Aranya Treasury - The Complete Shapeshifter Dragons Series, page 120
The Azure Dragoness briefly eyed the monster as he braked smoothly and swivelled on a wingtip, returning for his quarry. Strange how she could pick out the qualities that marked the male as feral – strangely fixed crimson elements in the eye-orbs, an unblinking stare and the stiff flexion of his talons – but her eyes were drawn more urgently to a Dragonwing arrowing down from the south-eastern quarter, barely a mile above and closing fast. They could not fight twenty-two adult Dragons, beasts closely matched in size and power, each one fully a third larger than Ardan. Only the leader stood out, a bright, belligerent Green.
She broke for the Cloudlands.
Stop the feral one! roared the Green. Halt, strangers.
Halt? Ri’arion scoffed.
Zip said one word, Opportunity …
The monk nodded, understanding at once the flow of her thoughts. Zip-Zip, get us close to the feral Dragon. I’ll try to turn him. Watch that the others don’t cut off our escape.
Close? Too close? The Azure squirmed out of the path of a fireball, plucked a stunning, twisting somersault out of the bag of tricks she did not know she was capable of, and practically landed on the outraged feral Dragon’s back. Whoops.
Aye, touch him! cried Ri’arion.
Gripping the strange Dragon’s spine-spikes briefly with her talons, Zuziana’s hearts jolted as the massive power of the monk’s psychic command surged through her paws and into the Dragon beneath them.
The powerful Fra’aniorian Enchanter bawled, Desist, mighty Dragon, and remember thyself!
The Grey-Green blinked half a dozen times, very rapidly. I … remember.
Declare thy name! demanded the monk.
I am Tux’tarax! he growled, shaking himself from wingtip to tail. I thank thee for thy rescue, strange sojourners. What is thy Name and Line, Dragoness? And which Archipelago canst claim thy fame? Thou art of one mind with this Human?
He is my mate, Zuziana said without thinking.
However, the Dragon only performed an unfamiliar genuflection of his eye-fires. He is almost a Dragon in power. Now, here comes my mate, the peerless Suk’itarix of Ralladoon. Do tarry, that we might share fresh kill together, for the Dragonsong of thy praises shall be my cry.
By which, Zuziana deduced that the incoming Dragonwing might be friendly, and he intended to compliment Ri’arion by comparing him to the Dragonkind. Tux’tarax spoke an exotic dialect of Dragonish, if she understood the context-indicators and shades of his speech correctly; thus, he must also instantly identify her as a foreigner. Would these Dragons side with Thoralian and his ilk? They had not the first notion of Herimor’s political situation. Could they turn the act of succouring a feral Dragon to their advantage?
Ri’arion’s presence enfolded her in strength as the Azure Dragoness sideslipped slightly away from Tux’tarax, a draconic politeness. His orientation bespoke calm. Her Dragon-sight read the indicators with preternatural speed – checking the set of his muscles, the slight smile revealing his fangs, the sheathed talons, the speed of his breathing and the dull rumbling of his belly-fires. This Dragon worked to calm himself from full battle-readiness, and was manifestly delighted to see his mate.
Suk’itarix, the fragrant smoke of my soul, he bugled powerfully, making the Azure’s wings twitch. I am hale once more.
Tux’tarax, mine unshakable right paw, she sang back. Flying at once to her mate, the Green exchanged swift wingtip-touches and a fond nip that clashed against his right shoulder. Mine fires sing an ode of Dragonsong – for roost-less we might be, but none the poorer for each other’s company. Who are these you attacked, mine third heart?
Many fire-eyes turned upon Zuziana and Ri’arion as Tux’tarax said, This noble Dragoness and her Rider succoured me from my feral battle-state, but I know them not. Shall we become acquainted?
Suk’itarix added, The fruit of our hunt is yet unplucked, yet we would share fresh kill with thee, strangers, for my mate’s sake. But first, tell us – who are you for? And how came you to the Northern Kahilate?
Zuziana consulted Ri’arion, but neither of them could deduce from the Dragoness’ manner what an honest reply might gain them – friend or foe?
Finally, Zip said, We seek a Marshal of old called Thoralian. We heard he travelled from the North.
As one, the Dragonwing stiffened. Fires rose to battle-pitch. The Azure back-winged to keep a few Dragon-lengths between her and the encircling Dragonwing.
