The Onyx Dragon (10 page)

“I cannot convey what dark-fires that beast conjured in my fire-soul, brethren.” Keryflamme raised his great muzzle to the heavens, and with a mighty surge of Dragon fire, he bellowed,
How may a Dragon join the eternal fires if their soul be extinguished, if their flame should burn no more?

Pip froze. All around her the Dragons leaped to their paws, thundering their grief and outrage to the starlit heavens, yet she sat immobile, paralysed. For a Dragon, this was the ultimate fear. She remembered that creature flying above her, producing a chill that had less to do with the night’s coolness than the sense of a shadow passing across her inmost being. Could it be that the Marshal’s creature was more than a fire-eater or a magic-consumer–did it feast upon the eternal fire-souls of Dragons? Was that possible? O ghastly, unthinkable fate!

Shimmerith calmed the congregation by appealing to the mewling shock of the hatchlings in her care; they settled reluctantly, Silver at her back and the other Dragons in their previous positions around the glowing fire. Many eyes stared at the coals, pensive. Nak softly translated for the students and Master Balthion, who had not understood the outcry.

Heat rose like gorge into her throat, an awareness of need greater than any of her own pressing upon her life, and for the first time in her life Pip felt, rather than an enormous weight of destiny, a freeing sensation–almost, she reached for her back to check if wings had not sprouted there. This was the truth of her emancipation from the cage in Sylakia. This was the enemy she had been born to defeat!

Leaping to her feet, Pip cried, “My fires mingle with yours, noble Dragons!”

“Another Shapeshifter?” Chassix inquired.

Chymasion called, “Do her words not blaze, noble wing-brothers?”

Keryflamme tilted his muzzle to regard her, fire-eyes blazing with realisation. “What colour are you, noble wing-sister?”

“Onyx,” said Kassik. “The Onyx of Fra’anior himself.”

Speech would not be corked within her throat, for it seemed that the roaring of a mighty seven-headed Lord of the Island-World resounded within her soul, granting Pip for an instant a glimpse of reality, perhaps of the future, far beyond her capacity to understand.

Crashing to her knees, Pip declaimed in a low voice like the onset of thunder,
In the name of the great Black Dragon Fra’anior, and all the Ancient Dragons of yore, this I declare: a bane and a binding upon the foes of our bright-fires! I bind thee to justice, o dark ones. I bind thee to judgement!
Her fists clenched painfully, despite the pain in her shoulder.
I reject the desecration of our Dragon fires! Begone, thou beast of the nethermost Cloudlands hells! For I am Pip’úrth’l-iòlall-Yò’oótha the Pygmy Dragon, your nemesis, and this I vow upon the souls of my ancestors, that I shall not rest until I have banished your foul presence from all existence!

Pip did not know the origin of her vow, whether from within her or without, but the Island-World’s quiver communicated through her knees, and the magic played in her and through her like a comet-trail, blazing with brief but unforgettable brilliance. Nape crawling and ears ringing, she became aware of a sudden answering volatility in all the belly-fires around their circle. Jyoss, Tazzaral, Emblazon, Shimmerith, Kassik, Silver, Emmaraz, Chymasion, Keryflamme and Chassix stared at her in frank amazement–even Nak and Oyda had sensed the oath-magic, she realised.

Master Kassik said, “If ever we had cause for hope, that is why.”

* * * *

Magic to shiver Islands. Magic to make a Pygmy girl moan and shrink into her undersized flying jacket as the Dragonwing powered off the penultimate Island of the Spine, and winged onward to Archion Island. Magic she wished she actually grasped, for once. Pip sighed.

“A handful of monkey droppings for your thoughts?” asked Kaiatha.

She and Pip shared a seat on Tazzaral’s broad back while Emmaraz, Chymasion, Silver and Jyoss trained at aerial combat manoeuvers that were deemed too stressful for Pip in her allegedly delicate condition. If only Maylin would not whoop continuously, dizzy with excitement. If only she could master Leandrial’s Balance magic and just fix her pox-ridden, ralti-stupid wounds! Yesterday would do very nicely. And as for roaring a vow in language better suited to ballads and epic poems drawn from the draconic histories–her throat still felt raw from that effort–whatever had she been thinking? Or not thinking, more to the point?

