The Onyx Dragon (29 page)

Shortly, the wide tunnel curved and Zardon turned down a side tunnel, rapidly descending a further half-mile or more into the Island’s grey-grained, granite bowels. A pressure swelled against her mind, bringing strange white-fires to her vision …

The Egg,
said Zardon.
Such power. Inconceivable power. To think the Ancient Dragons bathed in the power of the twin suns, and forged their creative works with the output of volcanoes born in the Island-World’s core.

Zardon, what does the Marshal want with me? Will he keep his promise?

Ay, I believe he will. He is honourable in a sense which is hard to fathom. Should I know his thoughts? Does he not wish to hatch this First Egg, and thus gain power to rule the world?

Did he not effectively rule the Island-World already? This powerful an army would sweep the Dragon Rider Academy off the map forever.

Zardon flared his wings, landing beside a huge iron doorway which had to be the entrance of a dungeon. The area stank of sweat and blood, oil and fear. Curious. Her Dragon senses could sometimes augment her Human senses, making them extraordinarily sensitive. More proof of the oneness of her Human and Dragon forms. The door slid open soundlessly. Zardon stalked within, all dark menace and power; the septet of Night-Red Dragons guarding the entryway bowed their muzzles.

Commander.

Ay. Take this one down to the Shapeshifter holding chambers.

The special–

Zardon cut the Dragon off with a low growl,
Do your duty, Dragon.

He passed Pip over. She shivered, rubbing her arms. Perhaps it was not as chilly inside the Island as she had expected, but she had no clothing and had not eaten since the morning. The Night-Red pushed her unceremoniously down a long, rough-hewn rock tunnel. Barred cells lined both sides, numbering in their hundreds, each housing a miserable-looking collection of Humans. A few larger cells held Dragons. Pip wondered why Marshal Re’akka kept all of these people. Political prisoners? They gazed dully at her, seemingly incapable of reaction or curiosity. Had her mother died of fright, or ill health, cold and alone in this place?

At the end of that gallery of misery, the Dragon pushed her through another metal door. The air changed. Magic? That slight scent of subterfuge, of mutability? The Dragon did not pause. Taking a left turn at a T-junction, he walked another couple of hundred feet before the grey stone passageway ended abruptly in a chamber sized for a single Human prisoner. Only a Dragon hatchling could have fit within. A single Dragon light affixed to the roof lit the cheerless room. She peered at the oddly ribbed walls. Rust-red, they curved around the floor, walls and ceiling, enclosing the chamber in its entirety.

Dragon bones,
chortled her jailor. He shoved her within.

Pip stumbled beneath the forceful blow and fell, slamming her nose on one of the ribs. By the time she turned, the Dragon had retreated down the tunnel, and a broad section of stone was sliding across the entryway.

She cried,
No …

Two hundred feet of solid rock in every direction,
said the Dragon.
Sleep well, Pygmy girl.

The stone slid flush against the far wall, the inner part again covered in Dragon bones that fit seamlessly with the rest of the chamber.

Pip was alone. Trapped in Re’akka’s lair.

* * * *

Hours passed. Days, perhaps. Pip did not know. She was aware of magic working strangely upon her mind. She dreamed eerie, frightening dreams of events and places she did not understand, and Dragons she had never met. Time telescoped strangely around her, sometimes seeming to rush along like a powerful river, at other times stalling or slipping away from her like a trout escaping a Pygmy hunter’s cunning hand.

At intervals an elderly servant appeared, once to bring her a blanket, other times to supply a bowl of tasteless, never-changing stew and a gourd of water, other times to remove and replace the waste-bucket. The man never spoke.

When she roused herself to fight, it was to realise that magic did not work in her cell. Somehow, that capability seemed muted. It did not feel like the absence of magic caused by her poisoning, but rather as if even the idea of magic was unthinkable. Her magic would not work, she came to believe. Without night or day, time was marked only by the servants’ irregular appearances, and the perception that from time to time, a predatory pair of eyes watched her from an unknown location, burning yellow eyes, measuring, judging, probing.

