Dragonshade (The Secret Chronicles of Lost Magic Book 2)

by Aderyn Wood

  “Yana, that’s not true,” Grama said. “Think of Sargan. Think of Danael.”

  Yana nodded. She turned to Vargu. “Who are these Ravnak?”

  The two mountain-folk gave each other a knowing look. “They are an ancient people, as old as our own race.”

  “They’re evil?”

  Vargu tilted his head. “They want to do us harm. They want to do your people harm. We must stop them.”

  “How many ancient races are there?”

  Vargu gave her a smile. “In the beginning, in all the lands there were eight, though only four survive.”

  “Four? What happened to the others?”

  Vargu stood with a small sigh. “Destroyed by the Ravnak. They hunger to be the sole inhabitants of Larth.”

  “Larth?”

  Vargu gave her a frown. “You have questions. That is well, but now is not the time, little one. Get your rest, you will need it for this evening."

  Yana watched the small man go. Then a movement caused her gaze to shift skywards. Above in the clouds two large wings moved in graceful swoops, up and down. She recalled the fear she’d felt when she first laid eyes on Argath. Now a warm glow radiated within her. A comfort in knowing the dragon was safe, unharmed. She wished the day was done with. She was eager to bind once more.

  Part XXIX

  Azzuri

  Sommer

  Ninth year of King Amar-Sin’s reign

  5,846 years ago…

  Sargan

  “I don’t understand,” Sargan said, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you tell me of the treachery, if you knew of it?”

  His father sat up in a chair. Qisht was by his side, and the king held a hand over Qisht’s own. The affection between them was strong, and it seemed Sargan’s father had no wish to hide the fact. Qisht still looked worse for wear, but he would mend with time.

  His father spoke, “I wasn’t certain, but I’ve held suspicions since before Hadanash returned to us. I threw a few scant tests in his path and he failed them. I kept waiting for the goddess to confirm it, but she never did. Of course I hoped he wasn’t moving against his own father, but his actions spoke a truth that was difficult to deny. You suspected Qisht of being a spy.” Father spoke to Heduanna. “You weren’t entirely wrong.”

  Qisht cleared his throat. “Only I was spying for Azzuri, not against it – I conveyed a number of false reports to Eshu, before Hadanash set him straight.”

  “And he risked his life for it,” the king said, squeezing his lover’s hand once more.

  Heduanna let out a loud breath. “I’m sorry, Father.” Tears glimmered in her eyes. “It was my fault, I didn’t read the visions correctly. Hadanash was always there, loitering in the background, but my eyes were closed to the fact that he was betraying us, and Uncle-general.”

  “Daughter,” their father winced. The stomach pains were easing, but they still troubled him. “You are not to blame yourself. You have interpreted much. Only a god can understand all.” He smiled. “And you are not divine, not yet anyway.”

  Heduanna nodded but tears fell from her face. “And I must apologise to you, Qisht, for treating you the way I did.”

  Qisht shook his head. “No. You have always had your father foremost in your heart. I do not blame you for wanting to protect him at all costs. Hadanash was very clever with his scheming, using my old name, Wraith, to convince you I was in league with the enemy. I am sorry Kisha fell under his spell.”

  Heduanna clenched her hands together until her knuckles whitened. “That is my fault. I drove her to him with my cruelty.”

  Father squeezed Qisht’s hand before leaning forward. “But daughter, has the goddess confirmed their treachery for you now? Do you see it clearly?”

  Sargan let go a slow breath. His father still didn’t want to believe it himself. His own brother and son, turned against him, and they took most of the army with them, and still, his father didn’t want to believe.

  But Heduanna nodded. “Yes, Father. She has shown me. He has betrayed us. Rabi, and his brother before him promised both Hadanash and Mutat seats of power here in Azzuri if they sided with them in the Great War to Come. It seems he didn’t need much convincing to murder his own father and steal the throne for himself.”

  Danael entered the king’s suite with the newly appointed commanders Ru, Tizgar and Ubranum. “Exalted,” Danael said, slightly out of breath. “The city is evacuated.”

