by Aderyn Wood
Gorjna’s smile broadened and her hand went to her round belly. “Gregar ilt Vargor now. He’s my husband.”
“And Prijna has blessed you both with a child.”
Gorjna glanced downwards. “The seer tells me its a girl, but seers always predict a daughter to please their clan.”
The other boats were also docking now, and Westr Varg’s warriors began pounding the jetty, heading for the village. Many would reunite with family. Marriages between the two clans of Varg Isht were common. Some slapped Danael’s arm as they walked past, muttering greetings. He knew them all. He’d fought with them closely on the long campaign last summer.
Khanassa Gorjna was eyeing the ships. “Your father promised peace,” she said, turning her blue eyes back to Danael. “Does he hold this powerful enemy prisoner?”
Danael shifted his weight. Once again the push and pull of his loyalties battled. “No, King Amar-Sin is his name.” Danael nodded at the ships. “He’s from a land called—”
“Zraemia,” Gorjna finished for him, and she placed her hand on his arm. “I know. I listened to your mother well. She believed they would help us battle the Halkans once and for all.
Danael swallowed a hard lump. Of course his mother would have foreseen events that were only now becoming apparent to him.
“And we need King Amar-Sin’s aid if he will give it,” the Khanassa continued. “They’ve taken Uthalia and have their eyes on Hildr and Narseh Isht. It won’t be long before they reach Varg Isht. Next summer, or the one after.” She squeezed her hold on Danael’s arm. “I only wish your mother was here to guide us. We shall all suffer without her wisdom. The others will argue that it’s bad gaeshna to welcome an enemy, that the gods won’t like it. But, perhaps the gods brought this strange king to us.”
Danael bit his lip.
“And here’s my husband.”
Danael turned to see Gregar approach. His features were similar to his brother’s, brown hair, sea-blue eyes, but where Petar was of a slim build, and on the short side for a Drakian, Gregar was tall and his chest was as broad as a rondhus, his limbs muscled and strong. He was a true Drakian warrior, and now the khanax of Westr Varg.
Gorjna reached out and grasped her husband’s arm and looked between them. “I will leave you two to talk. I must greet your father, Danael. It is good to see you.” The khanassa turned and shouting an order for one of her hus-thralls to wait, she left them.
Danael turned to Gregar.
“Well met, Danael,” the khanax said.
“And you,” Danael replied. “Walk with me.”
Danael led Petar’s brother from the jetty and up the shore to stand near one of the caves, away from all ears.
“I was most sorry to hear about Petar,” Danael said, finally.
Gregar closed his eyes a moment before looking out to the misty sea. “Aye, we all were.”
“How did it happen?”
Gregar gave Danael a troubled glance. “The Halkans advanced on Uthalia, as we knew they would. Petar was in the thick of the fighting, when Beljan informed us of a splinter group come down from the mountain. Petar went with them to deal with it. I knew what he was thinkin‘. He wanted his revenge on that mob of Halkans who’d holed up there during the wynter. Damn Beljan. It was like waving a meaty bone in front of a hungry wolf. Vishtna was with my brother. He hungered so much for vengeance he took off before I could talk sense into him. He was ambushed on the way.” Gregar shook his head. “Beljan and the small group that went with him returned not long after. It was a trick. We found his body when we retreated to our boats. His back was bloodied and the flies were already feasting. I used the last of my strength to carry his body to the longboats and home.” Gregar spat. “At least he got a proper funeral pyre. A lot of good warriors died that day and were left for the flies and the ravens to feast on.”
A splash made Danael look to the east. Brutjad and his daughters were rowing past with their catch of oysters. Danael waited until their boat was well past before he spoke again. “I understand Petar received some news from Sargan. About a certain discussion between my father and two others he’d overheard.”
Gregar gave him a sharp look. “Aye.”
“Do you think Petar died of foul play?”
Gregar’s gaze was on Danael. Assessing him, and weighing his words.
Danael cleared his throat. “I know the implications if any suspicions you hold are true. If that’s what you’re thinking. I’m told many suspect my father also killed my mother. I must learn the truth.”
“Your people have told you this?”
