Dragon Thief Read online

  Kal detained a teardrop with his fingertip. “You experience Human emotions.”

  “Very … Human.” Her shoulders shook; silent, wracking sobs.

  Such soul-shadowed grief! He did not understand. Held close to his right eye for examination, her tear glistened with an inner light. Kal tilted his finger slightly. Motes swam within the droplet, miniature silver Dragons swimming in an inner world, swirling, mesmerising … salt! On his tongue, salt, and a peculiar tingling. Kal blinked and swallowed. What? How long had he … where was he? Tazithiel had grown still in his arms, her sobbing spent. Odd. He felt as if an invisible Dragon had just bitten a chunk of time out of his life.

  I hated Human-Tazi, said the Dragoness. Kal scrambled mentally to switch to Dragonish. I blamed her for what happened. She demeaned my mighty draconic spirit, this inferior being, this abhorrent incarnation of my fire-soul. Yet now I wish I did not stand in your way, Kallion of Fra’anior.

  “If one is to soul-love a being,” he replied, troubled, “how can it be right to soul-love only one expression of that being? Surely partiality is wrong?”

  Is duality wrong?

  Kal puzzled over her question. “Human beings exist as layer upon layer, and what we are able to present to the outside world or even in intimate moments, is never every facet of our beings. Is this hypocrisy? Living a lie?”

  By way of answer, Tazithiel raised his fingers to her lips. Softness upon skin. Something deep within Kal stirred; a visceral sigh. “You argue with the cunning of Fra’anior himself.”

  “No, I just don’t understand. Do you, Tazi? Having lived alone for nine years …”

  Insolent Human! her Dragoness growled. Simultaneously, Human-Tazi said, “You’re right. I hid; shut everything out. I’m convinced I misconstrue many aspects of my nature, or remain ignorant of my capabilities. I’ve never been trained in Blue magic, for example. How wonderful it would be to find fellow-Shapeshifters at the Academy. I could learn so much!”

  Kal scratched his beard as a rash of thoughts cascaded through his mind. “But how does it work, Tazi? Shapeshifters can be either Dragon or Human, right? So they can reproduce with either species?”

  “Or another Shapeshifter.”

  “Um. So imagine you and I get in … uh, in the family way.” Tazi’s dry chuckle caused him to flush rather violently. “Do we have Human babies, or cute little Shapeshifters with oodles of lovely locks?”

  “Perhaps a matched trio of sleek little hatchlings, who are especially cute when they burp fire in your face?”

  “What happens to a babe in the womb if you transform, Tazi? Does the baby transform simultaneously? And Dragons brood over their eggs–does that mean you have Dragonesses brooding over Human children, or Human mothers carrying clutches of huge Dragon eggs in their shawls? Can you picture it? ‘My, what a pretty egg you have. How you ever gave birth to a four-foot, seven sackweight egg is beyond me.’ ”

  Kal’s voice rose as his imagination swept him along; those indigo eyes effervesced with amusement, only encouraging his efforts. “So when they’re born, do these children become Shapeshifters right away, or does that magic come later? ‘Here’s your little Human teacher. Don’t burn him, alright, my fireflower?’ ‘No fireballs in the lounge, son! And no transforming in your bedroom, you’ll wreck the house.’ And how exactly would I discipline a child who’s twenty times my size? Or one who ties me up with her magical hair?”

  “I believe the power manifests at the time of puberty,” she put in, laughing. “But I’m not sure that’s the rule, Kal. And, may I note, you’re weirdly obsessed with my hair.”

  “Personally, I blame the eyelashes.”

  “Do I have too much hair?”

  “Furry all over,” Kal lied cheerfully, eliciting further merriment. “Confession time. I’d gladly ransack entire kingdoms for hair like yours. But one flutter of your eyelashes … ah, Tazithiel, my Tazithiel, how I swoon!”

  “Like an insipid milkmaid.”

  “Vile insults!” cried Kal. Then, with a mock-growl, he lowered her to the sand. “We’ve a few hours before midnight, Tazi, for me to become further acquainted with your eyelashes. Let us waste not a moment.”

  * * * *

  Ten minutes after midnight, a previously Indigo Dragoness emerged from a tar-pit, unrecognisable. “How’s this, Kal?”

  He pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger. “No fireballs or you’ll turn yourself into a living torch, o piceous paragon of four-pawed pulchritude.”

  “Pack the dictionary away and climb aboard, Rider.”