  The king nodded. “To Praeta?”

  “Mostly, though the desert seer has led some of the sick into the desert as well.”

  “Very well. Then it is time.” He looked to his small group of trusted counsellors before resting his gaze on Heduanna. “And Phadite still intends for us to win this war?”

  “She does, Father. Our remaining army must stay on the galleys at all times. The battle must occur on the river.” She turned to Danael. “You must tell the soldiers to listen for my voice. I will speak directly into their minds.”

  Danael frowned. “How?”

  “You will understand when it happens. It is time for all of you to go to the galleys.”

  “Where will you go?” Danael asked her.

  “To Phadite’s temple atop the palace.”

  “But surely the palace will be ransacked,” Qisht said. “You won’t be safe, Princess.”

  “I’ll be safe. The goddess will protect me.”

  Sargan stood to make his way to the docks, but his father called his name.

  “Sargan, stay a moment.”

  “Exalted, we must leave now.” Danael turned back. “In fact I think you should still consider leaving the city altogether.”

  The king shook his head. “Phadite gave me a message and I intend to see it through. I will be here when the fighting begins. Now leave me. Sargan and Qisht will help me to the docks.”

  Danael gave a slow nod before turning and leaving with the others.

  Sargan returned to his seat and looked at his father.

  The king was staring at Qisht then turned his gaze to Sargan. “There is something you will need.” The king nodded at Qisht who brought forward a silk pouch and emptied the contents into the palm of his hand. He extended his hand and gave the object to Sargan.

  Sargan’s eyes widened as he recognised it. The blue centrepiece, the silver band. The heir ring. “Father, I am not worthy.”

  “You’re more worthy than any other in Azzuri, Sargan. You are wise beyond your years, you are smart, you are humble. There is much more you must learn, but you are and always have been a better prince than your brother, and it is my intention that you will supersede me.”

  Sargan’s mouth fell open. “So that’s why you didn’t want me going into the temple?”

  His father nodded. “And it’s why you needed to continue with the dreaded sword practice. I am sorry you never enjoyed it, but I only ever saw that as a boon. One who enjoys killing should never be king.”

  Sargan was shaking his head. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t believe I can be king. I just—”

  “It is a lot to take in, young Sargan,” Qisht spoke. “But you will have help. As long as you never close your mind to the insights of others you will always have help. Your father listens. Some guidance he ignores, others he accepts. Some he will never trust, others he trusts implicitly. It can be difficult to discern the trustworthy from the schemers and sycophants, but your humility will keep you grounded.”

  Sargan nodded slowly.

  Qisht spoke as he stood. “We must leave, the enemy comes.”

  Danael

  “I wish you’d reconsider,” Danael pleaded with his lover. “Qisht was right, the palace will be ransacked. You won’t be safe. It’s not too late to escape with the rest of Azzuri.” Danael’s throat tightened, and he felt like punching something. He wished he could throw Heduanna over his shoulder and put her on a galley to Praeta himself.

  “I must be with the goddess. I must guide Yana. Please, let’s not argue when we are to say goodbye.�
�� She stepped closer and threw her arms around him. His throat tightened more but his resolve melted.

  “The way you say that, you make it seem like we’ll never see each other again.”

  She looked up at him, her chin resting on his chest. “I love you, Danael. I’ve always loved you.”

  He gave her a sad smile. “Then marry me when all this is done. In my country or here in yours, it matters not to me, as long as we are together.”

  Heduanna closed her eyes and a tear drew a line of moisture down her cheek. “Yes.”

  “What? You agree?”

  “Yes. When this is over, and if we both survive, I will do it. I will be your wife.”

  Danael smiled and, wrapping his arms tight about her, he lifted her and kissed her deeply. “There’s no getting out of it now. You’ve promised me your own hand, and us barbarians do not allow our promises to go unfulfilled.”

  She smiled. “Goodbye, my love,” she said again, and Danael didn’t like the sadness in her tone. They kissed once more and he watched her ascend the steps, on her way to the very top of the palace and the goddess’s temple.

