The Onyx Dragon (16 page)

Even a whisper seemed too loud in the face of what Maylin and Emmaraz had suffered.

S
iLVER AND HIs
Rider ascended into the morning suns-shine, which filtered beneath ranks of heavy cloudbanks marching in lockstep over Sylakia Island. Sulphurous smoke drifted on an easterly breeze. Repeatedly, the crash of Dragon battle-challenges and fireballs blasting against flanks and muzzles made the air vibrate to the peculiar, concussive drumbeat of draconic conflict.

They scanned the ground, but found no more sign of
shuzzalich.

Above, the Dragon Assassins fought in a tightly bunched formation, a dark shoal encircled by the hunting pack of Greens and Reds, and the distinctive flashes of the Academy Dragon colours. Silver powered upward to gain a strategic height advantage; Pip sensed his mental reach toward Tazzaral’s position, distracting an opponent just in time for the Copper to inflict a fatal neck-bite. He bolstered Jyoss’ shield, preventing a huge Night-Red from rending her port flank with his talons. The Red’s screech of fury cut across the battle; Jyoss and Durithion drove a shattered Dragon lance deep into his belly and left the weapon dangling there.

Chymasion flew tiredly, his cut-and-thrust movements against Rambastion growing visibly weaker, while Master Balthion’s pretty daughters exchanged sociable crossbow quarrels across the divide. Emblazon loomed above, protecting his shell-son but not preventing him from fighting Rambastion. Even the Amber Dragon was streaked and bloodied, his massive musculature torn in a dozen places. Golden blood speckled his neck and shoulders. Atop her stolid Dragon, Oyda fought as cleanly as ever, like a slim dagger choosing its moment to slip in unnoticed to deliver a deadly strike. As they neared the battle, Pip saw Oyda’s arrow feather perfectly in a Night-Red’s right eye. Dragon-enhanced accuracy? Mercy.

Abruptly, Silver pulled a ninety-degree swerve and shot off after a retreating Night-Red, snarling,
Come decorate my talons with your blood, coward.

The Dragoness convulsed as Silver attacked her with a series of telepathic blasts. Blinding. Shattering. Overpowering. Suddenly, Pip remembered what she had done before.

Silver, Dragons can be turned. Their minds succumbed to the Marshal’s tyranny, see?

You had your Word.
But he seized the idea with the air of a Dragon sinking its talons into living flesh. Silver hammered the Dragoness, expending a dangerous amount of magic.
Yield!

Suddenly she sagged in the air, utterly transformed in demeanour. The Dragoness shook herself like a wet hound.
Where am I?

Silver sagged with relief. Pip knew relief, too. They could not give out much longer without rest. While Silver explained in terse, staccato sentences, she followed the battle up into the clouds. Was Rambastion fleeing? Yes! Pursued by over a dozen Sylakian Dragons, the remnant of the Marshal’s Dragonwing fled into the clouds. Emblazon bellowed furiously as two Sylakian Greens cut off his pursuit, but perhaps there was a touch of relief in his voice too–the Sylakian Dragons’ pride required them to deal with their own problems. Assistance was only acceptable to a point.

Emblazon gathered Jyoss, Chymasion and Tazzaral to him and closed the gap with Silver, stiffening visibly as his battle-bright gaze lingered upon the Night-Red Dragoness circling nearby. She dipped her muzzle and spread her forepaws, talons sheathed–a draconic submission.

The two Green Dragons escorted them to a landing near Emmaraz; the Dragons arranged themselves uneasily in a semicircle around the stricken pair. Chymasion hurried to his shell-mother’s side, supplying the remnants of his magic to bolster her healing work.

Without preamble, one of the Greens said,
We know your mighty reputations, noble Emblazon and noble Shimmerith. While we are grateful, you must depart Sylakia’s shores at once.

Emblazon’s reply was a charged growl, deep in his throat. At four feet taller in the shoulder than the two Greens, there was a clear reluctance on their part to slight the larger, more powerful Dragon. Eye-fires blazed for several lengthy breaths, almost setting the air afire. But the Greens broke eye-contact first. Pip knew that was a signal of hierarchy-acknowledgement–not quite an admission of defeat, but an acceptable alternative.

Dragons. All fire and smoke, weren’t they? Pip did not giggle. That would have been deeply offensive.

