A Hatchling for Springtide (Santaclaws Book 2)

by Marc Secchia

  A Hatchling for Springtide

  Santaclaws Book 2

  By Marc Secchia

  Copyright © 2020 Marc Secchia

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.marcsecchia.com

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  Dedication

  To true believers one and all:

  Wishes are different when it comes to dragons.

  Wishes take wing, and come true.

  Kingdom of Amarinthe

  Table of Contents

  A Hatchling for Springtide

  Dedication

  Kingdom of Amarinthe

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: O Sleepless Night

  Chapter 2: Hatchling a Plan

  Chapter 3: Hijinks

  Chapter 4: Royal Presentation

  Chapter 5: Scaly Trooper

  Chapter 6: Togetherness

  Chapter 7: School

  Chapter 8: Flight

  Chapter 9: Subterfuge

  Chapter 10: Assemblage

  Chapter 11: Commander

  Chapter 12: Onward to Gold

  Chapter 13: Lurker

  Chapter 14: Diamond Dinner

  Chapter 15: A Trove or Two

  Chapter 16: Snowflake

  Chapter 17: Hunter

  Chapter 18: Death Fall

  Chapter 19: Garrikar Garrison

  Chapter 20 To the Jungles

  Chapter 21: The Bridge Beyond

  About the Author

  Chapter 1: O Sleepless Night

  2nd Post-Dragonmas

  KRRR … KRRR? THE DRAGON hatchling bunted his ribs with her paw. Insistently.

  “Och nae, again? Cannae be. Go to sleep.”

  Krrrr!

  No. How could she possibly still be hungry? Madness! She had barely cracked the eggshell that afternoon, and had scoffed at least ten meals already. Had he slept one hour undisturbed?

  Lightly, Keir introduced the miraculous pest to the point of his elbow. “That is spelled s-l-e-e-p. Dinnae Dragons ken their first runes?”

  Krrrr. Krrrr-Krrrr! A hot, dry tongue tickled the nape of his neck. Hint not taken.

  Turning his back, Keir deliberately pulled the pillow over his head.

  He even pretended to snore.

  The diamond hatchling prodded him beneath the armpit with the point of her muzzle, which was a great deal bonier than he had imagined. Cute, but reminiscent of Head Ranger Garla’s Ogre-hide boot, which he clearly remembered prodding his ribcage long before dawn on numerous occasions.

  Groan. “Lie down, ye wee walking stomach. I’m having now’t of this nonsense, hear me?”

  With rising emphasis, the trilling continued, Krrrr. Krrrr-Krrrr!

  Not happening. Evidently, parental authority was in short supply around his particular corner of the Amarinthian Bulwark. Any lad of his fourteen anna of age, soon rising fifteen, would agree.

  “Honestly?” he grumbled. “What time d’ye make this – a quarter to silly hour?”

  Krrrr? Krrrr …

  When he peeked out from beneath the pillow, his nose promptly received a hot, cleansing lick. Despite that it tickled, he also marvelled at the scent of her breath – surprisingly fragrant. He had imagined Dragons would be all sulphur and brimstone. Aye, plus smoke and rancid meat and the gnawed-upon bones of their enemies. This was more charred snowdrops and starlight, or some other aromatic combination his overtired brain could not frame in meaningful words. Certainly not at this beastly, unforgiveable hour.

  He had better things to do. Like, SLEEP!

  Krrrr-krrrr. Mrrr? Gnrr …

  She nuzzled him again. No response? Next, a forepaw tickled his neck experimentally.

  Ugh. As insistent as a mosquito in the summertide. Plus, a great deal more intelligent. Shortly, she discovered exactly where he could not stand to be tickled, at the base of his neck toward his collarbones. Aye. This level of intelligence carried a certain annoyance factor, did it not?

  Stirring, Keir sighed, “Stop that, ye galumphing four-pawed pest. Alright, if ye insist. I’m up. What’s the matter with that rumbly tummy, eh?”

  Krrrr. Aye, the one sound that meant everything.

  “Growing lass?”

  Shaking his head blearily, he picked up the gleaming hatchling and popped her onto his shoulder. Only the smallest temptation to toss her out of the nearest window into the cold and snow, whereupon he could burrow back beneath his covers … and wait for her to scratch the door down. Right.

