts of old.”

Testily, she replied, “But Jeradia had a school for Dragon Riders, didn’t it?”

“Oh, that old fable?”

“Garg–a Jeradian man I met in the Western Isles, told me–”

“Come on, Aranya. You shouldn’t believe every legend floating around the Islands.” He essayed an engaging grin, which she slapped. Hard.

Yolathion touched his flaming cheek, shocked.

Aranya glared at her hand as though it had found a mind of its own. “I’m so sorry, Yoli … I don’t know what came over me.”

“Evidently not!”

She deserved his cold anger. She deserved worse, after what she had done to transform their relationship into a storm-wrecked Island. Was her guilt corroding their relationship from within? Aranya bit her lip, despising the desperate note in her voice as she apologised several more times. Treacherous, wild laughter threatened to overcome her at the expression on his face. She had to fake a coughing fit. Aranya sipped her water, feeling overheated and rather less repentant than she surely should.

“Carry on, Yolathion.”

“The Dragon-Rider Academy was meant to have been built inside an enormous volcano in the north-west corner of Jeradia Island,” he said. “We have many volcanoes, but none which match that particular description. If you check the records, the alleged location is completely absent. Just a sheer drop into the Cloudlands. Trust me, our Jeradian scholars have looked into it–exhaustively. It’s just a rumour that surfaces every few summers around Jeradia, spread by a group of crazies who call themselves the Order of Onyx.”

“Onyx?” echoed Aranya, wondering why that word shivered the Islands of her memory. Why was
onyx
important?

“Aye, they think they’re keeping the old traditions of the Dragon Riders alive. It’s nonsense. Dragon Riders with no Dragons? A cartload of ralti sheep droppings, if you ask me.”

Aranya nodded, her politeness reduced in her mind to a taut, overstretched string. Too many stressors, Beran had said. She should rest more. But it seemed that she closed her eyelids only to find Fra’anior inscribed on the backs of them, and when she woke, it was to the knowledge of the storm steadily circumscribing her world, a hammer poised to fall.

When he did not offer any more information, she said, “Thank you for making that clear, Yoli. Now, another helping of
surg-gogi?
”

But she puzzled over his words. Order of Onyx? Where had she heard that before? Had Nak or Oyda mentioned it? By the mountains of Immadia, she knew two real Dragon Riders who were both alive and well, although very old. Was it likely that such an order existed? Might they know some Shapeshifter lore which could lead to a cure for her mother?

Unbidden, a seed of hope lodged in her breast.

* * * *

As a glorious twin-suns dawn blushed over the jagged profile of Jeradia Island, Aranya stood on her tiptoes to kiss Yolathion’s cheek. Mercy, she might have surpassed her tall father, who looked on, but Yolathion practically kept a private patch of clouds to himself.

“Go burn the heavens, Dragon,” he murmured.

Aranya made to leave the navigation cabin of her father’s flagship, but whirled in the doorway. “I’ll try to keep your father alive, Yolathion.”

“Jeradia’s greater than any man,” he said, stiffly. “Win the battle, Aranya. That’s your task.”

Cold, unfeeling … he couldn’t mean that, surely?

But his chin lifted, and beneath the dark flip of his hair, his eyes smouldered at her searching gaze. “If you expect any quarter from Ignathion, Aranya, then you don’t know the man.”

“He was kind to me, once.”

“You saved his life from a windroc so that my father could continue to extend the hegemony of Sylakia across the Island-World, Aranya–that’s all you achieved. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Furious tears sprang to her eyes. “What? Yolathion–”

“He’s the Supreme Commander’s lackey, his foremost bootlicker!” Yolathion shouted, shocking her. “I did the honourable thing, but my father has tossed his honour into the Cloudlands. I’m
ashamed
to be called Ignathion’s son.”

Standing beside her boyfriend, King Beran’s brow darkened. Aranya knew what he was thinking. Even as his sworn enemy, Beran held Ignathion in greater esteem than his son. The King noted, wisely, “If Ignathion falls, then that is the path of destiny, Aranya. But I, for one, would prefer to accept my old enemy’s surrender in person. It is only fitting.”

A brittle silence enveloped the room.

Aranya turned away. Oh, Yolathion! Poor, tortured Yolathion. The decision he had made to betray his service to Sylakia and join the Immadian rebellion still weighed heavily upon him. Duty and honour were the unbreakable chains binding his soul. Sometimes, she just wanted to grab his shoulders and shout, ‘Forget the past!’

Wrathful, filled to bursting with fire after her clash with Yolathion, Aranya tore off her headscarf as she marched down the corridor to the Dragonship’s stern. She threw that, and her cloak, at a startled Immadian soldier, but felt ashamed at her response.

Clad in just a thin shift, Aranya clambered the ladder to the platform above the hydrogen sack, where her two assigned Western Isles warriors awaited her–Cherya and Ezziya, sisters from Kylara’s command, who had trained with her several times. Aranya would not have wanted to wrestle the muscular sisters in her Human form. She imagined they would have been far happier to take on Sylakian Hammers in a fistfight, than fight Dragonback.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Aye,” they chorused.

“Stand back.” Shucking her garment, Aranya transformed. “Saddle? Extra quivers of arrows, oil pots?” The warriors fell to with a will. No Dragon fear for them. A saddle strap tightened around her chest. “Tighter,” she said. “Double-check your buckles when you’re in.”

Four hundred feet off her starboard flank, a Dragonship groaned beneath the sudden onset of Ardan’s bulk. Aranya felt a wave of magic prickle her scales. Her gaze turned from the neat ranks of Beran’s thirty-one-strong Dragonship fleet to the equally neat ranks of Ignathion’s fleet, easily triple that number, idling a quarter-league or so south of Jos city. This picture struck her as too pastoral. What were they missing? Not that her Dad ever missed the tactical equivalent of a gnat. But Ignathion was not known to be blunt or straightforward in his planning.

Aranya called to the Steersman, standing alertly nearby, “Alert King Beran that it’s too quiet. I don’t like it.”

“Aye, lady Dragon.”

“We’re in,” said Cherya.

“Let’s go take down that fleet,” said Aranya.

Her leap rocked the Dragonship. Almost simultaneously, Ardan flapped ponderously off his perch–eschewing a leap, she realised, lest he send his Dragonship spiralling into the Cloudlands. Enviously, she took in the sweep of his wings. Ha. She could fly rings around anything that moved; he would probably not bother, and just bore straight through his enemies. She almost pitied the warriors of Ignathion’s force. They must be wetting their trousers at the prospect of battling two Dragons.

Ardan angled his flight until his wingtip was just a few feet from touching Aranya’s.

Looking feisty but fabulous, Aranya,
he greeted her.

Feisty? With good reason.
And, before she could think better of it, she told him what had just passed between her and Yolathion.

The shadowy Dragon’s dark orbs glittered with understanding.
You want to take Ignathion alive? I’ll work with that.

And, Ardan–be careful.

His colossal jaw opened in a Dragon’s smile–all fangs and menace.
Why? They’re Dragonships.

I’ve a Dragon sense, Ardan. Ignathion’s up to something.

You’re probably just anticipating the smell of burning Sylakian beards,
he said.
I’ll keep a Dragon’s watch on the horizon, Aranya. You do the same.

I’ll watch your backside–your back, sorry. Your back.

Ardan said, very drolly,
My rump does rival an Island’s majesty. I appreciate the thought, Aranya.