  “I was going to use ‘nigritude’ but couldn’t articulate the alliteration appropriately.”

  Rolling her fire-eyes to the heavens at his wink, Tazi whisked him aboard with a touch of her magic. “Perfect service. You don’t even have to dirty your boots.”

  “Gratefully accepted, milady.” Kal sketched the briefest of Fra’aniorian bows, which still entailed six distinct hand-twirls. “You are darkness incarnate. Now throw off this swarm of pesky gnats. Let us burn the heavens–”

  “No magic, Kal!” Tazi’s flanks heaved as she scanned the far horizons. “I see at least five Dragons patrolling up there; let stealth be our watchword. Shield’s up … ready?”

  “They can detect magic?”

  Nodding, Tazithiel flared her wings and dropped the cliff-edge to the accompaniment of Kal’s soft whoop. In seconds, wind crowded into his mouth and nostrils. His eyes watered. Kal used her spine spike to shield his face as they dove, hugging the cliff-face for additional cover. Down. Miles down, an almost vertical plunge, although the Dragoness twitched or flexed her wings every few seconds to whisk them safely past another rocky outcropping or overhanging tree that Kal missed in the dark. Trust, aye. Trust the pilot. This for a man who had always trusted his own instincts, and no other?

  The Dragoness had attempted to explain the power of Dragon sight to him. The ability to see over many leagues. To magnify vision like an Immadian telescope, an instrument favoured by Dragonship Steersmen the Island-World over. To focus upon and discern details at enormous distances and levels of clarity. Dragons used additional spectra of vision and magical powers to further enhance their senses–no wonder the Dragonkind made such awesome predators. Kal could only shake his head. How had these creatures failed to utterly dominate the Island-World?

  Down they plummeted, until the pressure made Kal’s ears squeak and tepid, fusty air filtered through Tazithiel’s shield into his nostrils. The Cloudlands rushed toward him, moons-lit billows of deceitful beauty carpeting the base of the world; death’s own realm. Not too low, he wanted to advise, but the wind’s rush was too powerful.

  I know, Tazi said.

  Her telepathic speech carried as clear as a bell to his mind. Had he spoken aloud?

  Dragonish had never come more naturally, now that Kal spoke daily with a Dragoness. He replied, Arise, o Tazithiel! To the far horizons, and beyond!

  With a rippling cry, Tazithiel flared her wings, dropping Kal’s stomach from his throat into his lower pelvic region. Wind whistled across wing-membranes as the Indigo Dragoness screamed into her turn. His knuckles turned white on the saddle horn. Wretched attention-seeker! Well, who had inspired whom?

  The black-as-pitch Dragoness streaked away across the Cloudlands, a dark shadow enfolded by a darker night.

  Chapter 9: Trysting-Place

  THEY SPED DIRECTLY southward in a single, day-long sprint. Fifteen leagues per hour. Three hundred and seventy-four leagues, midnight to midnight, following a line of tall, conical Islands–always five to the cluster, appearing as regularly on the horizon as though they had been planted to plan by a mighty draconic paw–before taking a day’s rest in a dell Tazithiel knew on an uninhabited Islet. The space was tiny, barely large enough for a tarred, dirt-splattered Dragoness. Kal wondered aloud how she would clean the tar and bug-splatter off her hide. By way of answer, Tazi transformed upon a rocky patch nearby. Instantly, the dirt dropped to the ground, leaving
a black, Dragon-shaped patch where she had stood.

  “Perfect,” she said, giggling merrily at Kal’s expression. “I’ll fire it before we leave.”

  Kal stalked over. Sweeping Tazithiel off her feet, he diverted her with a passionate kiss before casually dropping her in an ice-cold pool beneath a waterfall at the dell’s eastern side. Tazi shouted at the cold; Kal purchased his comeuppance by falling about laughing. A whiff and a waft of Kinetic energy later and he was equally soaked and shivering.

  The following day, they bent their course south-westward, putting the dust of the long leagues between them and the chase.

  For Kal, their journey was characterised by Dragon-mirth bubbling over Islands. He remembered the stops as a series of Island-shivering discombobulations; when he mentioned this mid-flight to Tazithiel late one golden afternoon, she laughed so hysterically she had to put down or fall from the sky. She took him windroc-hunting to sharpen his skills with the Dragon war-bow. Kal had always been an indifferent archer, but under Tazi’s tutelage–the prospect of ‘rewards’ endowing his efforts with unmatched enterprise–he progressed rapidly, and after seven days of training was able to put two in three arrows within a couple of feet of where he wanted them. The Dragoness amused him by chasing after his less successful efforts, retrieving all but a couple of arrows.

