by Aderyn Wood
Sargan
When Sargan approached the stream that afternoon, he could tell just by the way Yana held her shoulders that she was still in her peculiar mood. Being in no temper for her reprimands, he back-stepped and turned to walk down to the village, avoiding her altogether. Anyway, he was late at it was.
He tried to think of what he’d done that had upset her so, but then decided it was as obvious as his bumbling stupidity. She’d lost so much already. Her father was gone, and her grama showed no sign of returning. But why was she so angry at him? No, he must have done something to offend her.
Sargan frowned at the muddy path underfoot. Would he be so distressed if his own father died? A deep well of some obscure emotion in his heart told him he would grieve his father’s passing. Though perhaps he would not take so long to overcome it.
No. He had no wish for his father to pass to the Overworld. Just the thought of his brother-prince becoming king was enough to make him shudder. On the bright side, there’d be nothing stopping Sargan from entering the temple if his father did pass over.
He chased the thoughts from his mind as he turned into the lane that wound down to the village proper. There was no use wishing or not wishing for his father’s death. Phadite had need of the current king of Azzuri. His father would live for a long while yet.
At the trading market, few Drakians wandered the stalls. Sargan crossed over to the Zraemian encampment and tried to remember which tent was his father’s. He stopped at a particularly large tent in the very middle of the camp and entered.
Only it wasn’t his father’s quarters at all. Ushtan sat at a table with a fair sprinkling of Sargan’s other royal cousins. They were all focused on the game of cenat laid out on the table. Anbu and Karaman huddled in a corner and smoked a pipe, which gave off a pungent odour. Sargan suspected they partook of blue smoke. If his father knew of it, they’d be whipped. Sargan watched them for a moment, for they both looked like young men now, rather than the irritating urchins they’d been when Sargan had last seen them. But he didn’t linger for long, he took a step back. If he remained quiet and didn’t say anything they wouldn’t notice him.
But Ushtan looked up from the game and spied him, then an evil grin formed on his face. “Cousin Hoglet! Come in!”
They all looked up. There were eight of them, every one of them a royal cousin, and probably part of the same warband. Ushtan was most likely their overseer. He wouldn’t be half the overseer Alangar was.
“Yes, come in and join us, cousin. It’s been a long while since we’ve had a bit of pork to fry,” Jusuran said with a sinister grin that matched Ushtan’s. Jusuran was Ilbrit’s youngest brother, the general’s youngest son.
Sargan swallowed, his cheeks warming. “No, it’s all right.” He took another step backward. “My—my father. Wh—where is he?”
Jusuran stepped forward. “Your f—f—father-king is with the kh—kh—khanax.”
Laughter filled the tent.
Another cloud of smoke came from Anbu and the pipe as he exhaled and Sargan sneezed, making them laugh all the more. He bobbed his head and turned to flee.
“Hey, Prince Hoglet, don’t be so hasty we haven’t had a chance to reunite properly yet!”
Roars of laughter followed Jusuran’s jape, and something in Sargan snapped. He’d had a year without their humiliation, and here he was facing it again. Nothing had changed and when he met his uncle-general again all the old torments from his life in Azzuri would return. Perhaps he should hide in one of the many tunnels here in Estr Varg. Get Yana to tell his father he’d jumped off a cliff and died at sea, then he could live out his days as safe as a squirrel in Drakia, with no one to torment him and call him Prince Hog.
But that was a childish notion, and he was no longer a child.
Slowly, Sargan turned and faced them. Anbu and Karaman were in fits of laughter, the blue smoke hung in a haze around them. Jusuran and Ushtan gave each other a smirk as they waited for Sargan to respond.
Sargan lifted his chin, the way he did in the bazaar when bartering with the savvy stall holders. “That blue smoke?”
Suddenly their expressions changed. Anbu and Karaman’s eyes went wide and the pipe disappeared behind Anbu’s back.
