The Onyx Dragon by Marc Secchia

presume to steal Shimmerith’s thunder,” he said, “but the answer is, ‘of course’. Look at the size of a Kassik or an Endurion. Do you truly believe all that tonnage can stay aloft for hours on end without the use of magic, or manoeuvre in combat situations with such speed and facility that one simply must conclude the existence of magical compensation for the forces of momentum and gravity?”
    “I … don’t know, Silver.”
    “Well, then I’d better return you to teacher, hadn’t I?”
    For that, he earned a kick of pure frustration.
    * * * *
    When Emblazon chose to vent his fury, he could be heard from a quarter-league away. Right now, he was delivering his considered opinion to Chymasion Dragon-style, which meant both barrels of his nostrils smoking and flaming, a thundering telling-off and a bristling display of aggression. The hatchling wobbled in the air.
    Pip winced, losing concentration as her part of the pneumatic shield she had formed with Silver failed. Her Dragon grunted and released his construct. The pneumatic shield was basic to many more specialised forms of magical shielding–aerodynamically optimised shields to aid Dragon flight, oxygen and heat retention for high-altitude flight, or equally, gas exclusion to counteract rare Grey Dragon poison gas attacks, and the all-important projectile weapon shield for combat. A powerful Blue could even form a shield capable of resisting Dragon talons and fire. Somehow, Pip had assumed shields would be simple. Innate magic, perhaps, or instinctive to all Dragons. Now she had a blinding headache and it was barely mid-afternoon. And she knew the topic of shields for an art-form in its own right.
    Nak said, “Let me guess. Chymasion said he was rested enough, fine to fly all the way to the Spine Islands. See the droop of his wings? He’s ready to drop out of the sky and we’re still four hours from land.”
    “He’s just a hatchling,” said Kaiatha, nibbling the end of her braid.
    “Shimmerith. Silver. With me,” said Kassik, banking sharply. “Durithion–keep leading your Dragonwing Northeast.”
    “Uh, me? Sir?”
    “You’re in command, Dragon Rider,” the Master replied with the blunt lack of humour of a professional soldier.
    Pip chuckled at the way Duri jerked upright in his saddle, as if he had sat on one of the barrel-cacti that dotted Jeradia’s dry, mountainous upland deserts.
    The Brown Dragon’s gaze flicked to her. Cork it, Pipsqueak. But his mental tone belied the talon-sharp words, communicating bright notes of fond amusement. Today is all about lessons. Shimmerith, can you touch Pip? She appears to be running a slight fever.
    I am?
    Some Dragons see in the infrared spectrum, Shimmerith explained, winging closer as she reaching out with her right forepaw. Remind me to add Dragon sight to my lessons, Nak. He saluted nonchalantly, intent on the confrontation between Chymasion and Emblazon. Here, Pip. Hold steady, young Silver. I must touch her with my paw. Actually, little one, attend very closely. I believe you may possess this healing power.
    Er, her or me? asked Silver.
    The one presently forgetting to flap his wings.
    They bounced in the air as Silver resumed his wingbeat with a distinctly sheepish air. Pip almost expected him to bleat rather than breathe fire, but she hid that thought far from her hot-blooded boyfriend’s awareness. Shimmerith first synchronised wing-strokes with Silver, then descended to touch Pip carefully with her fore-talon. Pip almost ducked. One wrong move and the Sapphire Dragoness could swipe her head off her shoulders like a Pygmy harvesting breadfruit gourds for breakfast. Her headache evaporated.
    Did you sense that? Shimmerith said.
    Ay. That was interesting, Silver replied.
    Pip waved her good arm crossly. “Hello? Another person is present.”
    What would you call that type of sight, mighty Shimmerith?
    Now Silver was being awfully formal. The girl stilled her surging irritation, coughing a