Pip gave the eyes no quarter. Though she had started weak and abused, and felt herself growing steadily weaker, there was in her psyche an adamantine core forged of suffering and pain, Pygmy stubbornness and draconic willpower, that remained inviolable. The yellow eyes burned that fortress pitilessly, but as Silver had found, her paucity of physical dimensions was not reflected in the makeup and disposition of her character. She took encouragement from the yellow-eyed being’s flashes of vexation. Always, she returned to the little blue star’s laughter. It was balm to her tortured spirit and a panacea for her grief. She thought of each of her friends in turn, and held them dear. For these, she told herself. It was for love she had entered the beast’s den.

Yet there came a time she realised that her spirit’s hold on her mortal flesh was weakening. If she did not escape this dungeon, she would die.

S
ilver regarded Emblazon
with his jaw set in stony defiance. “Ay, I am determined upon this crazy course of action, as you call it. My shell-mother’s training is complete. She’s a mistress of disguise, for the magic of Herimor runs thick in her veins.”

He spoke Island Standard for the benefit of the others.

Here, fifty leagues north of where Pip had ambushed her friends, the jungle had once more gathered the Dragons and Riders into its warming embrace. Silver had never imagined coming to regard impenetrable jungles as a Nature-mother, nurturing and protective of Her own. Yet Pip called this place home. She had blossomed here–did her actions not scream that fact until the exquisite enormity of her sacrifice resounded to the very stars? Even now, four days later, his Dragon hearts sang at the memory.
I love you, my beautiful Silver.
Crazy, wilful, exasperating Pygmy mite!

Unexpectedly, Emblazon lowered his great amber muzzle from its twenty-five foot elevation, to nuzzle the Shapeshifter’s neck in a brotherly-love gesture. “I would commend and encourage you, my wing-brother. Your white-fires burn with all purity. I wish you clear skies and strength. Chymasion?”

“Eridoon Island continues to forge westward,” said the youngster. “It seems Marshal Re’akka would plot his course directly across the Middle Sea, now that his Dragonwings have finally lifted their paw from the Crescent Islands.” Across from him, Shimmerith’s eye-fires gleamed with evident pride in the Jade Dragon’s efficient assessment. “Further, my Rider and I conclude the Marshal has captured what he always wanted most–Pip. Her knowledge and skills. There is nothing left here for him.”

“Save the scrolls,” said Kaiatha. “We must discharge our responsibility to Pip. If we return via Sylakia, we could quickly check on Masters Balthion and Kassik, and Casitha.”

Nak said, “So, we’re in a race to the Academy.”

“We’ll win!” Emblazon, Shimmerith and Cinti growled simultaneously.

“Hmm. Not if we’re the love-flight,” Nak snorted, turning a jaundiced eye upon Jerrion, who shrugged massively. “Master Adak will dice you up for kebabs, large as you are.”

“Love chooses us,” said Jerrion, indicating his diminutive Pygmy consort-to-be, who dimpled and made moon-eyes in return. She was cute. Not Pip-cute, Silver hastily corrected his thoughts–argh, treachery from his own mind!

“You two don’t understand a word the other says!”

“Since when does love entail speech?” asked the giant, apparently amazed there should be any doubt cast over his intended liaison. “She’s Master Adak’s niece. Everything will work out.”

Nak snorted a second time, more loudly and rudely than the first. “After he’s finished carving his initials on your–”

“Nak!” snapped Oyda. “Alright, everyone, time to say your farewells. Silver has his own love-boat to catch. Literally.”

Silver laughed, but fumed inwardly. These Northerners were crazy and hilarious in equal measure. One day, he might even understand a sense of humour that guffawed in the face of annihilation. Until then, he would chase a crazy girl who knocked out her friends for love before flying right into the evil overlord’s lair. He could not help but admire her spirit. She drove him to distraction–yet, what a girl! She would have taken nursery battles to a whole new level.

But his shell-father was not one to be trifled with. Pip was too fresh from the jungle to comprehend the power of an ancient Shapeshifter like the Marshal. Oh, Silver knew better than to offer his help. No, what was required was a more guileful approach. An approach worthy of every ounce of a Herimor’s devious, conniving heritage.

He would woo her right out from beneath Re’akka’s nose, with an act of real courage.

A sacrifice.

With a final, mighty slap of Emblazon’s paw to speed him on his way, Silver darted between the great trees, careless now of the smells of wet mulch and jungle flowers, or the moist tang of the vast, airy beyond, the realm of Dragons. All that mattered was the hunt.