Jusuran’s smile faded and he took a step toward Sargan. “You wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t I?” Sargan tilted his head just so to look down on his cousin. “If my father learns of it, you’ll all be whipped, or worse. I suggest you throw it into the bay.”
Jusuran and Ushtan stared at Sargan with unabashed fear on their faces.
He snapped a step forward. “If I hear anyone call me Prince Hoglet again,” he said with a sneer, “I might be inclined to tell my father-king of your secret.” Sargan glared at each cousin in turn then slipped from the tent, a broad smile spreading on his face. He shook his head, not quite believing how good it felt to finally stand up to his oafish cousins.
He paused his step to get his bearings, and turned to walk up the lane that would take him to the longhus.
Inside the hall, one of the serving girls was laying out a tray of roasted meat, while another poured wine into cups. The two leaders sat opposite each other at the long table. Sargan’s father was by himself, but the seer sat next to Krasto.
Sargan looked for Danael, but the khanal was nowhere to be seen. Sargan stepped swiftly to his father’s side. He bowed his head at the khanax, and only gave Sidmon the briefest of glances before sitting on the bench next to his father.
“You are ready to translate?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Tell him.”
Sargan looked at the khanax. He wore his typical bleak expression, his eyes narrowed with suspicion, or disdain, or possibly both. “My father tells me I am to translate for you today.”
The khanax clicked his tongue and glanced around. “Have you seen Danael? I asked him to return with your father to the longhus.”
Sargan opened his mouth to speak, but his father interrupted. “Tell him we will get by without Danael, and that soon enough he will learn I can be trusted.”
Sargan passed on the message and the khanax stopped chewing his food. He gave Sidmon a glance before shifting forward on his seat and looked directly at the king. “Is that so? And how is it that I will come to trust you?”
Sargan translated. Telling the khanax of his father’s request to take ten thousand Drakian warriors to Azzuri, over the sea. The khanax interrupted often, making translation difficult and whispering with the seer. But Sargan’s father never lost patience. As the khanax ate, he also drank, and with his third cup of ale he grew more relaxed. Sargan noted his father’s cup remained untouched.
“And you can guarantee me all that gold?” the khanax asked. “I would like to see some. Feel it in my hands.”
“Of course.” The king looked at Sargan. “Go outside and tell Garu and Tuk to come forward with the chest.”
Sargan nodded and did as he was bid. The two guards placed the heavy chest on the table and opened it. The glistening treasure of gold, silver and lapis lazuli shone in the light of the fire and oil lamps. The Khanax’s eyes widened, and even Sidmon looked impressed. Krasto handled a few trinkets, and licked his lips with each item. He held one in his hand, a fine necklace with an amethyst pendant, and placed it on the table.
“This is a good start. I will require more after the deal has been met.” The khanax’s eyes reminded Sargan of a snake eyeing its prey.
“Yes,” Sargan replied for his father. “My father-king is one of the richest in all Zraemia. You will get your gold.”
The khanax took another swig of ale before wiping his beard. “And what of your promise to drive our enemies back? How can I be sure you will follow through? Once you’ve won your little war, why would you bother to come all the way back here to help us?”
Sargan’s father pressed his lips together. “This ‘little war’, as you put it, is called ‘the Great War’ in our language, and do you know what the outcome will be?”
Krasto shrugged. “Of course I don’t.”
“One ruler. One king shall be victorious and rule not one city, but all.”
“And you think that king will be you.”
Sargan’s father gave a small nod. “It is one thing to be leader of one little village like your Estr Varg, quite another to be king of a realm. But it’s a tantalizing thought, is it not?”
Sargan frowned at his father, but translated the message as best he could.
The khanax narrowed his small eyes as he rubbed a beefy hand over his beard, glancing once again at Sidmon before returning his gaze to the king. “Say what you mean.”
“If you agree to our terms, I will place you on the throne to rule all Drakia. Not just one isle, but every isle. All will bow to you, the first khanax of Drakia.”
Sargan’s mouth fell open. What was his father thinking? The Drakians would never stand for such a notion. But his father gave him a stare, and Sargan translated, and sat back to wait for Krasto to disregard it.