“No. It is a grave thing to turn against one’s khanax. They haven’t committed to doing so. But I understand there is talk. Distrust.”
Gregar glanced down the shore, then up, before stepping closer to Danael. “Petar’s wounds were not typical of battle, I tell you. He had stab wounds along his back. They weren’t the work of a sword, but of a dagger, and from the back not the front. I questioned Beljan, but he claims Petar went ahead of them. But I tell you, everyone of Beljan’s group wore daggers on their belts that day.”
Danael narrowed his eyes. “You think Beljan did it? Under my father’s direction?”
“I don’t know. But if that is the case, then we suffer betrayal from all fronts.” He shook his head. “I know your father and my brother never saw eye to eye, not since Ana, well—”
“Ana?” Danael said, snapping his eyes up to the tall warrior. “What do you mean?”
“It was a long time ago, and hardly my place to say it.”
“Please. Tell me,” Danael said.
Gregar frowned. “Not now. Let us meet tonight, after the feast. I will make contact with some of your clansfolk before then and I’ll get the measure of their trust in your father on your behalf. We will talk tonight, Khanal.” Gregar squeezed Danael’s arm. “We’ll talk of many things. This betrayal will be aired, and you must consider your future. Your clan will need you in the days to come.”
That evening, as the last of the twilight lingered and turned the thick clouds above strange colours from green to purple, and everything in between, the leaders of all nine clans stood in a perfect circle around the sacrificial altar. Danael stepped next to his father, avoiding eye contact.
Sidmon positioned himself before the altar. His claw-like hands were raised, palms up, his eyes closed and those dark lips now whispered a silent invocation.
Ulrich approached with a kid goat on a lead rope. Danael looked away. The young she-goat was a fine specimen. This was nothing but a waste. They’d only ever sacrificed before going to war, or for Dark Wynter, never before a great council of leaders. And only ever old goats, well past their prime.
The other leaders all wore frowns or wide-eyed expressions, no doubt they held similar concerns. But Sidmon was one of the eldest seers in all nine isles, and the only seer of Vulkar. No one would question him.
The last of the clans had arrived well before dusk. The jetties were full with war boats, and even the shore now had limited free space. Estr Varg was host to well over ten thousand Drakian warriors. Danael wondered, as did everyone, how the eight contingents of Zraemians, not even one thousand strong, would fair against such numbers if things turned to violence. There would be no hope for Amar-Sin’s survival. But, the Drakians didn’t know the power of the foreign king’s words. In Azzuri, they said the king had a golden tongue and could talk a viper from its hole, and Danael believed it.
They had some time before the talks began. Amar-Sin had granted the khanax’s wish to entertain only Drakians that night. The Azzurian king and his army would remain out of sight, as much as possible, until the negotiations began on the morrow.
But the measure of the clan leaders’ opinions had already been circulating. Khanassa Bera, Khanassa Verag, and Khanax Brughal all agreed with Khanassa Gorjna that the foreigners could help turn back the horde of Halkans once and for all. But the others, the leaders of the smaller clans, pushed against such ‘surrender’
as they saw it and spoke utter insanity and false hopes of fending off two enemies the following summer.
“You fools,” Verag had said pointedly in the longhus hall, causing silence to descend over the many guests already partaking in Estr Varg’s ale. “Drakia sits like an injured rabbit between two wolves and you speak as though it were a firebeast still.”
Khanax Harag of Hildr Isht spat out his mouthful of ale, and opened his mouth to utter a rebuke, his double chin wobbling, but Danael’s father interceded and using his gruff voice announced a special ceremony that required every khanassa and khanax to meet at the altar upon the Finger. There’d been more than a few frowns and mumbled questions, but they were silenced by Sidmon who slithered out from his corner to stand before them, and capture their attention with his whispery voice. “A ceremony that will bless each and every Drakian. Follow me.”
And here they were, before the sacrificial altar. A drizzle of rain was falling and a few moans of complaint came from the leaders, but when Sidmon shushed them with a hiss, they fell silent.
Ulrich had the goat at the altar now and Sidmon gestured for him to lift the kid onto the centre. The goat bleated a weak cry as Ulrich hoisted it into the air and onto the altar’s surface.