I’m coming for you, shell-father. You have something that belongs to me.

No, that jungle girl could never be owned. A fierce joy pervaded the Silver Dragon’s hearts as he spread his wings above the abyss. For the first time since the Pygmy Dragoness had crushed his hopes and brought him low, he felt truly alive, infused with a sense of righteous purpose. Marshal Re’akka had to fall. And he was the silver spear who would pierce his father’s evil ambitions.

This would be the greatest battle of his life.

* * * *

The Dragon Assassins, four strong, moved Pip to a new room. Again it was stark, buried deep, comprised of nothing but Dragon bones enclosing a chamber somewhere in the Island’s granite bowels. The dominant feature was a monolithic block of metal planted squarely in the room’s centre, one surface of which was canted at fifteen degrees from the vertical, and sported manacles better suited to securing a Dragon’s limbs, never mind a Pygmy girl.

Should she feel flattered?

Her mind seemed as sluggish as a giant land snail, reluctant to form coherent thoughts. Pip wondered if this was the start of physical torture, now that the magical torture had concluded. Perhaps they intended to gut her or … worse. Oh please, not that. She could think of so many creative ways a Dragon might torture a Human, never mind a Shapeshifter of Re’akka’s reputed power.

A trio of the ubiquitous tan-clad servants bustled about, clamping her bodily to the table. Oddly, the great bands of metal appeared to flow and adjust, covering her outspread arms from wrist to elbow, and each splayed leg from ankle to knee. She supposed the position was designed to make her feel vulnerable. If so, it succeeded. Not even a Dragon’s paw could have torn her off the metal block now. The servants fastened a thick metal gag over her mouth, ostensibly to preclude the possibility of her uttering a Word of Command. The metal flowed as well, a touch of cool magic as it conformed to her face and invaded her mouth. Ugh.

So, magic was possible in this room? She snatched up that nugget of hope. So far her clever plan of getting close to the Marshal appeared to have come woefully unhinged.

Pip waited and waited. After a time, her eyelids shuttered.

She dreamed of standing on a desolate mountaintop, upon the peak of a dormant volcano. All the Island-World spread out before her. Every realm, every people, all its riches and glory and honour were exposed to her view. There would be adulation, even worship, when she assumed her rightful position of rulership. In her ear, a voice wheedled, ‘You can have all this if you yield to me.’ Over and over, the voice called to her, threatened, pestered with promises no sane person would ever consider.

She found her voice. It was sevenfold, the voice of an Ancient Dragon as she remembered it.

The wheedling presence vanished with a sharp cry.

Pip’s eyes snapped open.

It was him. Marshal Re’akka; it could be no other.

A man stood framed in the doorway, straightening with a tiny movement as her black eyes lit upon him. He was tall and lean, his spare frame swathed in robes of earthy orange, the colour of a fiery dawn sky. He wore black trousers tucked into what Silver had described as Herimor-style boots, mid-calf black leather with a thick, fancy black collar tooled with a silver overlay of Dragon runes, expressing ancient wards of power and protection in a Herimor script. The flame-coloured robe and his dark, high-necked shirt set off the pale skin of his hands and neck. Sleek, pure white hair framed his face, which might once have been youthful, but now the eyes appeared sunken in their sockets, underscored by dark sleep-rings, as hooded as a snake’s gaze. Jutting brows and high cheekbones lent the Marshal’s visage that angular Herimor cast which in Silver was so attractive, but upon his shell-father only served to appear gaunt.

Ay, the resemblance was unmistakable despite the disparity in height. But where the son’s eyes had silver irises and a youthful openness about them, the father’s were as yellow as Dragon fire, yet cloudy in their depths, eyes that hinted at great secrets and power; utterly, fearfully hypnotic.

“Welcome to my Island home, Pygmy girl,” he said, in an accent filled with lilting Herimor tones. “You beat my shell-son twice, turned him to your cause, stole his hearts and abandoned him callously at the last.”

She swallowed a wordless squeak of dismay.

“Oh, yes. I see the fear lurking in your eyes. Don’t worry, you and I have much in common. I’m going to enjoy convincing you to share all your little secrets. And when you’ve spilled the waters of your life upon this cold, unfeeling metal, I will convert you to my cause, as I have done thousands of Dragons greater than you.”