  “Drakians! Fall back!” Danael yelled and the line of warriors scrambled over the gunwales to the next set of galleys. He swore under his breath. They were losing. Fast. The river was choked with galleys and the enemy had surrounded them completely. Danael had never seen so many soldiers. Tens of thousands of them on the river and the banks, and they filled the city already. At least the citizens had all been evacuated.

  Blood was everywhere. It made the decks slippery as it spilled into the river. By day’s end the Uryphat would run red.

  They’d been surrounded. The galleys remaining to them sat in the centre of the river, utterly encircled by enemy vessels. The boats rubbed together, the wood moaning and groaning under the swaying pressure of the enemy fleet. Danael had ordered the king and Prince Sargan be moved to the very centre, and the Drakians and what remained of those soldiers still loyal to Azzuri attempted to hold the line while they waited for Phadite to work the promised miracle. But as they gave more ground, or more of their galleys, Danael began to wonder if it weren’t all a figment of Heduanna’s imagination. They were dying like desert flies.

  Danael had lines of warriors fighting in spurts until the captains called for the line behind to step up to the mark and the prior group had time to rest, going to the back to wait their turn once more.

  Above, on the gangplanks, Ilyag had the spearwives doing their bit. Some of them had adopted the Zraemian fondness for flame and a number of spears were set alight before being launched into the melee. The effect was accurate, deadly and fear-inducing. If they ever survived this mess they would take the tactic back with them to Drakia to help defeat the Halkans. Though the thought was as a dream. Danael doubted he would ever see Drakia again.

  “Next line!” Danael called, and the captains echoed the order. The front lines moved back allowing the fresh row of warriors to step up. But the enemy were too much. Too many. And they fought with a ferocity that only came with confidence, the confidence of knowing they were winning. Though Danael wondered if the ichorseer had a hand in their fervour. He’d seen evidence of witchery on the crazed faces of the Halkan horde every summer of his life, and the mad grins of the Urul soldiers were too similar to ignore.

  A tap on his shoulder and Danael spun to see a grim-faced Ru facing him. “King Amar-Arandash is dead, and so are a number of his men.”

  Danael gritted his teeth. Arandash had been one of the few leal kings still loyal to Azzuri and not frightened off by the impossible odds. “Warriors dead everywhere.”

  “I know. What is Phadite doing?”

  Danael glanced at the blue temple atop the palace. It shone vivid and spectacular above the din of the city. Would Rabi’s soldier’s have begun ransacking the palace yet? Heduanna’s warning suddenly rang clear in his head. “Stay here and order the line change, Ru. I’m going to stand with the king. It’s only a matter of time before they break our lines."

  Ru nodded and Danael climbed the gunwales and made his way to the central galley praying to his own gods as he moved. Phadite no longer seemed tenable.

  Sargan

  Sargan’s hand curled around the jeweled hilt of his sword. He licked his lips and shifted his eyes frantically from soldier to soldier as the clang and screams of battle rose around them. The Drakian warriors fought bravely, but they were heavily outnumbered, and the horde of enemy soldiers just kept coming over the gunwales forcing their way through to the centre galley with crazed desperation. Blood coated the deck and the soldiers slipped as they fought. One thing Sargan had learned about swordplay, footing was crucial. But the rising wall of fallen on the deck was making it that much harder, and the line of Drakian warriors protecting them drew ever backwards.

  Sargan shifted on his feet, back and forth. The grim truth of the situation dawning on him. He was going to die, and this was the very reason his father had made him suffer sword practice. But here he was, allowing others to do the dying for him, protecting him ‒ a pampered prince. He gripped his sword once more and took a step forward.

  But a hand grasped his arm. His father sat on a chair to his right. “Stay by my side, Sargan.”

  Sargan took a sharp breath. “And let others die for me?”

  His father nodded.

  A shout from behind rose above the din and Sargan turned. Danael approached, he leaped over the gunwale, parried an enemy blow with his sword as easily as he might have swiped at a fly, and in a few short steps he was next to them. “Exalted,” he bent to face Sargan’s father. “You must come with me now. Admiral Dannu has a galley with our strongest oarsmen. We must get you to him so you can flee to Praeta.”