Wait! cried Tux’tarax, flapping hard to position himself protectively in front of the Remoyan Dragoness. There is no glamour about this fledgling.
The Green snarled, Or, her protections are so perfect, we cannot detect her glamour.
Ri’arion meantime fed Zuziana a highly compressed account of his reading the Dragons. Each mind was protected with ward-like magic he concluded must be the mysterious Herimor ‘glamour’, which he pictured as a shifting multi-layered set of veils like silk blown in a breeze. They had seen her chestnut locks and thereby knew she was no denizen of the Kahilate, for Humans and Shifters had tight black curls. Long hair provoked their minds to taboo-shades, which neither of them understood. Would they trust Zuziana at all? When he penetrated one of the weaker Dragon-minds, but for a millisecond, the monk saw they had been in a battle with a Dragonwing perhaps sent by Thoralian. Good.
Their mental conversation was so rapid, the Grey-Green was still busy interrupting his mate when Zip and Ri’arion reached their conclusion.
Not even a breath of glamour-magic? snarled Tux’tarax.
At the same time, a grizzled female in the Dragonwing snarled, But the Human’s unusual psychic probe has penetrated our thoughts. See? He’s the true danger.
At this, the Azure Dragoness’ belly-fires roiled thunderously. Was she always to be the little one, discounted, unremarked amongst her more illustrious peers? She snapped, The truth? We’ve no love for Thoralian! Oath-bound, we have journeyed from afar to seek his demise. I am Zuziana of Remoy and my companion’s name is Ri’arion.
While many of the Dragonwing raised growls and bugles of approval, the Green eyed them with palpable fury. REMOY?
Remoy, Zuziana repeated. White-fires truth, Dragoness.
I know my histories, even if you do not, little one, the Green snapped, all acid in keeping with her colour.
The Azure lifted her muzzle, riled beyond any possible politeness. Then accuse me of a lie, Suk’itarix. Did you not see my hair? Where in Herimor would you say I hail from, according to your extensive knowledge of the histories?
You crossed the Rift? The Azure ducked as acid spit sprayed out of the Green’s mouth, but Suk’itarix was not apparently aiming at her. Thoralian –
Crossed from the North, three to four weeks ago. We hunt him, said Ri’arion, as bluntly as his Dragoness. If you would like, we will open our memories to you to prove our heritage. I am a native of Fra’anior Cluster, once their Nameless Man. Now I am Zuziana’s Dragon Rider and … roost-mate. Ri’arion reddened as he found no equivalent in Dragonish for ‘husband’. Very recently, we … uh, well. And – he pulled himself back from a clear case of distraction – we defeated Thoralian and his forces in battle, but he escaped South across the Rift.
As he spoke, the Grey-Greens of the Dragonwing exchanged disconcerted exclamations and glances, but Zuziana also observed a certain lack of surprise in their manner. They knew Thoralian. They hated him. But what was this telepathic whispering among these draconic behemoths? Most were four times her size; the older Grey-Green who had detected Ri’arion’s mental probing, she estimated at a perfectly colossal hundred and fifty feet from muzzle to tail. A Lesser Dragon of greater stature, Zip had never seen. Her thighs were comfortably thicker than the entire girth of the Azure’s torso.
The Princess of Remoy said, It is worse than you might think, for we believe –
Worse than the Thoralians reunited? snarled Suk’itarix, spitting more acid.
Ri’arion voiced a startled expletive.
Thoralian – uh, what the plural hells? gasped Zip, fluttering her wings as she inadvertently stalled. Her breath rasped in her throat like Aranya’s poor impaired lungs, but Ri’arion steadied her with a warm mental hug.
Easy, petal, he soothed.
I believe you may have just proven an old legend of Herimor, the elderly Grey-Green stated. Addressing Suk’itarix, she added, Tari, my shell-daughter, the brave Shapeshifter fledgling speaks only white-fires truth. Let us act accordingly.
Haste. We should speak out of sight, hissed the Green, approaching the Azure precipitately. Her eye-orbs flared orange-yellow, indicating alert interest. A Dragonwing of Thoralian’s command hunts the remnants of our wing-brothers and sisters, for we hid our young before the battle. If you bring information, we shall return every favour fire for fire. Allies?
Zuziana regarded the Green’s forward-swept wingtip with a spontaneous burble of delight. Dragon-direct! One thing about the Dragonkind – while they loved subtlety and nuance, when it came to action, they did not wait for rainbows to form over Islands.