She distilled all of her fear and loathing into one simple response.
Try your worst, Re’akka. I will never yield.

He laughed softly. “Giving up too soon would’ve spoiled it for both of us. You outmatched my shell-son. That offence will be avenged. And then I will teach you what it means to spite the most powerful Dragon in the Island-World.”

Most powerful? You sad fool. Fra’anior has more power in his littlest talon–

Pip gurgled as the air stopped in her throat.

Re’akka said, “I don’t suppose you’ve encountered Kinetic power yet, have you, little girl? I can rearrange your innards with a thought. Squeeze your liver. Play with your heart, like this.”

Pip felt her eyes bulge at a sickening sensation inside her chest.

“The possibilities are endless.” Marshal Re’akka stepped into the room, drawing the stone door shut behind him with a single, careless thought. “Shall we begin?”

* * * *

Fifty leagues Silver flew in the course of three hours, aiming to catch up with the Island at the hour appointed for the Dragonwings’ return, should they be within range. Odd, how Re’akka insisted on that regulation. Now that he considered it, there was much about his father he did not know. That was the man’s nature. Secretive. Obsessive. Suspicious about everyone and everything. Cruel to the core.

Pip was in his clutches. Helpless rage swelled his belly-fires.

Hold on, Pip. Help is at hand.

Just five leagues or so beyond the line demarcating the Crescent Isles’ ascent from the Cloudlands, Eridoon Island sailed steadily westward, making its slow but inexorable advance. All he saw was a dark silhouette against the setting suns as the twins followed each other down toward the horizon, partially eclipsed by the Yellow Moon. Spectacular swathes of vermilion and bronze spanned the western skies. Flight after flight of Night-Reds swarmed toward the Island, what Silver sincerely hoped was the final withdrawal of the Marshal’s army from the Crescent. Four Dragonwings of a hundred strong each had travelled northward as they hid amongst the Islands after Pip’s abrupt departure, bound for who knew where–subjugating troublesome Islands, most likely.

Did the Dragons return each night to renew their obedience to the Master? He had assumed the physical changes to be permanent, but Cinti’s colour had been lightening by the day. Was that the result of Pip’s work in conquering his shell-mother’s mind, or a natural result of her distance from Re’akka’s imprinting chambers?

Once, Silver had considered his mental powers preeminent in the Island-World. Then, a tiny dark weapon had disarmed him completely. But he could still teach Her Inimitable Littleness a few tricks. The heavily shielded Dragon angled for the nearest Island.

Time to put on a show.

Half an hour later, a smallish Night-Red lifted from the Island. He limped through the air as if wounded. Silver had chuckled at his reflection in a pond. What Herimor glamour-magic could not achieve, with the help of an expert! His mother’s mental construct had allowed Silver to rapidly and faithfully recreate every detail of a Night-Red’s appearance, but the real secret was integrating that appearance into a Dragon-shaped shield that was, in reality, nothing more than highly compressed air. Even to close inspection or touch, his Dragon form would appear and feel authentic–considerably larger than his real Dragon’s size, to be sure, but Cinti had been convinced a small Night-Red would attract suspicion. The Marshal fed the little ones to the Shadow Dragon.

The shielding even modified the airflow over his wings. Silver practised carefully, making his adjustments as he winged out over the Middle Sea, that great blank space on the map that eventually led thousands of leagues to Jeradia and the Western Isles.

Next, he extended his mind to apply an advanced technique Master Ga’am had introduced during his training, a means to modify the magical signature of a Dragon. Every Dragon left a detectable aurora-trail in the magical sphere, an idea similar to Leandrial’s Balance, he imagined. Pip did have to keep speaking to legends, didn’t she? Silver suppressed an acid spurt of draconic jealousy. If he claimed to love her, he would have to work on keeping up with those little idiosyncrasies, like speaking to Ancient Dragons and making the odd Island-shaking oath. Though he had a few fiery words he owed Zardon! Fancy taking advantage of a naïve girl he pulled out of a cage?

Silver flew steadily toward Eridoon, covering the distance in an unhurried half-hour. He approached the Island just as the suns dipped beneath the horizon.

He started as a huge Night-Red appeared out of the gloom.
Had a little trouble out there, wing-brother?