“Are you bothered about invoking Fra’anior and setting off a volcano of enigmatic oath-magic?” Kaiatha guessed accurately. “Again?”

Pip winced. “Minor detail, right?”

“The suns-rise seen from Dragonback beneath the arch of Archion Island is said to be one of the Island-World’s wonders, Pip.”

“Ah … yes, Kaia.” Odd moment to wax poetical. Kaiatha seemed lost in her thoughts.

She wondered if Hunagu, dangling in his net from a Dragon’s paw, felt the same way. Kassik and Nak had modified their travelling schedule, resting the previous morning on the final spit of rock forty leagues northeast of the Spine Islands, before setting off in the early afternoon for Archion Island. A night of freezing northerly winds and clear skies frosted the marrow of Pip’s bones, while the White and Blue moons beamed down with the air of co-conspirators snickering together as they plotted despicable deeds. Now, the Dragons forged tirelessly onward through what should have been an awe-inspiring pre-dawn tranquillity, three miles above the moonlit, rolling cloudscape above which Archion Island expanded against the backdrop of a waning Yellow Moon–tranquil, at least, until Kassik decided to warm up the students and their Dragons with vigorous morning exercises.

Pip had not been charmed by being woken by Emmaraz thundering in her ear. Poor Duri. Jyoss roused him by abruptly sliding into a twisting barrel-roll that put her Rider upside-down above the Cloudlands. Duri’s howls made everyone hoot.

“How is it, Kaia, that invoking an Ancient Dragon who departed this world over a thousand years ago can still trigger … that?”

“How is it that for you, Pip, the Islands dance?”

“How is it, o Kaiatha, that you turn every question into a philosophy lesson?”

“For philosophy is to the Fra’aniorian as burping is to the Sylakian,” said her friend.

Pip twisted on the saddle to fix the gentle, very proper Isles maiden with a quizzical mock-glare. “Oh? Says she who is dating a Sylakian? Does Duri burp?”

“After every meal,” Kaiatha said primly. “I’m reforming him. If he forgets, he has to train at unarmed combat with me for an hour.”

“I’m sure
that
dissuades him,” Tazzaral put in unexpectedly, making the girls laugh.

“Once his limbs are permanently knotted into artistic shapes, I usually let him go.” Her lake-blue eyes twinkled at Pip. “You’re just lucky we’re such good friends. Philosophy is our national pastime, Pip. Along with volcano-hopping, singing in concert with dragonets and competing to see who can eat the spiciest, most peppery sauces imaginable. Duri swears he will do the cooking in our relationship. Can’t imagine why.”

Tazz, rolling his eye-fires at them over his shoulder, said, “Duri says the only thing Fra’aniorian peppers and chillies are good for, is to furnish a draconic spice-attack. Swallow them into the rock-stomach, churn them up and spray a fine mist at enemies. Blistering and blinding all at once–I think it could work.”

“A chemical weapon?” Pip mused.

“He has Jyoss and I involved in his experiments,” said Tazz, as indignant as only twenty-five tonnes of Copper Dragon could be.

“I’m impressed with his inventiveness.”

Kaia said, “I think we’ll invent a Pygmy snack-attack, eh, Tazz? Hurl her at the enemy, they’ll be so staggered by how tasty she looks …”

“Are you turning into Maylin by any chance?” Pip scowled.

The Copper said, “I’ll show you a chemical attack. I learned this one yesterday from Kassik.” And with that, a thick streamer of pungent white smoke billowed from his throat. “Diversionary smoke.”

Of course, the wind-speed of his passage instantly whipped the smoke backward, enveloping his Riders.

“Faugh!” coughed Pip.

“Tazz! Smoking lava-pits, you’ve halitosis worse than a dozen rotting windroc corpses.” Kaia waved her hands, trying in vain to clear the air. “Do you have rancid boar-meat stuck between your fangs?”

The Brown Dragon called over, “Say, an old Shapeshifter called Zardon extolled your expertise at cleaning fangs, Pip. You can give all the students lessons tonight–from the inside of my mouth.”

Pip threw him a filthy look complete with imaginary fangs.

“She’s good at cleaning bedchambers too,” Nak suggested from the starboard flank, where Shimmerith winged a touch below and ahead of Tazzaral. “Absolutely superb, aren’t you, my little Pygmy beauty?”

Ugh. Nak and his obnoxious gutter humour.