Aye, whispered Ri’arion.
The Azure Dragoness touched wingtips with a pert flick. Allies, for the price of a story.
* * * *
Ardan’s new world was perfumed perversity.
He had never imagined himself a prudish man, but what he saw enacted in the halls and bedchambers of Tixi’s harem – a sophisticated brothel – stretched his forbearance beyond any sane or conceivable limit. The consorts, male and female, made him welcome by sneaking in quick kisses when he least expected them, even when he was asleep, to trigger the House wards. Hazing, he could handle. Their antics with each other, he could not. They turned his stomach.
Any and every act of disobedience was penalised by the Curator or her two assistants, with levels of pain he could not believe. The Lavanias collar ensnared him like a noose secured around the font of his life, squeezing, repressing and moulding in ways he loathed. The promised interrogation from Marshal Tixi did not materialise, for she immediately flew off to war once more, but his ‘breaking in’ to harem life was more than enough degradation for a Western Isles warrior. Even his assigned outfit seemed a calculated provocation – how Aranya would have blushed at the sight of him wearing skin-tight, diamond-encrusted burgundy briefs. Or, she would have jilted him faster than the shot of a crossbow quarrel!
The consorts bathed in the cool interior pools four times a day, at dawn, noon, mid-afternoon and evening, which was a blessing given the stultifying heat. The balance of the day was divided between mandatory exercise, eating a strict diet of fruit, vegetables and lean cuts of meat Ardan did not recognise, and indolence. Endless hours of indolence for the consorts to torment him, the relentless heat to drain his energy, and Ardan’s mind to turn over the problem of Aranya over and over until he wanted to scream at his ill fortune. He spent the cooler morning hours in the garden chatting to Sapphire and teaching her Island Standard, such as was spoken in the Western Isles, until the dragonet’s cutesy-baby voice started to take on a blunt, flat accent in keeping with his heritage. They chuckled over this together.
Oddly, if Sapphire touched his collar, there was no effect. She spent hours trying to pick it apart with her talons as he rested out of the afternoon heat, sweating and cursing his inescapable fate. In the evenings he returned to the garden to watch the flotilla of Islands endlessly following its quadrennial course according to a Blue Moon cycle. Essentially the rooftop of Tixi’s fortress, the outside garden stood atop the Isle upon a small but fertile butte, divided from the rest of the Island by a three-foot wall. No more was needed, for the wall demarcated the line where the House wards took effect – thus, a barless cage held him. He could gaze longingly at the ragion-floated Islands and boulders slowly wheeling through the sky and on all sides, and dream of flying away.
The Islands never bumped into each other. The ragions apparently exerted a mass-effect that made this impossible. What if a storm came, he wondered?
On his seventh day in the harem, Ardan woke to find two pre-adolescent boys sharing his bed.
Yelling incoherently, he charged up the circular stairway to the gardens, sprinted for the wall and dived headlong over it.
BLAM!
Ardan woke with an Island-splitting headache, back in his bed. One of the boys adjusted a cool towel on his forehead, the other was patiently stitching a four-inch, bone-deep cut on the warrior’s left elbow with a fine needle and gut thread, his slim fingers working dextrously at the task.
“We didn’t mean to cause no trouble,” said the first boy, changing the cloth on Ardan’s brow. He was short and chunky, with a softness about his frame that Ardan had learned some of the men – perverts, one and all – prized.
“You’re jumpy,” said the other, tightening a stitch.
Ardan scowled at them through the lights playing havoc with his vision. “Get out.”
“I’m Bane,” said the first boy. “Lurax here thinks –”
“Get the hells out of my room!”
“Strike my soul, you’re scary, warrior-Dragon,” said Lurax, blinking his long, curling eyelashes as he made a strange flicking gesture with the fingers of his left hand. With high, slanted cheekbones and wide, soulful eyes, Ardan knew he had been chosen for his looks – the curse of a pretty face. “Blessed be, you’ve a dragonet.”
“Lucky, aren’t I?” said Ardan. His neck hurt as though a Dragon had taken care to rearrange the bones into an artistic sculpture. He could not even raise his head off the hard pallet, which rather left him at the mercy of Bane and Lurax.
Lurax asked shyly, “Are you a Granite Dragon? A Shapeshifter?”