  “Hold on tight, my wee diamond. I mean, who actually needs a lantern with the likes of ye around? What’ll it be this time?”

  The hatchling bared a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. A Dragon smile?

  Oddly, the Dragonmas refrain played in his mind:

  O Santaclaws, o Santaclaws,

  How fiery are your great jaws!

  These jaws were made for munching.

  His eyes wandered around the familiar lounge, still set for Dragonmas. A fire stood well banked in the large, time-worn fireplace. Wooden walls and floorboards made for a cosy space, apart from the charred hole some diamond mischief had blasted through their front wall yesterday. He loved this season. Snow outside. Warmth within. The gleam of a sweet-scented Dragonmas tree beneath which their presents, wrapped to resemble Dragon eggs, had stood.

  So much excitement! His little twin sisters, Arami and Narini, had threatened to pop. Ah, what a joy to view all this through the eyes of children. They still enjoyed an innocence he could not. His parents’ travails had stolen that; he must neither blame them nor give in to any bitterness.

  Especially not now.

  Keir nudged the fire toward wakefulness with a metal poker. Husband the fuel. No-one had much following a brutal, early Winterfall – but who would believe what this Christmas had brought? Just weeks before, he had braved the high passes with a frankly crazy plan to bring food back to the Kingdom of Amarinthe, lest his people starve. That aside, his father had been crippled in the Certanshi war and his mother, but a whisker removed from a lingering death being dealt by the eskirêna-l’næ, a rare winter-fading disease peculiar to Elves. They had neither food in the larder nor income to purchase any.

  Bad luck had nothing on what had struck his family.

  Roll forward to today. He had survived a freak lightning storm which had apparently birthed the last Dragon egg in all Tyanbran, before being dumped down a mile-deep abyss together with said egg amidst a massive avalanche. Then, he had walked – limped, in truth – away from both storm and accident, but had recovered with suspicious haste. He had discovered the fabled treasures of the Dragon Kings, encountered Santaclaws himself, and returned home with a magical Dragon egg that looked exactly like a gleaming, organic ovoid made of diamond.

  Christmas morn had yielded a double miracle. He still felt as if he were floating through a dream rather than walking. His mother had returned from the portals of death itself and his father claimed partial healing, all thanks to the glowing diamond dragonet who was now pinching his sleep by the pawful.

  A thankful person would feed and cherish and dote upon the creature who had healed his mother’s deathly illness.

  Keir was grumpily thankful. Thankfully grumpy? Too early!

  Right. What to feed Miss Hollow Stomach?

  Not the milk. A snippet of veal earned itself a snootily upturned nose. An offer of mixed roast vegetables was greeted with bared fangs. Despite her diminutive size, those fangs alr
eady looked sharp enough to remove fingers with surgical precision. Suffice it to say, this half Elf would not be checking her fangs or tongue with his fingers anytime soon.

  “Now’t as might be called a healthy meal, lass?” he goaded, keeping his fingers to himself. “Dinnae like yer greens, d’ye now?”

  Krrrr … krrrr-mrr ik prrr!

  Developing new sounds already?

  The problem was, the hatchling would wake up the entire household with her persistent complaining. Keir ran his fingers through his spiky white hair. “The furniture? Live coals – nae, cannae be that. Dragonmas tree? How’s about my Dad’s boots, eh? That would make my talons curl, too – had I any.”

  “Try the eggshell,” said Rhyl, his second cousin.

  Keir startled so hard, the hatchling dug in with everything she had – which was how he discovered a dragonet’s talons were perfectly functional, and very sharp indeed.

  “Ah … thanks, cousin,” he groaned.

  Ten cuts. Fifteen, at least, and zero sympathy visible in the green-eyed pest’s manner. Rubbing her eyes, Rhyl murmured, “I read it somewhere. And while I appreciate the needs of the male ego, I dinnae need to see ye wandering about barely dressed when the temperature’s minus something silly outside. Dinnae ye get cold?”

  “Nae. Portable heating,” he smirked.