The first Green added,
Lest you invite the Shadow to our shores.

The Amber Dragon inclined his muzzle regally.
We accede to your request. What of our wounded, noble Eryfalgor?

Eryfalgor turned respectfully to Shimmerith, so much sleeker than the spiky Greens, who responded,
If I may request several hours grace to stabilise them and treat our wounds, I believe this Dragon and Rider could be flown by Dragonship back to the Academy.

Again, a message of body-language or eye-fire-intent passed between the Dragons. Pip gritted her teeth. If only she understood!

The Green responded,
Ay. May I offer four of our Blues to aid you with healing tasks, and a Dragonwing to escort your wounded to Jeradia?
Shimmerith and Emblazon purred agreement.
Settled. Will you take the traitor with you?

It was not a request.

On a hillside half a mile away, Pip spied two Sylakian Reds moving amongst the fallen Dragons, finishing several Dragon Assassins who must still have been alive. She felt rather than heard Emblazon confer briefly with Nak and Silver, before he said,
Upon her oath.

Nothing more was spoken. Eryfalgor and his companion winged off with a pompous air.

Emblazon raised his forepaw. A command. He did not so much as glance in her direction, but the captured Night-Red sank at once to her belly and slithered toward him, rolling onto her flank to expose her lower neck to his paw. The Amber Dragon lowered his limb, talons outstretched, and gripped that exposed section of Dragon hide rather less gently than Pip would have expected. As he pressed in, golden Dragon blood trailed from beneath two of his talons.

She said,
I am the Dragoness Cint’ixt’ix, called Cinti, once of Harashoon Island in Herimor, and I am a Dragon without honour. Accept my unconditional service or end my worthless life, o mighty Amber.

In the stillness, Pip heard and saw her pulse throbbing fitfully in her throat, as though the Dragoness’ blood had grown too thick for her arteries. Interesting how her name included the strong, sharp ‘T’ sound, very similar to the range of Pygmy ejectives. Did that mean there were linguistic similarities between Ancient Southern and whatever language they spoke in Herimor? Of course. She understood Silver, didn’t she? Barbaric accent and all. He probably thought the same of her.

No, your accent is like Dragonsong.
Silver’s telepathy tickled the inside of her mind.

To her chagrin, a blush warmed her cheeks.

Emblazon said,
Cinti of Harashoon, I accept your oath. May honour attend your service.
For the benefit of the Riders, he repeated his words in Island Standard, then continued, “Friends, this is Cinti. What colour were you, Dragoness? Can you help with healing?”

“Colour?” The Dragoness looked puzzled. “All common Dragons of Herimor are one colour, unless you come from a noble lineage, like the Marshal’s shell-son, over there.”

She pointed delicately at Silver.

Pandemonium!

Pip charged into the thick of flashing fangs and flying scales, shouting,
Stop! STOP!
Tazz had seated himself on Silver’s chest. Jyoss had Silver’s tail clamped between her fangs, while Emblazon stood on his neck. Tonnes of Dragons piled atop each other, panting and leaking fire from the jowls and nostrils, all peering at the not quite four-foot Pygmy girl in evident shock. Perhaps they wondered what manner of ralti-stupid, parakeet brained person would dare to interrupt four Dragons in the midst of a nice all-claws-out brawl. Pip thought the same.

Had she spoken a Word of Command? No. The Amber Dragon turned a smoking cavern full of fangs upon her, growling in palpable amazement, “Why, do you wish to kill him yourself?”

She folded her arms. Tapped her foot dangerously. Eyed the fifty-foot mound of tangled Dragonflesh with no small measure of exasperation.

To her surprise, it was Duri who came to stand alongside her. He said, “Alright, Dragons. Just keep sitting on Silver whilst we fire the questions. Pip, didn’t you know your boyfriend was the Marshal’s shell-son?”

“No. He suspected he was. The Marshal had many eggs in many nurseries. When he emerged victorious, it was made clear he was no special shell-son, just the sole survivor of an unwanted nest of hatchlings. Perhaps now we’ve heard the truth.”

“Truth?” Nak spat. “Now we’re all best friends with the Marshal’s shell-son? Count me out.”

