Aranya (Shapeshifter Dragons) Read Free

victims in battle. Quicker than thought, a curl of fire slipped beyond her control.
    BRAAAAOOOOMM!
    The Dragonship detonated in a ball of fire.
    Burning cloth and bits of rope and wood rained down on the city. Echo upon echo rolled back from the frozen mountains flanking Immadia’s capital city to the north and west.
    Aranya staggered. It was all she could do to remain standing. Just as when she had attempted to heal her dead mother, using the power drain ed her of strength. From the corner of her eye she noticed how the King glanced at her. He knew. She raised her definite chin and kept her gaze to the fore.
    Ignathion’s eyes narrowed as he tilted his head to survey the wreckage. He could not have seen the fire rocket upward, Aranya told herself. It had been invisible. She wanted to vomit. So many men, dead …
    “Huh,” snorted Ignathion. “Some pipe-smoking fool got too near the hydrogen.” His flint-grey gaze returned to Aranya. “Take the hostage away. Beran, let’s go broach the best of your beer kegs while we sign the terms of your surrender. I will depart for Sylakia before suns-set. The Supreme Commander of the Island-World will want to know of his latest triumph.” His massive chest swelled as his fist crashed against his breastplate. “All glory to Sylakia!”
    “GLORY TO SYLAKIA!” roared his soldiers.
    * * * *
    Aside from the manacles sheathing her wrists and ankles, the Sylakians treated Aranya courteously. The War-Hammer’s Dragonship was brought low enough for her to board without need to climb a rope ladder. Neither the straight blade at her left hip, nor her Immadian forked daggers were taken from her immediately–perhaps this was the Sylakian honour-code she had learned about? More likely, they thought a woman little use with a blade against the brace of burly Sylakian Crimson Hammers who guarded her with the alert ease of veteran warriors. Aranya scowled. Even unchained, she would not have fought them. She had given her word.
    Besides, she had the almighty mother of all headaches.
    She perched on the chair provided for her in a tiny, bare cabin, and waited. Shortly, a servitor appeared to offer her refreshment. Aranya chose a prekki-fruit juice. The juice would hopefully sate her raging hunger, and its tart sweetness would clear her head. She gazed out of the single porthole above the bunk and watched the suns migrate westward. Aranya willed herself not to show any outward sign of weakness. She desperately wanted to cry.
    Much later, an elderly Immadian maidservant called Beri appeared to inform her that she had been assigned to see to Aranya’s comfort during the fifteen-day journey to Sylakia Island. Aranya knew Beri mostly by her reputation of unshakeable honesty and integrity. She brought aboard several trunks of clothing, and a leather carrying-case containing Aranya’s precious brushes, pencils and painting tools.
    “Couldn’t bring your paints, Princess,” Beri apologised.
    “I could kiss you, Beri.”
    “Most improper,” huffed the servant, but a pinch of rose entered her wrinkled cheeks.
    As the twin suns lowered in the sky, glorious and golden, and Aranya yearned to scream just to break the boredom, commands suddenly began to be barked outside of the Dragonship. Moments later, she heard a man declare that the First War-Hammer was aboard.
    “Cast off, ” came the shout. “Up anchor. Start the turbines.”
    At once, the door of the small metal furnace squeak ed open. Aranya knew the process. She had flown numerous times by Dragonship. When she was younger, she had pestered her father to explain everything to her. The stoker would throw chunks of crushed meriatite into the furnace, neither too much nor too quickly. The rock then melted and ran off into a secondary chamber, dumping the red-hot element into an acid bath. This reaction produced the hydrogen which was essential to fuelling a Dragonship, used both for flotation in the air and for propelling the great turbines