  She snarled, “Oh, go slap a shirt on it before I slap ye! Er, sorry. Too early. Nice rack of abdominals though, Keir. Goodnight, or good dawn, or … whatever.”

  His tiny cousin yawned hugely and vanished back inside the bedroom that was no longer his, and would probably smell of snarky green-eyed girl from now until forever.

  Right. Life reeked of surprises.

  Wandering aimlessly around the kitchen area in search of actual ideas, he glanced down at his stomach. “Huh. Nice rack? Please. Dear Santazathiar, if only some Elfmaiden other than my lovely cousin would kindly take a few pertinent notes …”

  Such injustice he suffered.

  Krrrr. Krrrr-Krrrr-KRRR!

  “Honestly. Women! I’m trying to find ye a wee scrap or two, ye demanding pest.”

  Apparently, diamond-hard eggshell was just what the healer had ordered. Rhyl was right. As usual. Could she not arrange to be wrong from time to time, merely to break the sheer monotony? Knowing everything must be so dreadfully boring. Ignorance was far more exciting. Was that why the princes in the tales were always such overweening idiots? As he grappled with these deep philosophical issues at the speed of a foggy, badly sleep-deprived brain, the hatchling crunched away cheerfully on a helping of diamond and gold eggshell.

  Would a trip to his private treasury be required after all? What self-respecting Dragon would stoop to eating gemstones? Hoard them, aye. Pillage villages and plunder castles for treasure, most certainly. Terrify the peasantry and eat all the Damask Yaks in the mountains. That sort of behaviour infested the popular ballads like a whole sackful of nasty rashes just waiting to leap out and infect the unwary.

  Eat the jewels? Not so much.

  Come to think of it, was there anything normal about being a glowing quadruped born of lightning, whose eyes gleamed with living fires and whose scales were apparently made of pure diamond? If that was true, she’d be almost impregnable in battle, surely?

  Besides being a vision of eternal paradise to every trapper, scoundrel and bandit in Tyanbran who wanted to get rich in a hurry.

  Suddenly, he wanted to be hitting someone or something. Badly.

  That was why, when his father rose early as was his lifelong habit as a soldier, he found Keir viciously slicing the air above their living room table with his Elven leaf-blades, bathed in sweat and on the point of collapse.

  “Ye look terrible. Get ye to bed, lad!” he snorted.

  “But, she –”

  “I’ll take care of yer wee lass.”

  Keir wanted to protest, but he was done. He muttered, “One night with a newborn has nigh finished me, Dad. How did ye and Mom do it?”

  His father shook his head. “Son, ye keep asking those unanswerable questions. That’s what I love about ye. But let me state this for a wee fact. Yer dragonet is part of my family, I promise ye well and truly. So if anything comes through that door that wants a piece of her, or of any of ye for that matter, I’ll make them chew on my battle axe first. Understood?”

  Keir gaped!

  Then, he noticed behind his father’s shoulder, that his massive, double-bladed battle axe hung on its hooks above the hearth once more. That weapon had been packed out of sight for over three anna, for Kalar had declared himself unable to bear the reminder of what had been his whole life before – armour, weapons, living out of a soldier’s pack, the command and abiding respect of his troops.

  He understood why, but also, found the sight curiously thrilling. A new fire lived in his father’s eye. New confidence.

  Here was a man revitalised.

  Kalar nodded grimly, as if he knew the exact nature of the thoughts passing through his son’s mind. “I’ll be sharpening her today. Properly.”

  “Uh …” he grunted. Top marks for sounding intelligent.

  “Yer welcome, son. Dinnae ye mention it none.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” he yawned, asleep in his mind long before his body slumped upon the makeshift mattress in the spare room. Bed. Pillow. Blankets. Nothing could be more beautiful … next to a diamond hatchling, by Santazathiar’s own wings …

  * * * *

  The sound of voices embroiled in low, earnest conversation dragged him out of a dreamless slumber. The first words he understood clearly were:

  “Yer kicking us out?”

  Freeze!

  “Ye need to see reason, old friend. It’s for yer safety as much as hers.”