  “No,” the king replied. He held a hand out to the fighting. “This is the prophecy come to life. I will remain to see how it unfolds, and how the goddess plays her next hand.”

  Sargan frowned as Danael gave him a desperate look. “Father, we have lost. You must retreat, if it’s possible.”

  His father looked up at him. His face was as calm as it always was. How could he remain so tranquil? His own brother and son had turned on him and had taken their soldiers with them. How could he not be angry?

  “Exalted,” Danael spoke again. “King Amar-Arandash has been slaughtered, as well as a number of our commanders and captains, and thousands of warriors. The way the enemy fights… I tell you, there is witchery in it. If Phadite was to play her hand, it needed to be done before now. Sargan is right. We’ve lost.”

  But still Sargan’s father shook his head. “‘Let all the venom that lurks in the sands spring forth.’ That’s what she told me, and that’s what we see before us. She waits for every enemy to come forth to face her doom.”

  “There they are!” A familiar voice shouted and Sargan’s blood ran cold. His brother’s voice.

  “And now the venom spews forth,” the king said.

  Sargan snapped his head up. Three figures had boarded their galley. A space had been opened for them and now a wall of enemy soldiers stood between them and the fighting that continued on the galleys beyond.

  Danael had stepped back silently to crouch behind a barrel, a finger to his lips as he glanced at Sargan, and a hand clutching his sword.

  Hadanash grinned a mad smile as he stalked closer, Uncle Mutat beside him. “You stubbornly remain here, Father. Foolishly believing Phadite will save you.”

  Father looked up at him. “Son…” Tears formed in Father’s eyes and Sargan blinked his own tears back. “I do,” Father replied. “Not for myself. She will save Zraemia though.” He turned his attention to Mutat. “Here you are, then, brother. I hope you enjoy the vengeance you have sought for so long. Still, you will not gain the throne, that must be a bitter poison to swallow.”

  Mutat snarled and held his sword aloft. “You were never meant to be king—”

  “That’s right. But our father-king changed his mind, and here I am. King.”

  “N
ot for much longer,” Mutat lifted his sword but Hadanash held out his hand.

  “No, Uncle,” Hadanash said. “Remember. I alone will have the honour of killing my father.”

  Sargan gaped. “No!”

  Mutat spat. “Just be sure to do it properly this time.”

  Hadanash’s wild grin returned. “Oh, I shall. Poison isn’t my weapon of choice, but this is.” Hadanash withdrew his sword, he swept it through the air and the blade blazed with fire.

  Sargan shook his head. He thinks he’s the blaze bearer.

  Hadanash brought his sword before him. Too late Sargan lurched forward, sword held fast. But Hadandash was quick, and agile, and in two short steps he’d sliced their father’s throat. Blood gushed and Father’s proud head, always held so high, fell forward, as though he slept in his chair.

  Danael moved as quick as a snake’s strike, but he'd been too far away. “My king,” he yelled as he tore the blazing blade from Hadanash’s hand and readied to strike, but Mutat stepped between them. “Oh, no. You’re mine, barbarian cunt!”

  Sargan shook his head as he stumbled back and another familiar voice spoke in his ear. “We meet again, Prince Hog.”

  Sargan spun. “Rabi.”

  “Not any more.” Rabi grinned. “It’s King Amar-Ra now. You like it, Hog? The Sun King! My priests have already announced my divinity. I’m a god.”

  Sargan gritted his teeth at the rat. More scars adorned his face now, a face that had matured somewhat in the two sommers since he’d seen him. He’d filled out too, and was even taller now. As much as Sargan didn’t want to admit it, Rabi looked like a king. A leader of soldiers.

  “I predicted this day once.” The rat king smirked. “Do you remember? That day in the ring?”

  Sargan scowled.

  “I said if ever the day came when the fate of our two cities came down to a fight between you and me, well…”

  Gripping his sword hilt tight, Sargan glanced to the side. Danael and his uncle were in the throws of a fight to the death. The flaming sword crackled as Danael swung it through the air.