Sidmon’s blade was quick, and Danael was thankful for that. Blood spurted in great gushes and the kid’s eyes went blank as she crumpled over. Blood filled the circular crevices in the carved patterns of the altar and fell at nine points, trickling out in steady streams. Sidmon’s cup was under the closest point, it soon filled with warm red liquid and the seer brought the cup to his black lips and drank.
Danael curled his mouth. It always disgusted him to watch the seer drink blood, It was an ancient ritual, and by all accounts Sidmon was the only seer in all nine isles who still practiced it. It was Vulkar’s wish, Danael’s father always told him.
The seer uttered strange words from an ancient aeon, and then looked to each of them in turn. “Let us partake of this blood for Vulkar, and beg him to accept this death as payment for our own fragile existence.”
Everyone bowed their heads for a moment to offer their private thanks to the Death God.
Then nine figures moved forward, thralls mostly, though Ulrich, Reinn and Alf were among them. Hiljda and Una were there too. They carried wooden cups, and at the altar they bent to acquire their fill of the blood.
Danael frowned, as did the others. What in Prijna’s name was Sidmon doing?
“Khanassa and Khanax, drink of the sacrifice.” Sidmon’s whispery voice traveled easily to each of them, as his nine assistants approached with the cups held out before them. “Drakia faces an uncertain future and we ask the gods to look over us. Drink of the sacrifice and take into your hearts the blood unto which we shall admit their divine force. Drink, and together we shall overcome our enemies. Whomever they prove to be.”
Danael’s frown deepened, but all around him the leaders seemed to acquiesce to Sidmon’s strange request. Khanassa Ilda of Narseh Isht was first. She took the cup from Ulrich and drank it all down, and Ulrich had to turn back to get more for her husband, Khanax Stran. In another breath the other leaders also held cups and turned them to their lips to drink the vile stuff down.
Hiljda brought the cup to Danael’s father, and she gave Danael a smile as his father drank. She’d been smiling at Danael ever since his return, and it was the kind of smile that sent one specific message. Danael turned his attention from her. The hus-thrall no longer interested him in that way. Not since Heduanna.
“Danael.”
His father held out the cup. Danael glanced around. The others were all looking at him. Waiting for him to do as they had done and drink of the sacrifice.
“Drink,” came Sidmon’s whispery voice.
Danael’s stomach churned, but he took the cup and brought it to his lips. He tilted the blood upwards, the wooden rim felt warm on his lips, and the thick liquid even warmer. His stomach clenched again, and Danael made the decision. He kept his lips sealed and brought the cup back down, wiping his mouth with his arm. Not one drop passed his lips.
They were all staring at Sidmon who now opened his black lips to sing an ancient incantation. One so old no one understood it. The clouds above had changed colour, a deep red like the blood still dripping from the altar.
All wore a strange expression. Their cheeks and lips had reddened and their eyes were shiny, as though they shared a secret euphoria that Danael wasn’t privy to.
Sidmon finished his chant and Danael’s father stepped forward and spoke, “Friends, let us return to the longhus. My meat and mead awaits.”
Danael couldn’t sleep, so he walked down to the jetty to let the rain clear his head. Flashes from the night’s feast clashed with the fears that dominated his mind since meeting with Yana that morning.
The longhus hall had stunk with spilled food and drink, and later, sweat and vomit. Danael had never seen such a thing in all his years of feasting. Everyone was drunk. Arguments broke out, and full blown fist fights, and other passions were roused as well. Passions that were supposed to be kept to the privacy of the bed chamber. Couples kissed ardently in the shadows without shame, and then the drums struck up a rhythm and the dancing began. Dancing more suited to the Azzurians and their festivals for love than here in Drakia.
Khanalla Ilyag approached him at one stage. Her hair, usually tied in numerous tight braids was out and fell to her waist. She gave Danael a wide, lust-filled smile and stroked his chest. “Dance with me, Khanal.”
Danael drew her hands away. “What’s wrong, Ilyag?”
Her eyebrows went up and she pouted in a way that seemed most unlike the feisty spearwife. “Nothing, I just want to dance.”