  “I do see, but there’s now’t –”

  “Affairs of state are complicated, my friend; much more so in the noo than ever before. We dinnae have the resources, but more importantly, the knowledge, up here in the mountains. I cannae vouch to keep her safe – and if the worst happened, I’d have failed in my duty by yer family, as yer King.”

  Rhyl? Was Rhyl in danger? Rising swiftly, Keir tugged on his trousers and tartan checked shirt. He knew who was speaking quietly there in his parents’ bedroom – his Mom and Dad, and good King Daryan. Before he knew it, the fire raging in his breast had him across the hall, giving that door a firm rap. He burst in, crying, “Rhyl’s now’t in trouble, is she? My King –”

  “Keir, ye forget yerself!” his father snapped, but then his voice softened to a gruff, “What is this? What’s got ye all riled up, son?”

  “Has something happened to Rhyl?”

  Having half-risen from the plain wooden chair they must have taken from beside the dining room table, the King of Amarinthe gave a gruff bark of mirthless laughter. “Och nae, lad, but … do come in. Shut that door behind ye soft-like.”

  Krrrr. Krrrr!

  A white gemstone muzzle pushed out from beneath the simple, burnt-sienna bedclothes beside his mother. The newborn loved nothing better than to lie right up against a person, if not on top of them. He had not imagined a creature of scales and fire would be quite so tactile and physically affectionate, but what did he know of Dragons?

  He pictured sleeping next to an open hearth fire that happened to come furnished with sneaky, dextrous paws and a well-honed sense of mischief.

  Krrrr? she insisted.

  Keir went to the dragonet, acutely aware of her anxiety, and at once sensed the renewed draw of her eyes, impossible to resist. She became his world, his everything … in a way that was at once overwhelming, yet fulfilling. He did not understand. Somehow, the hatchling completed something of him which had always, until this moment, been unnoticed, but now he wondered if there had been a hollowness there all along. In the same way, he completed and complemented her … draconic essence?

  Oof. Mystical mumbo-jumbo always made him break out in a rash.

  Then again, maybe he should get used to it. This living diamond was a
s alien a creature as he had ever imagined, but not alien in a strange, unwelcome sense. He chewed upon the impression for a long while before deciding that her exotic beauty was a thing of spine-tingling wonder, a miracle, a perfect manifestation of otherworldly life. Surely legends told of creatures like her?

  He could not wait to delve deep!

  Meantime, in his mind, Keir tried to project warm reassurance. It will be alright, dear one. I haven’t forgotten thee – I never would, nor could I. You have my promise. Indeed, you will see that truth within me every moment we spend together, and every time we … share, like this.

  The draconic light appeared at once to modulate, to shine brighter at his words.

  Mesmerising, like a cascading symphony of fire, was the song he discovered in her eyes, and it never grew old.

  With the warm hatchling clasped in his arms, but with no memory of how she had come to be there, Keir turned to the King. “It is now’t my cousin, is it, sire? I mistook – ye were speaking of my hatchling, for Santazathiar’s truth, and of the danger that we have brought to the Kingdom of Amarinthe?”

  The bearded King made a strange gesture with his hands. “Heavens, Keir – would ye look at his eyes – nae, it’s gone in a blink.”

  He said, “Sire, I would never willingly have brought danger home. Ye ken my heart well and good.”

  Still, the King gazed fiercely upon him, almost as if he represented a threat. Steely grey eyes took his measure, so piercing that Keir found himself trembling. The hatchling pressed against him as if to offer comfort – or protection? Was this fierce gleam in her eyes a statement of draconic … he was not sure. Possession? A rising of her fires in the face of a perceived threat?

  Seeking to calm her, his fingers stroked her scales, thrilling at the silken texture. What marvellous substance was this? Did it even originate in Tyanbran?

  At last, he responded, “Aye, young Keir. I have known ye since ye were an infant nae older than she ye hold in yer arms, and I value yer friendship with my son Zyran more than ye might imagine. Yer heart is fine and true; I dinnae ken a soul who’d dare say otherwise. If I knew it not before, surely, I ken it well and good by yer actions this Winterfall – so I would speak plainly with ye. Sit ye with us, son, and let me speak my heart and mind, not as a King addressing his subjects, but as a man amongst trusted friends.”