Aranya Treasury - The Complete Shapeshifter Dragons Series, page 132
“She was like this in the arena,” he carped, finding not so much as a sackweight’s-worth of sympathy among the Dragonesses. “Disrespectful. A Dragon has his dignity, you know.”
Humansoul said, Can I come out and play, too?
Don’t you start, snarled Aranya. I’ve had quite enough – oh. You’ve magic?
Practically spitting out of me following that storm.
Alright, I have kind of starved … us, admitted the Dragoness. I’m sorry, petal. I’ve not been a very good friend to the best part of us.
Glad you noticed, her Human said insolently. But I say differently, my fire-blossom-heart.
Aranya’s third heart turned into heated mush at the recognition of her second-soul’s warm love. Then, she turned full circle, ensuring every Dragon present apprehend the measure of her barely-withheld wrath. “I will transform. Can we withhold any comments, snarky or otherwise? The scarring appears worse in my Human form …”
The Island-World seemed to shrink away as a tiny Human folded into the place where her Dragoness had stood. The Princess of Immadia stretched her arms and wriggled her aching shoulders, grateful for once that there were no leering eyes about, only forty murmuring Dragonesses and one exceedingly grumpy male Dragon. Allowing her hair to slide forward to conceal her face, Aranya willed herself not to glance about, for the horror she apprehended was enough. They would see oozing lesions, several newly split open during her battle with Tahootax. Scars clumped in tight, purple knobbles or indentations, twisting her skin peculiarly over her too-lean frame. Open craters adorned her left cheekbone, right hip, outer left calf muscle and exposed the tendons atop her right foot. The skin there looked diseased. Had she picked up an infection to boot? Great.
Surely, her Shapeshifter Human should display an open belly-wound? There was none. Only a fine white line crossing her abdominals toward her lower ribs belied Tahootax’s ruthless strike. What? Too much to consider; white-fires flared in her mind as Aranya tried to pinpoint – a divergence between her other-manifestations? Fear sparked in her mind. This must be what Fra’anior sought to warn her about. Carrying around so much Storm was undoubtedly tearing her apart.
What triggered the Storm? It must be mighty magic indeed, yet not a conscious act of will. Just for once, could she not be forced to carry these burdens?
In a troubled voice she said, “Gang –”
Aranya froze as a talon swept back the veil of her hair. Huaricithe! The Dragoness made a throat-clicking sound, her breath rasping noticeably, and her fires sighed and hissed as if a bonfire had been dumped upside-down.
Repulsive, these scars. The devastation betrayed by her whisper threatened to steal all sanity.
Itomiki the Green, the oldest of the Shapeshifters at one hundred and forty-one years, said, Nay, that is not … you must transform, noble Huari. Show the Star Dragoness the truth.
Air imploded against her back.
Huaricithe seized Aranya’s left hand impulsively. Look at me. Behold.
Expressive blue eyes framed by masses of tight blue curls. An impish chin. A face so Hualiama’s, yet subtly different, that Aranya felt soul-lost, transported through time … a quivering hand warm upon her cheek, tracing the cheekbone with wonder, tenderly stroking her chin. Although Huari was tiny, just a finger under five feet and Aranya over a foot taller, there was in the slant of the eyes and the jaw’s contour, in the delicately pointed ears and the slender limbs, an unmistakable familial likeness. The woman was also heavily scarred on her left hip. Pox-marks, Aranya saw. A different strain …
She sat down with a bump on Gangurtharr’s curved paw, blurting out, “Oh. Oh! Oh!” Very erudite, Immadia! Overwhelmed. Sensing the curling flame of a Shapeshifter’s fire-soul, nearby, singing with joy, she said, “Is that why you’re so Blue?”
Gang said, “Where did you say you hail from?”
“You wouldn’t know my Island-home,” Aranya said.
“Try us,” purred Itomiki.
Simultaneously, Huari whispered, “In our clan’s tradition, I’m an eleventh-generation descendant of Hualiama Dragonfriend and Grandion – at least, that’s our ancestral lore-claim, a claim which saw us almost wiped out. Blasphemy, see? Our clan fled to Wyldaroon. Hid our heritage. But … don’t you see it? Don’t you? I have to know!”
The Grey-Green’s paw tapped Aranya’s backside. “Well, you sure flicked an Island out of the Cloudlands there, Scrap. What’s the meaning of all this crazy-forbidden hair? Didn’t know rainbows were possible in Human women.”