  One sweltering evening after a week and a day’s westward travel across the Southern Archipelago, Kal and Tazi hunted for a roost for the night. Here, the Isles seemed blighted–suns-scorched brown vegetation hung over Island-ramparts hollowed and tunnelled out like Merxian cheese.

  “We should reach my base tomorrow,” said Kal. “It’s right on the periphery of the Island-Desert.”

  Tazithiel nodded. “I’ve flown over it. A thousand leagues of uninhabited Islands. Legend tells how the Ancient Dragons laid waste to these Islands during the first great Dragonwar in order to destroy the power of Dramagon’s legions of Anubam, the burrowing Dragons he created in his infamous laboratories. Now, since the time of Queen Aranya’s victory over the Sylakians at Yorbik, it has become a nesting-place for the drakes. Every so often, the Dragons of Mejia join the majestic legions of Jeradia and Gi’ishior, as many Dragonkind as wish to blood themselves in the glory of battle, to exterminate as many drakes as possible.”

  Instead of rolling his eyes at her naked bloodlust, Kal thumped her shoulder with his fist. “You’ll eat those drakes for breakfast, won’t you, my beauty?”

  “Have you ever seen a drake, Kal?”

  “Er … from a distance.” He had never crossed the Island-Desert, preferring the safer route via the Spine Islands and Jeradia, or at worst, the long crossing via the Dragon stronghold of Meldior, a large, isolated Island-Cluster in the Middle Sea’s southern reaches, an otherwise uninhabited stretch of Cloudlands reaching from Remoy in the East to Elidia in the West, famed for its spectacular lightning storms.

  Tazithiel turned a burning eye upon him. “Do you think I have you practising archery for fun, Kal?”

  “No, for the opportunity to grab your naked–”

  “Kal!”

  “Before I fondle your–ahem.” The Dragoness’ warning growl simmered as he paused. Rapid change of tack, for it was best to keep her guessing. Kal grinned. “So, I thought the Anubam were legend? As in, back in the days of Hualiama Dragonfriend?”

  “A thousand years before her time, Kal. Dramagon was the sort of Ancient Dragon who breakfasted on world domination and supped on the annihilation of his enemies–which happened to be every other Dragon and Human in the Island-World. Give or take.” Her eyes whirled with white-fires in their depths, hypnotic. “He used burrowing Dragons to root out his enemies and destroy their roosts and Islands from beneath. But the Anubam are no legend. Fly into the desert, and you will know it for yourself.”

  “Alright, so why haven’t they re-invaded all these nice Islands they turned into honeycomb out here?”

  “Magic,” intoned Tazithiel.

  “Oh, come on! They’ve been munched!”

  “This magic is profound and mysterious, far too lofty for a mere Human to comprehend.”

  “Tazi!” What mood was this? Sarcasm and humour mixed with completely fake draconic arrogance? Kal loved it.

  Meantime, she added, “Clearly, our ongoing association has reduced your intelligence to the level of the common mauve snail of Fra’anior. Perhaps a period of abstinence might restore you to sound mind?”

  “Abstinence? Great Islands, woman, the profanities that emerge from your mouth!”

  “Your friend Fra’anior, whom you invoked to calm the storm–”

  Kal clucked his tongue unhappily, peering at the wall of foliage passing by on their right flank as Tazithiel skirted another Island. No landing places. A sheer cliff four miles tall, riddled with holes, and so overgrown that Tazi would have to burn her way in, he imagined. “I’m sure that was just coincidence.”

  “Hmm.” Her rumble vibrated every bone in his body. “Fra’anior created the magic that restricts the Anubam to this day. Now, prove this alleged acumen of yours. What startling insights might I gain from the mind of my Rider?”

  “On the subject of Shapeshifter heritage,” Kal replied, “I think I understand why Dragons dislike Shifters–”

  “Because they can’t detect us? Because we’re a threat, and Dragons are nothing if not territorial?”

  What Dragons did was to turn every discussion into an argument, Kal thought sourly. Just listen to the challenge in her tone! “The Shifter Wars began sixty-four years ago, and lasted a decade,” he said, silencing the Dragoness. “Queen Aranya had been accorded the title of Empress of Dragons, a title she never wanted and openly despised. Nevertheless, a rift developed between the Dragons of Gi’ishior and a rival Dragon Council headquartered at the Fingers of Ferial. Those Dragons first exterminated the Humans of Ferial in a month-long massacre, and then turned their attention to the Shapeshifter families of Helyon, Gemalka, Jendor and Herliss, and finally Immadia itself.”

