but he had expended an enormous amount of power in that first, devastating attack. Lia sensed his tiredness. She had to stall Ra’aba further.
Flicker raced over to her once more, flying raggedly, trying to distract Ra’aba with his tiny fireballs. They sizzled against his tan skin, ignored and ineffective. In her mind’s eye, she saw the great Black Dragon, Amaryllion, and remembered the way his power washed over her, the feeling of flickering in her soul, as though a bonfire lived there. That was her power. One of the stranger, more mystical Nuyallith forms was called The Flaming Dawn, and as Master Khoyal’s memories replayed in her mind, she recognised how it mirrored a dance she had loved since she was a child, the Ancient Dragon’s fire-dance from the Flame Cycle dance-opera.
She had to neutralise Ra’aba. That was their only chance.
Leaping away from her father, taking a stance between two of his Green Dragons, Hualiama began to sing the part of Fra’anior summoning the ancient Dragon-Spirits to his aid. Her magic soared, light and ethereal, weaving shimmering threads of silver-trimmed blue.
Ra’aba froze in astonishment. His hand trembled, but his blade refused to rise.
A sacred tranquillity settled upon the gathering.
Lia’s rich voice carried into the vast reaches of an Island-World which for countless aeons had yearned for that stirring call. The Green Dragons aloft oriented on the sound, all thoughts of sacking the city apparently forgotten, acting as if obeying the command of a single mind.
Hualiama stepped into the opening movements of The Flaming Dawn with her eyes squeezed shut against the exquisitely painful welling up of her soul, the length of her spine tingling with an awareness of unfathomable magic. Throwing back her hood and liberating her hair from its pins, Lia poured herself into the dance sequence, the opening series of flying leaps designed to mimic a Dragon’s flight, now tight pirouettes in the pattern of a fireflower, her flutter-steps lightly gracing the flagstones around Ra’aba. Within her, flame rose lambent. If only she could soar on these fiery wings. If only she could fly like the massive beasts raining down around her now, filling the enormous rooftop gardens, gazing at her with the purest and most present astonishment she had ever seen scribed upon the faces of the Dragonkind. A soft chorus rose from them, a vibration produced in the base of a Dragon’s throat, causing the air to tremble in response.
Now, the clouds parted to reveal a second Dragonwing rushing toward Fra’anior from the west, from the direction of Gi’ishior, outnumbering the Greens by ten to one. Reds, Blues, Oranges and Yellows, and many shades of each; it seemed that the entire population of Fra’anior’s Dragons had been roused to war, and that was a sight to strike fear into the bravest heart.
A storm of Dragon swept down upon the Human Isle.
Lia sang and danced for unadulterated joy. How could she not? As she considered Ra’aba, it was with the eyes of a daughter for her father. She would have given half of the Island-World for him to have opened his arms and his heart to her, right then.
Instead, a shriek of mindless violence tore out of the man.
Ra’aba charged her.
Dropping to her knee, Hualiama swung her blades horizontally, left to right, even as she arched backward with all the suppleness of a dancer’s spine, allowing the wild arc of his blade to pass above her throat–in a dream, it seemed to her. Her blades etched fiery trails in the air as they slammed into Ra’aba’s ribcage, beneath his extended arm. A horrific wheeze tore from his chest at the impact. His blade clanged to the ground as he clutched his side, blood spurting from a fearsome wound.
Beaten. The man who had never been touched in battle, had been wounded by his daughter. Twice. He coughed, disbelieving. “How?” He staggered. “How did you–”
Softly, Lia said, “I’m sorry, father. I wished it could have been different.”
Ra’aba crashed to his knees, holding his side with his arm and his free hand. Gasping. Blood flecked his lips with each breath. And her heart turned to ice. What had she done? There was no joy in her victory, only a surfeit of pain. Father!
His left hand wobbled into the air.
Hualiama expected a plea. Instead, he rasped, “Bring me the King.”
The Brown Yulgaz rose over the balcony, clutching the King of Fra’anior in his great paw. He growled, “Lay down your weapons, girl, or I’ll kill your King.”
Lia stiffened. Terror reigned in