“And as for thee, fair Kaiatha, wouldst thou grace my bedchamber this night …”

“Rider Nak, you disrespect your Oyda,” Shimmerith said, smoking at the jowls with the force of her censure.

“What harm in examining the buffet?” he asked.

“The buffet might just decide to eat you?” Pip snapped. “And the other half of the so-called buffet comes with ferocious skills in the martial arts?”

“Fie, thou Pygmy popsicle. I shall …”

Whatever he added beneath his breath–Pip saw his lips moving–Shimmerith drowned it out with an ugly snarl and shot off with a clip of her wings. Approaching Emblazon, she flipped over and, incredibly, synchronised wingbeats with the Amber Dragon as she flapped upside-down right above him so that Oyda could reach Nak to deliver a resounding slap to his cheek.

Kaiatha winced. “Wow. Never spite a Dragoness, eh?”

“Ay.”

“Pip, what’s wrong?”

Bitterness made a fragmented, rasping caricature of her sigh. “Kaia, Nak doesn’t mean badly, I’m sure. But when he–well, when a man looks at me like that, it places me right back in the cage. In a zoo, I was an object, not a person. It’s so twisted up inside. I learned to hate those stares. Remembering makes me want to vomit, even now. I know I should leave it all behind … but it’s hard.”

“Too true.” Her friend slipped a supportive arm around Pip’s waist.

“I’m not ungrateful, Kaia. I’ve so many gifts–friends like you and wonderful mentors and even my Dragoness. But sometimes I’d kill just to feel normal; to look normal. Is that so wrong?”

“But you’re not normal. You’re beautiful.”

Did she truly mean that? Kaiatha was striking; her beauty classically Fra’aniorian, a ballad of form and feature, as Nak put it. Compared to her … well, Pip was little, dark-skinned and lithe, more waif than woman. Yet the clear blue pools fixed upon her betrayed no trace of doubt. Pellucid to their depths. Convinced. Kaia meant every word–yet how could she, when they were so very different?

Something, an inexpressible anguish deep within her soul, uncurled at this realisation.

Kaiatha added, “On my Island, we say that to carry the past is to carry boulders.”

“Not pebbles?”

“Do you think these issues are pebbles, Pip? Your cage; my murderer-father and mad mother?”

Pip shuddered at her friend’s pain. “Your father was poisoned. Remember that; remember who he was before. You told us he was a good man. How do we live with these scars, Kaia? Is this what it means to be Human?”

“Ay. Are we not all scarred?”

Tazzaral said, “Did you know that the Dragonish for ‘scar’ translates as ‘battle-beauty’?”

The two Riders meditated on this for a moment, a heartbeat of friendship expressed in quiet togetherness. Pip’s thoughts focussed in on Sylakia, nearing with every wingbeat. How would she respond to seeing those cages again? As an outsider looking in? Surely, not all Sylakians treated Pygmies as subhuman–take Master Balthion and his family, for example. Should she consider that experience her battle-beauty? There had been unexpected Islets of kindness throughout–Hunagu, even his mother when the moods and madness had not taken her, and Arosia, and mighty Zardon. How she had trembled that night he landed in their cage, forty tonnes of fiery draconic monstrosity concealing three hearts of the purest, most beautiful crystal.

“Hey, Kaia–” she elbowed her friend “–if your father was a Shifter, what about you?”

Kaiatha held out one tanned arm. “See any sign of scales, Pygmy Dragon?”

“I’ll be the first to warn you.”

Tazz put in, “If she ever shows any interest in raw meat–well, any meat at all–I’ll be sure to forewarn you, Pip.”

“Ugh. Carnivores.”

Kaiatha laughed, but Pip could not help but wonder. How on the Islands did one identify a potential Shapeshifter? Was it even possible? A question for Master Kassik or Silver, when they had a moment’s privacy. Zardon had sensed, traced and eventually tracked her to the zoo. What Dragon power was that? A sensitivity to Leandrial’s Harmonic Inference? Or the instinctual use of Balance to detect a disturbance in the veil of reality–a certain Pip-sized troublemaker–from hundreds of leagues distant? Impossible.

Mercy. Perhaps she should ditch the word ‘impossible’ for ‘improbable’. Too much that seemed impossible was merely a parakeet of a different feather, as the Pygmy proverb put it.