“Stop that,” said Aranya, automatically.
“The more powerful they are, the worse the pox,” he retorted. “Huari knew immediately – didn’t you?”
The Shapeshifter’s eyes gleamed with her core power. “I had hoped for a powerful ally, Gang; when I saw her defeat Tahootax, I knew – my thoughts clutched pollen in the wind, clearly. Of course, I had no clue Aranya was a Star Dragoness. Or … who are you?”
Aranya rubbed her temples fiercely, flailing to catch up with the conversational twists and turns. “Slow down, Huaricithe …”
Gang had a very particular gleam in his eye as he looked Huari over. “I find you handsome in your Human form, Huaricithe. Very –” he clamped his jaw shut and curled the talons of his free paw up and over Aranya’s shoulders with a forceful expletive. “What is this? Explain!”
She had seen that gleam before, in Ardan. By his reaction, Gang was in for a rude shock – a promotion to Humanity. Or was that a demotion? Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. She forced it away. If she had learned any one thing about destinies in the Island-World, she had not been tossed together with a long-lost relative on a mere whim of Fra’anior’s. Sneaky, shell-grandfather. Truly sneaky. Like landing her on Nak and Oyda’s doorstep. Nak and Gangurtharr would get on like fireballs and windrocs, of that she had no doubt.
She said, unsteadily, “I am Aranya, Princess of Immadia.”
She had thought the Dragons would not know where Immadia was, but Huaricithe immediately demanded, “Immadia? As in the Immadia of legend, North of the Rift?”
“Now she’s crossed the Rift?” Gang growled.
Turning, Aranya smiled sweetly over her shoulder at the Dragon, still lying on his side. “Mind you don’t faint, Gang.”
Gnarrr-grr-gnarr-gurrll-Aranyarr! He mangled her name beautifully.
“I think that means my shell-mother’s sister must’ve been your great, great-something-th grandmother,” Aranya faltered, rather failing to pinpoint the relationship with any accuracy whatsoever.
Itomiki murmured, “You’re a six hundred year-old fledgling?”
Aranya sighed. “No.”
Behind her, Gang snorted, “I give up.”
Huari said, “You thought Hualiama, implying that you know her, or at least, knew what she looks like.”
“She’s my Aunt,” said Aranya. “I’ve met her in my dreams.”
“Honestly, somebody bite me,” complained Gang. Graaarrrgghh! “Itomiki! What was that for?”
Itomiki, over a mouthful of Gang’s tail, produced a hundred-fanged draconic smirk. “Stow your miserable yapping, youngster. Aranya, do you mind? He’s bleeding all over this nice patch of grass.”
So she climbed Gang’s flank, and laid her hands upon him, and channelled her Storm-power into healing.
So much healing for others, and none for herself. Inside, Aranya felt as broken as her Island-World. Something was severely out of kilter, but what? She could not understand. Why, when fate laid so obvious a paw upon her life as to bring her together with these fine Dragons, did Aranya of Immadia still feel shattered, unfinished, stressed beyond endurance? The storm proclaimed her pyretic emotions more surely than words.
Now, Thoralian must know a Star Dragon stalked him in Herimor.
It was time for a Dragoness to hunt.
Raising her nose, Aranya sniffed the air curiously. South. South, and fast. There was Imbalance, a foreboding darkness that tantalised the edge of her senses …
“Dragons, we must fly,” she said decisively. “Where is your lair, Huaricithe? Where does it lie?” Before the Navy-Blue even answered, Aranya began to sense the location in the forefront of the Dragoness’ mind. Oh no. Her voice rose with a sharp snap-crack of wind, “We must fly on the wings of this storm. Rise, Dragons! Rise and follow … uh … with your permission, Marshal. Kindly. Fierily, I mean – ugh!”
The Dragoness just waggled a brow-ridge drolly.
Aranya folded her arms. “Sorry!” Gang sniggered behind her. Whirling, the Immadian snapped, “Gang! Since you appear to have been infected by some ridiculous worship bug –”
“Mind your tongue. That’s our sacred religion you’re insulting, girl,” growled another of the Shapeshifters.
“Sorry again, Islands’ sakes – by all the freaking, floating Islands, I’m sorry!” Aranya threw over her shoulder. “Gangurtharr, since you’ve so much to say for yourself, how’s about you volunteer to be my noble air transportation?”