Silver wheezed, “The Marshal has many other shell-sons and daughters. None were silver. My egg came from afar. I’m just a fatherless foundling, no shell-son of his.”

“You hail from Harashoon,” said the Dragoness.

Pip whirled, eyes popping.

She and Silver shared the same intuition. The pace and rasp of his breathing communicated as much; Pip approached the Night-Red Dragoness, gazing deep into her eyes. Ay, there it was. Balance.

Pip said,
Will you share your thought-echoes with me, noble Cint’ixt’ix?

The Dragoness said,
I thought you but a Rider.
You’re
the Pygmy Dragon? So small?

Dangerously compact,
Pip retorted, closing her eyes as she touched the Night-Red’s knee.
Now, open your memories, Dragoness, that we may know all.

Images cascaded through her mind.

After a moment, she opened her eyes again. Raising her voice, Pip said, “To summarise, one hundred and fifty-nine years ago, a young sub-Marshal called Re’akka visited the Isle of Harashoon, which floats windward with the tertiary sub-cyclical Island-system of northern Herimor, passing close to Eridoon once per decade. He and Cinti met and fell in love. In the course of time, Cinti produced just a single egg, an unusual egg. Though she brooded upon it for many moons, the egg never hatched. Cinti longed for Re’akka to return, but he never did, nor did she hear a word from him. War swept across the Islands. When Harashoon returned upon its cyclical path, she received a message from Re’akka’s shell-father saying that they could never espouse, for she was infertile and therefore unworthy of the Marshal’s son. Cinti was heartbroken.”

“Roll forward one hundred and forty years. Re’akka invaded Harashoon, stole the egg and corrupted Cinti into his service. He placed the egg into a special hatchery. Three years later, it hatched a small, most unusual Dragon.”

“A Silver Dragon,” whispered Silver.

My shell-son, Silver. He is born!

Cinti’s soft exclamation punctured Emblazon, Jyoss and Tazzaral’s animosity. In a flash Silver sprang to his paws, running to her, pausing in bewilderment–
but you’re so old to be my shell-mother
–and then the two Dragons were nuzzling, crooning, crying waterfalls of inner fires rife with a particular tone of love that squeezed Pip’s heart like a prekki fruit crushed beneath a press.

“Well, that’s convenient, isn’t it?” Nak grumbled, but Pip saw him dab his eyes with his sleeve.

Once, Re’akka had been a handsome, charming man, according to Cinti’s memories, but even then had displayed a broad streak of arrogance–only, no person living guessed the extent of his hubris and ambition. The years had changed him. Perhaps his father’s training, or a predilection for the darker aspects of Dragon magic, had transformed the man into a monster. Cinti had been as clear as the finest crysglass on that point. No trace of compassion or humanity remained. Well, humanity was not entirely the right word for a Shapeshifter, was it? Nor was compassion unknown to most Dragons, only they approached the matter from a very different cultural viewpoint.

Pip startled out of her thoughts when Silver clasped her in his paw.
Shell-mother, this is Pip. I can’t say her full name properly, but–oh.

The Pygmy child ran to Pip and clutched her leg, wailing. She picked her up and comforted her.

Cinti smiled,
Ah, beautiful. She has a youngling already?

Who blushed most–Pip or Silver? The Dragon yelped,
No, not yet. That’s a story.
And somewhere over near Emblazon, Nak could be heard chortling away.

Ambushed by joy. Pip found she could not stop smiling. Her lips hurt, but the smiles would not stop–at least for now. She had kidnapped a treasure from the zoo, just like Zardon, in a startling reprise of history. They had defeated Rambastion and Telisia in combat, although the renegade Dragon would stage his return, she had no doubt. The windfall of battle was the unexpected treasure of Silver’s shell-mother.

Yet the cost was high. Paid in blood.

Emblazon flew to the forest to fetch Hunagu. Shimmerith, Oyda and Chymasion worked tirelessly on Maylin and Emmaraz. Nak and Jyoss helped with the minor wounds and Pip and Silver lent their strength to the healers, denying any thoughts of exhaustion. Tazzaral and Kaiatha scouted briefly, but it appeared that the Sylakian Dragons had kept their word and driven the Dragon Assassins away. Soon, a quartet of Sylakian Blues swooped down from on high to lend fresh impetus to the healing work.