Later, Hiljda approached him, and reached up on her toes to kiss the side of his neck. “Oh, Danael. I’ve missed you.”
Danael pushed her away. Her eyes looked strange. The blues of her irises were drawn back to thin lines that circled wide black holes, as though she’d taken some of Ana’s medicines. With the thought of the herbwoman, Danael glanced around. Ana and her daughter had not come to the feast.
Hiljda giggled and came at him again with lips puckered. Danael skipped away and strode through the hall looking for Gregar, but the big man was as drunk as the next Drakian, smiling, ale dribbling down his beard and singing raucous songs. He’d not talk any sense tonight. Danael rushed to the exit and stepped out into the blissful rain.
On the jetty the mosquitoes were biting. He slapped them, and the blood looked blue in the low light.
Such a small amount of blood. How much would be spilled in Gedjon-Brak? And what of the blood his father had spilt in Danael’s absence?
He replayed the conversation with Yana in his mind. Sargan had overheard some strange talk between Danael’s father and Sidmon the seer, and some other warrior from Westr Varg. Danael leaned over the jetty and spat into the waters of the bay, trying to rid the foul taste that soiled his tongue whenever he thought of the seer. Sidmon’s influence over the khanax was stronger than ever. He’d convinced Danael’s father to get rid of Yana. Danael was sure it was the seer who’d pushed for the girl’s removal. He had no notion of why, but the way Sidmon’s dark eyes had glared at Yana, with raw undisguised contempt – the seer was behind it. He’d wager everything he had on it.
His mind wandered relentlessly to the place he’d tried to keep it from – the possibility his father had plotted to murder Danael’s mother, and Petar besides.
He clenched his hands into tight fists and his gut wrenched. There’d be no sleeping tonight. Not with this pounding fury in his chest.
“Bloody Hador,” he whispered, and he flew over the jetty and up the escarpment steps.
He picked his way quietly past the king’s encampment, nodding to the two night guards, Agnanan and Ri. Prijna knew what they thought of the feasting. There were other encampments too now. Wherever there was space Drakian warriors from the other clans had pitched their tents. Most of them had set up in
the fields along the foot of the mountain range where Estr Varg grew its grain. The farmers were none too happy about it either, but they wouldn’t disobey an order from the khanax.
Danael could just make out the flicker of camp flames in the oat fields as he wound his way up the narrow path to Yana’s rondhus. No doubt the warriors were having their own celebrations tonight, but Danael doubted they’d be as strange as the feast in the longhus.
When the rondhus finally came into view, Danael walked straight to the goat-hus and rapped on the hide covering the entrance. “Sargan,” he hissed. “Sargan.” A little louder. He lifted the hide and entered. Inside, Sargan snored softly.
“Sargan, wake up.”
Sargan sputtered and bolted up. “Wha—who is it?” he said in Zraemian.
“Shhh. It’s Danael.”
Sargan reached for his oil pot.
“No.” Danael put a hand on his arm. “The darkness will have to do. I’ve come to ask you about the night you overheard my father speaking with Sidmon, on the Finger.”
“How did you—”
“Yana told me.”
Sargan stared at him, his mouth open. “Well, now I couldn’t hear very clearly. They were whispering and—”
“Tell me everything you heard. I need to know.”
More rain fell as Danael picked his way through the narrow forest trail along the Finger. Someone was at the altar. He’d seen the flames reflecting in the waters of the bay below. As he walked he replayed Sargan’s words in his mind. His father and Sidmon had met with a mystery warrior from Westr Varg on the dawn following Dark Wynter. It didn’t make any sense. No clan member would go to the altar during the great darkness, lest Vulkar consider them a sacrifice and strike them down.
It all drew to one obvious conclusion. His father had wanted to meet where he was sure no one could hear them talk. Petar had been mentioned several times, and Sidmon announced, when the khanax spoke of his sick wife, that “it wouldn’t be long now.”
Danael had pressed Sargan to remember what he could of the Westr warrior’s appearance. Height, hair colour, anything. Sargan had shrugged and said he couldn’t remember. But he did observe the stranger wearing a fur of some kind. Danael pressed him for the colour. “Grey,” Sargan said.