“It’s not the way of our people to bow at each other,” the khanax said.
A heavy pause stretched between them, and the two leaders didn’t shift their gaze from each other. Sargan was holding his breath. Something was about to happen. In the next moment they would either reach agreement, or implacable dispute.
His father spoke with a casual shrug. “Customs change. You yourself have seen evidence of that. You remain here as khanax without having been installed from a Choosing. Your people seem to have forgotten that fact.”
The khanax nodded, slowly. “Aye, customs do change.” He leaned over and Sidmon whispered in his ear. The seer’s black lips moved silently and made Sargan giddy as he watched them. Finally, Krasto took a breath and returned his attention to Sargan’s father. “I will take your gold, I will take your offer to help us drive back the Halkans, and I will take your offer to install me as overlord of all Drakia. But there is one thing more I shall like to add to the deal. A gift, for you to take back to Zraemia when you go.”
The king blinked. “You have generously hosted us here in your village. Drakia’s warriors are all I have need of, for a year and no more. There is no need of further gifts.”
“I have sat here and listened in good faith to your negotiation, please do not now insult me by refusing my gift for you.”
Sargan’s father nodded. “Of course, please go on. What gift would you bestow on us?”
The khanax licked his lips. “A girl. Her name is Yana. Your son has been living with her family. I would have you take her with you when you leave.”
Sargan’s mouth fell open. He had to compose himself quickly to translate what the khanax just said. As he spoke he thought through the ramifications. Yana would hate it. She would refuse to follow the khanax’s orders. She would never leave her mother.
“I don’t understand this, Father. Yana is a good person, an innocent. It seems a strange offer to me,” Sargan told his father.
“You are here to translate for us, my son, please do not add your own opinions until we’re alone,” his father replied before returning his attention to the khanax. “Yana is the girl who raised the fine duck meat, yes? I agree, she would be a worthy gift for a king. She would provide exquisite food for my table in Azzuri.” The king nodded before glancing at Sargan, and waited for him to finish translating before adding, “Tell the khanax, I accept his offer."
Yana
The ducks were being difficult. Particularly Patch. They kept escaping when Yana attempted to shut the gate to their enclosure.
“Patch, come now, it’s time for bed. You’ve made yourself a nice nest, go to it.”
But Patch managed to escape once more and Yana swore in the desert-speech Sargan had been teaching her. Desert speech was excellent for swearing.
She managed to pick Patch up and dump her unceremoniously into the pen before shutting the gate quick.
“And stay in,” Yana said through the wooden bars of the gate.
She turned to attend to the goats, and in the next moment Sargan appeared from nowhere, his cheeks flushed.
“Sargan. You’ve been running?”
“I—” He put his hands on his knee and forced a couple of slow breaths, before standing straight again and gripping Yana’s shoulder. “You have to go to the forest. Find your grandmother and go far from here.”
“What?” Yana frowned. “What nonsense do you talk now?”
“I wish it were nonsense.” Sargan caught his breath. “I’ve just come from the longhus. My father was brokering a deal with your khanax.”
Yana curled her lips, and lifted her chin to draw a deep breath through her nose. “Krasto isn’t my khanax. He’s a cunt.” She swore in Zraemian this time. Zraemian was good for swearing too.
Sargan shook his head. “You shouldn’t swear like that, Yana. And he is your khanax. He can make orders about you. He has agreed to let you go with my father back to Zraemia. He is sending you away, Yana! Away from your ducks. Away from your mother. Away from your grama!”
Yana’s eyebrows drew together, tight. “What? Why?” Yana had a vague understanding the khanax and the king were negotiating terms, as Sargan had put it, but she thought it was all about sending warriors to help the king fight some enemy clan back in Zraemia. She’d been too angry with her own problems to learn much more. Angry that her father had died. Angry her mother seemed to go on collecting herbs and honey as though nothing had changed. Angry Grama refused to come back. She shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would he want to send me?”