“Me, with a Dragon Rider?” he thundered.
“Star Dragons usually demand the very best, but you – I guess you’ll serve as marginally acceptable seating for my worshipful rump.” Aranya gave the Dragon a huge wink.
Gang’s indignation shook the entire Archipelago.
* * * *
Ardan flicked the tassels on his lavender-striped shirt with annoyance. Could they not have found him a more – well, a more manly outfit? Bane thought he looked rainbows over Islands. When he caught the Western Isles warrior’s expression, Lurax, who had been downcast ever since Tixi’s torture, had cracked the first grin Ardan had seen from him in a month. Worth it? Aye. Worthless pride. He must become a better man.
Turning to the boys, seated behind him in harness on Imagitharr the Yellow’s back, he said, “Did I ever tell you the story of my first rajal hunt?”
Sapphire peeped, “No, mighty warrior.”
Ardan chuckled and scratched her beneath the chin. “You cheeky scruffling. Why don’t you catch a few insects?”
Sapphire’s mouth snapped aside faster than the eye could follow, returning with a seven-inch dragonfly. Its double wings waved feebly either side of her jaw. She made an immensely pleased ‘erp?’ and whirled her eye-fires at him.
“Clever girl,” he conceded. “Now, can you find Aranyi?”
He winced as the Immadian intimate form slipped out of his mouth.
Sapphire’s lustrous eyes considered him, suddenly as wise as the Islands were ancient. “Ari storm. Over mountains.”
Ardan nearly snaffled a dragonfly of his own as he gaped at the dragonet.
“Over … those mountains?” His finger pointed at the enormous Mesas. Mountains to humble a man, capped with white and glaciers that ever so slowly crept away from that snow-cap like spidery fingers reaching down to caress the world of Men and Dragons. They flew southward with the tall mountains upon their right flank, keeping high as they approached the Vassal States. Marshal Tixi had them all concealed with the strange glamour-magic these Herimor Dragons used, not a Ri’arion-special, hard-shelled and clear disguise, but more like tens of layers of ever-shifting gossamer veils blowing in a breeze. Misdirection. Intricacy. Enormous refinement aimed at producing … nothingness. A complete absence of clues, magical or mental, physical or emotional, that would point to the presence of Dragons, or to any hint of information pertinent to those Dragons.
He might as well have tried to read an invisible stone for all his efforts availed him, yet Ardan continued to work on trying to understand these Herimor Dragons. Everything about them was different. Linguistic nuance-indicators. Accent. Customs, such as first consuming the heart of their prey. Even their habit of singing Dragonsong and Dragon-lore while in flight, making every flight a lesson in reciting the histories, almost as if the Dragons sought to imprint a common mindset upon each other. He sensed the subtle moulding of his thoughts to their ways of thinking, and resisted. He was an Isles warrior, as stubborn as aged granite and about as pretty.
As they approached the Vassal States, he observed disturbance and war above clouds and below. They passed Islands devastated by Dragon fire. Down low, Dragons patrolled the borders of the Vassal States in a state of evident agitation. Here, for the first time, Ardan began to see cracks and clefts developing in a layer he had always considered inviolable – the Cloudlands. When asked, Imagitharr begrudgingly explained that to the South, near the mountains, there was an area of disturbance that Land Dragons called ‘the Upwelling’ which generated unusual weather patterns and broke up the Cloudlands from beneath. The Land Dragons also referred to the ‘Realms of Light’ where the twin suns broke through to shine into their vast realm.
Ardan had always considered the Cloudlands to be akin to the floor of the Island-World. Diving below with Leandrial had been one matter. Now, it seemed that they perched precariously above canyons of unknowable depth, the Air-Oceans of legend. Occasionally they saw Land Dragons below, and twice, the swirling movement of great bodies locked in battle.
Look at all the scavenger-Dragons, said one of the Dragons, pointing downward.
Ardan saw flocks and wings of what had to be all the scavengers in Herimor gathered to the feast. Some dived deep into the Cloudlands to retrieve hunks of meat so large, he could see them dangling from talons from five miles off. Others, bloated beyond endurance, rested on the floating Islands or winged torpidly toward the mountains for a rest. Grey windrocs, lesser chunugar storks and crimson-tufted valkors, all carrion birds, blackened the skies below the Dragonwing in their millions.