“Not Granite,” said Ardan, wondering what a Granite Dragon was. “My power is Shadow.”
Bane chipped in, “You’re not like the other men. You treat us nice.”
“Like we matter,” the other boy whispered.
Suddenly, Lurax’s beautiful eyes brimmed with moisture and Ardan’s heart channelled molten fury. Curse it! He should have kicked them out faster. He felt the collar reacting, cooling against his skin as the magic responded to the core of fire within him. Somehow, the circlet’s magic sensed his Dragon’s subdued presence. Mercy! The Lavanias collar did not break a Shapeshifter’s soul – it only changed his ability to manifest or to use his magic. It could be resisted! Hope! Sweet hope pitched its tent within his heart.
Ardan squeezed his eyes shut, but felt tears leaking out anyways.
Prick, prick went the needle. Thud, thud, beat his heart. He groaned, “Alright. What the hells do you kids want?”
“Not what you think,” Bane stated.
Bane was always very definite with his opinions. He growled, “Oh? What should I think, finding you two in my bed?”
“We seen you walking these halls like you want to be blindfolded,” Bane said doggedly. “They say you’re a Dragon and a warrior; you’re restless, like a wild bird, caged. What’s it like being a warrior? You strong. They’ve hazed you like nothing else and you never react, never beat up the women, never talk less than polite-like to the Curator.” He shivered. “You don’t use us kids. We seen your eyes, warrior-man. Lurax’s right. You’re scary.”
“Good-scary,” said Lurax, bending his dark head over the task once more. He was almost as dark as Ardan himself … he jumped as the needle pierced his skin once more. “We’re sorry you gone feral like a Dragon on our account.”
“I need my personal space,” Ardan growled.
“Space? You call this your space?” asked Bane, suddenly transformed into the wisest nine year-old who had ever lived. “You ever belonged to another, bone and blood, warrior-man?”
“Aye. Twice, if you count this period of slavery; thrice, including love,” Ardan replied gruffly. What business was it of theirs? They were only boys – harem boys. Who was he to judge? Easing up on the tetchiness, he said, “Tell me what you want, please. Be honest.”
“We’ll keep off your pallet and you’ll keep off ours,” Bane said. “You teach us how to be warriors. Real warriors.”
Ardan hated having his mind read so accurately, but he had to admit his behaviour had been more than revealing. He must be smarter, not angrier. Did he smell opportunity? “Very well,” he said. “I’ll need you to go into battle for me, though.”
“Battle?” they chorused.
“Aye. Help me petition the Curator to grant me access to the library –”
“After today?” Bane snorted. “You mad, warrior-man?”
“Aye.” He grinned fiercely at the boys. “A warrior never gives up. I need knowledge. A wise warrior never stops training, and he uses his brain – unlike what I showed you today. If you’re willing to give your all, I’ll train you as best I know how. We might not have weapons, but we can make use of what we find here in the harem. Deal?”
The boys glanced at each other. To Ardan’s surprise, it was shy Lurax who replied, “Only if you promise us something else, warrior-man.”
“What?”
“Promise us that when you escape, you’ll take us with you.”
Ardan gave them his fiercest, most searching gaze, “You sure? Out there, there are worse dangers than the Curator.”
A voice from the doorway said, “Aye, so there are. Marshal Tixi is back. She wants to see you, Dragon.” The Curator laughed horribly. “I’m sure she’ll be pleased to hear you’ve been playing with the boys. Up, nameless man. This is the Marshal’s hour.”
Talons of ice sank into his neck.
* * * *
Barely had Zuziana touched wingtips with the Green Dragoness, when Ri’arion hissed, Dragons incoming! Can’t see them, but I sense –
You sense glamour? snapped Tari the Green.
There! Dragon fire! cried several of the Dragonwing. Our younglings!
With me! Tari bellowed.
In a mad scramble, the Dragonwing accelerated away. Zip belatedly trailed them. With the benefit of Ri’arion’s special perception, she saw cohorts of Dragons hunting among the floating Islands. Forty Dragons broke through a mile-wide series of waterfalls to the North. Another Dragonwing came in high, also forty beasts strong. Still more Dragons, upward of a hundred, the monk estimated rapidly, approached in a wide, sweeping arc from the East. Each Dragonwing had a Red leader. Not good. They were outnumbered six to one. Perhaps more.