“Yana, you must listen to me.” Sargan grabbed her two shoulders, bent his head down to her level and forced her to face him. “This is serious. I do not know why. I only know for some reason your khanax, and that creepy seer, were very eager to get rid of you. Why do you think that would be?”
“I don’t know.”
“We best find your mother.”
Yana nodded and the pair of them hurried from the duck-yard through the garden and to the rondhus door. It was almost dark now, and when Yana stepped inside, the aroma of her mother’s cooking wafted to her, making her realise she was ravenous. But her hunger soon dissipated when she saw who stood too close to her mother, near the table.
“Yana—” her mother said, stepping away from the khanax, a startled look in her eye.
The khanax gave Yana a smile that made her want to scowl at him. “I was just telling your mother some very good news.”
Yana glanced behind, but Sargan was no longer there. She turned to face the khanax once more. He now stood behind her mother, looming over her the way the mountain loomed over their rondhus. Yana didn’t like the way he stood so close.
Krasto’s slanted smile widened. “You’ll be going on an adventure.”
Her stomach plummeted like a boulder from the mountain.
Ma looked warily at Yana. Her eyes skittish. “You are very fortunate to have been chosen, daughter. We must be grateful for this opportunity.”
Krasto explained it exactly as Sargan had told her. She was to leave with the Zraemians, over the sea, and far away. A nightmare come true. Back to Sargan’s homeland. She’d leave her home, her mother, her grama, the forest – all she had ever known.
As the khanax spoke, Yana’s gaze didn’t leave her mother. Something glimmered near the seam at the top of her tunic. She wore an item of gold about her neck. A purplish pendant hung from it. Yana frowned. Her mother owned no gold, and her smile seemed forced and hollow.
The boulder in Yana’s stomach fell once more.
Ma was afraid.
Danael
In the afternoon, the sea mists rolled in over the bay. Danael stood upon the jetty and gazed into the greyness, his mind a storm of fears. He must face his father and dispel what Yana had told him, but his wits wouldn’t allow him, not yet. For if it were all true, Danael’s path would be set, and it brought a taste most foul to his tongue.
He spat into the grey waters of the bay. The mists
grew thicker still, and his hair and clothes hung heavy with moisture as he waited. He peered beyond the giant ships that floated as still as rock upon the water’s surface. His gaze roamed to the Finger now and then. Even it was completely shrouded, its tip faded from sight.
Danael was supposed to be in the longhus, to meet with his father and King Amar-Sin, but he couldn’t stomach either of them and their ambitions. Not until he’d sorted out this mess. He considered turning back. To seek out Fegarj or Victar, or even his oldest friend, Oryn, and ask if what Yana said was the truth. He even turned on his heel and began walking along the damp planks of the jetty, but then he paused and faced the sea once more. He wouldn’t put his friends in a position in which they’d lie to their khanal. No. If they’d known, they would have told him, if they’d desired.
The distant chant that could only be oarsmen rowing in time echoed over the bay. Something caught Danael’s eye and he squinted. A longboat broke through the mist, soon followed by others – the fleet from Westr Varg. Danael paced the jetty waiting as patiently as he could for the longboats to glide past the twenty Praetan ships and dock on the jetty. With the full contingent of Drakian war boats arriving, the jetty would soon fill up, and latecomers would have to beach along the shore further up.
Khanassa Gorjna’s longboat was the first to dock, and when the khanassa stepped onto the jetty it was clear she was with child. Her golden hair was intricately braided and she already wore Westr Varg’s clan crown upon her head – the symbol of her leadership. She bore it proudly, as she should. Her family line had carried the weight of rule for more than a score of generations. She smiled at Danael, her face clear and shining in that way pregnant women seemed to glow. “Well met, Khanal Danael. It is good to see you alive and back where you belong. Did the gods tell you of our arrival or have you been waiting all day?”
Danael approached and kissed her cheek. “Well met, Khanassa Gorjna. I’ve been eager to meet with you and Gregar ilt Atanas.”