Thoralian has made his visitation, Marshal Tixi said darkly.
As they passed over the first of the Vassal States, the acrid stench of rotting flesh was enough to make the most hardened warrior blench. There must have been great battles here; all this was the aftermath. Tixi and her Dragons pointed to Islands slewed in the sky or sunk into the Cloudlands, Islands carpeted in dead Dragonflesh, and more obviously, the fires still raging on thirty or more outlying Islands of the independent Vassal States. Yet of Thoralian’s forces, they saw no sign save the rippling patterns painted on the Cloudlands by the widespread migration of Land Dragons, all apparently headed South. Ardan had expected thousands of Lesser Dragons. Where were they hiding?
The Red Shapeshifter warned, Gather your glamour, Dragon-kin. Swift to the Straits to find the Star Dragoness. Ardan, do you sense her?
He said, There’s a mighty storm beyond the mountains, Marshal.
Her eyes flared to a burnt-orange colour. Do you dare to threaten me?
Facts, Marshal.
She snapped at her own shadow. How he missed his Shadow Dragon! Quietly, on the way, Ardan had tried to summon up his magic – any magic at all – and failed. He did not even feel a tingling, as Aranya had described during her recovery. All he had was his restored command of Dragonish.
Seen from an altitude of two leagues above the Cloudlands, the Vassal States were a tapestry of green and brown dots often linked by faint threads. This area was one of the greatest Human civilisations of Herimor, with Island-fortresses burrowed into the floating Islands and dwellings sprawling up the lower flanks of the Mesas. They built on a scale lavish beyond imagination. Twice, they passed cities over thirty miles long and four miles tall. The fortifications were purple, interlocking stonework, two hundred feet thick and the boundary walls, six hundred feet tall. Triple-hulled Herimor Dragonships, narrower in the beam than their Northern counterparts, but comprised of three balloons fastened side-by-side, plied the skies in their thousands. The Humans leashed verdant Islands to their shores at multiple levels to provide additional farmland and military emplacements, anchoring them on hawsers Lurax said were eighty-foot-thick, braided metallic ragions.
Abandoning dignity, Ardan gazed about with the inquisitive air of the dragonet on his lap and the enthusiasm of the boys seated behind him.
As swiftly as Dragons flew, it took two days of travelling with a stiff following breeze to leave the Vassal States in their wake and forge along the unbroken mountain massif, before they raised sight of the Inscrutables.
War. All-out war raged around an invisible perimeter circumscribing an Island-Cluster that stood, for a change, firmly rooted where it should be – deep beneath the Cloudlands, with numerous, heavily-forested Islands arranged in a perfectly regular heptagon. The largest mountains were positioned at the seven main points. Every one of the five hundred and eighty Lesser Dragons of Marshal Tixi’s expanded Dragonwing, courtesy of her allies, seemed to shiver at once. Ardan felt nothing untoward, but the Dragons muttered among themselves of ‘eerie glamour’ and even a ghostly, threatening presence. They shook their muzzles and dug their talons into their ear-canals as though suddenly aware of an excess of itchy wax.
Marshal Tixi seemed unaffected. “Huh,” she said. “War? That’s a hassle. We’ll fly around.”
Ardan gazed ahead, concentrating deeply. What was it about that place that felt so … attractive? Almost homely? Could it be that those Inscrutable Dragons employed some kind of Shadow power to defend their realm? As he watched, silver blurred out of nothingness. An attack from fresh air; winged dots tumbled into the Cloudlands. Unholy stinking fumaroles! What was that?
Then, at the very limit of his Human sight, he saw a brighter, almost-white dot flying above a great legion of Dragons. Thoralian! The faraway Dragon seemed to gesture. Suddenly, a shimmering dome appeared in the air right over those uncanny Islands. The Dragonwings of Thoralian’s command oriented on that gargantuan, impossible feat of shielding and began to hammer it with every attack at their disposal. The shield flashed and glimmered into and out of existence, but held. Again, counterattacks flashed through the shield. Dragons fell. They slid slowly and in great numbers down the shield’s low curvature before vanishing into the lapping amber Cloudlands, but Thoralian did not appear to relent.
That was his plan. His goal – Ardan narrowed his eyes. Why the Inscrutables? What great treasure did they hide that Thoralian would choose to expend his forces so recklessly?
The First Egg? Or yet another secret?