  “At great cost, Aranya and her kin triumphed,” Tazithiel noted.

  “Aye. The Kingdom of Immadia has been but a shadow of its former glory, since, and the Dragon Riders seem a spent force.”

  The Dragoness bared her fangs at the Island wilderness as they passed between two great cliffs into the centre of an Island-Cluster. “Why the history lesson, Kal?”

  “From what you’ve told me, and judging from the histories I’ve read, Tazithiel, it seems that Shapeshifters will never understand why the Lesser Dragons hate them with such unquenchable fires.”

  “How arrogant are you?” A massive fireball roared out of her throat.

  Immediately, Tazi hurled ice at the fire she had just ignited on an Island’s flank. Three or four rounds of ice later, she succeeded in snuffing out the conflagration. Panting, smoking at the nostrils, she fought to regain her composure. Meantime, the Rider on her back sat as though turned to stone. Great. Why ask for his thoughts if she was simply going to toss fireballs about in annoyance?

  Tazithiel grumbled, “Ruddy Dragon emotions. Trust me, it’s a different storm every minute. Speak, Kal.”

  “Speak.” He imitated her draconic growl. “So, Dragons are creatures of fire, the embodiment of the draconic fire-soul–the Dragonsoul. They are the magical, powerful once-masters of the Island-World. Then we have Humans, the usurping hordes, perhaps created by Dragons but most certainly slaves of Dragons for many generations. Most Dragons look down upon Humans as some form of fast-breeding, swarming lowlifes, of lesser capability, intelligence and achievement. Pests, in short.”

  Tazithiel blew smoke over her shoulder. “Aye, I definitely know a prime example of pesky humanity.”

  Kal sniffed at her jibe, saying, “Then, we introduce Shapeshifters. Dragon fire-soul plus. Or is that minus? Don’t give a traditional Dragon the two manifestations of one soul argument. Dragonsoul mixed with Human-soul? Bah. You’ve just polluted a beautiful, pure fire-soul. So at best this Human sidekick is so
mething akin to a nasty disease. And how can a Dragonsoul possibly manifest in Human form? It’d burn up. So our friendly traditional Dragons say that to be a true, genuine Dragon, you have to be exclusively Dragon. Isn’t that so?”

  Her nodding bobbed him up and down. “Don’t mince your words, Kal.”

  “Sorry. It gets worse. So, according to our previous discussion, in the case of two Dragons having a Shapeshifter offspring, the hatchling starts as a lovely Dragon that develops a Human taint, and not just a harmless wart either, it’s seen more as a cancer or a disfigurement. Jumping the other way, two Humans have a Shapeshifter offspring–the child grows up fully Human until one day, wham! Dragon. Where did their Dragonsoul exist meantime? Arrayed in Human flesh? Unthinkable. Perverse, even. And when they die, does their Human-soul join the eternal fires of the Dragonkind? How?”

  Tazithiel’s body had grown rigid as he spoke, her wingbeat leaden.

  “First, we’ve the possibility that a Human can manipulate or dominate a Dragon. Second, that a fire-spirit can exist in the most demeaning of flesh. Third, the sacred eternal fires are contaminated by impure, undraconic spirits. Shapeshifters can achieve all this, undetected. Religiously, philosophically, existentially–it’s a mess.”

  As though speaking to himself, Kal added quietly, “I truly hope I’m wrong, Tazithiel. But I believe the fundamental question is not one of manifestations. It is the state, or fate, of a Shapeshifter’s very soul.”

  The Indigo Dragoness became still. Dangerously still. Suddenly, Kal sensed the world rushing toward him. He threw up his hands in defence, but there was no impact.

  GGRRRAAARRGGGH!

  A crack of real thunder echoed between the Isles, supplemented by a massive, five-times-forked bolt of lightning which stabbed outward from Tazithiel’s body to explode against the Islands around and ahead of them. Kal twisted in his saddle. Strange. Did he detect the sharp tang of a storm despite a clear sky? On cue, a powerful gust of wind kicked up, scudding them forward at a noticeably sharper velocity. Before his startled eyes, heavy clouds began to draw together low around the Islands, dark billows shrouding the dry flanks of the Isles as if cloaks drew shut about the throats of performers about to stage a storming routine.