by Aderyn Wood
Panic pumped through her veins as she clambered over the slick rock and ran along the trail. Somehow, she knew with every bone in her body – they were being invaded.
Rayna
Rayna opened her eyes and an iced chill ran over her spine. The world was too silent. Something was wrong. She slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Ana, and stepped down to peer into the nook beneath the steps. Yana was gone.
Rayna strode to the door, donned her boots and threw her cloak about her before stepping outside.
Rhast, where are you?
The raven flew to her, landing on her shoulder as she rushed through Ana’s garden.
“Lead me to the danger.”
The raven squawked before circling up, flapping his wings and creating a chilled breeze in the drizzle.
“Spurn it!” Rayna hissed as she followed the path down to the village. Had she been so distracted by her anger with that ox of a khanax she’d missed some other foretelling?
Squark.
Rayna paused.
Rhast circled not twenty paces ahead, then flew back toward her. In another heartbeat Yana came into view. Her granddaughter ran, then bent over before Rayna with her hands on her knees in an effort to catch her breath.
Rayna’s chest tightened with dread. “Yana, what have you seen?”
“Down… down by…the‒the—”
Rayna put a hand on Yana’s shoulder. “Catch your breath. Give it a moment. That’s it. Now, what have you seen?”
Yana took another deep breath, her gaze lifting from the ground to look at Rayna squarely. “A boat. A huge boat. It enters the bay.”
Rayna narrowed her eyes. “Not Drakian?”
“No.”
“Come.” Rayna led her granddaughter back along the path to their rondhus, Rhast flapping close behind.
Inside, Rayna told Yana to sit at the table while she fetched a jug of water and poured them both a cup.
Rayna sat opposite her granddaughter. “Slowly now, in your own language, lass. Tell me of the boat.”
Yana shook her head. “It’s huge, Grama. And it has a fearsome demon on its prow. It moves without oars, as silent as a ghost.”
“What be wrong?” Ana stepped down from the loft.
“Strangers! The boat!” Yana replied in broken Drakian.
“It will be your father.” Ana smiled, but her cheer quickly faded when she looked at Rayna.
“No,” Rayna said. “I fear it is something altogether threatening. I should have realised.” She shook her head. The desert eagle, of course!
“What do you mean?” Ana’s eyes lit up with the dread that swirled in Rayna’s heart.
Rayna stood and picked up the satchel she’d packed with provisions the night before. “Ana, Yana. You must both do as I say. Go into the forest. Deep within, up the mountain a little way. The cave by the hives should do well. Stay there until you receive a sign from me that it is safe to return.”
“What? No! Tell me what is so wrong.” Ana’s hand went to her cheeks. “Unless… you don’t think the Halkans have come, do you?”
Rayna shook her head slowly. “No, not the Halkans. But a group just as fearsome, mayhap more so.”
“How do you know?”
Rayna closed her eyes for just a moment. This is what the omen had tried to show her. The trouble was not from within the clan itself, though certainly trouble lingered there. The real danger was from a faraway land. Just as the desert eagle did not belong in the mountain forests, these invaders whoever they were, did not belong here. Rayna had no notion yet of what they wanted and what they were here to do. But she would not take the risk with her kin. “Please, Ana, do not question me. Take Yana deep into the forest as I say. Go to the cave. I will reach you later.”
“But, what about you?” Ana's eyes were wide with fear.
“Do not concern yourself with me. I have survived much and more. I will survive this too.”
Rayna watched her granddaughters move away to safety, along the forest path. “Old Ones, look over them,” she whispered.
In her mind she communed with her raven. Wait for my call.
She looked up to see his black silhouette in the dawn sky as he flew over the village. His squawk an echoing cry.
Rayna wrapped her cloak tightly around her and took long strides along the village path. More than once she’d silently cursed the khanassa, Petar, and all the other warriors for leaving them in this predicament. They were out there, fighting someone else’s battle, leaving their loved ones open to attack.
She shook her head. What good was it being powerful warriors, if they were never home to protect their own? Never mind that, she would give them all a fair tongue lashing when they returned. Now she had to warn the others.
All was quiet at the village circle. Only a few rondhuses had cook fire smoke coming from the roofs. She strode through the market ground and passed the large wooden carving of the goddess Prijna, until she came to the edge of the escarpment and looked out to the bay and the grey sea beyond. There, drawing silently closer, was the boat, and just behind it came another.
Yana was right, it was more foreign than she could imagine. Large too. Men stood like a line of ants on the deck, all facing the village. Something gleamed from them. Swords?
She hitched a breath and turned, doubling her pace. This time the khanax would listen or she’d beat him bloody herself. She strode up to the longhus hall and pounded her fists on its heavy double doors. “Krasto, by Vulkar’s hairy arse, you let me in. NOW!”
Sargan
Sargan stood next to his brother on the deck, teeth clenched tight in an effort to stop them chattering. He’d doubled a stretch of linen and threw it around his shoulders in the style of Zraemian winter dress, but it did little to fend off the cold that struck through to the very bone. Mist hung all around like fine linen curtains. Since the last moon, every day was filled with rain or mist; the distance, ceaselessly grey. The skin under Sargan’s arms and between his thighs bore red welts from all the moisture. He’d suffered more from a sore throat and runny nose than he had his entire life, and he’d vomited so much from seasickness his sides hurt just to breathe.
Still, they’d survived. Survived giant waves of impossible proportions, storms, gales, and the monsters of the deep had thankfully let them pass without incident. Even Uncle-general and his bull-headed son had tempered their malicious attacks in the wake of the turbulent sea. The Praetan boat builders had built the ships well and allowed them to achieve what had never been done before. They’d crossed the Sea of Death and lived to tell the tale.
Now the end to this miserable journey was in sight. The closer they sailed with the whisper of a breeze, the clearer this strange new city grew. They had made it, it seemed. Yesterday they’d sighted gulls, and at dawn they spotted land. For the first time since they’d left Praeta, Sargan’s curiosity was roused. He leaned forward, clutching the railing to get a better look at the city huddled at the foot of the tallest mountains Sargan had ever seen. The hulking peaks disappeared into the mist, and only Phadite would know how far they loomed.
Everything was different to the desert terrain in Zraemia. The trees bore strange colours. Some were green, but others had leaves of orange and red, while others had no leaves at all. Sargan had never seen so many trees. Heduanna had described as much from her visions. Closer still and the little city came into sharper focus. Atop an escarpment, the houses stood in a disorderly fashion. They appeared to be constructed entirely of grey stone, with some manner of rushes for their rooftop, and all of them were of a round shape, reminding Sargan of the shape of Bablim mushrooms he loved so much. A number of rudimentary docks lined the shore at the foot of the escarpment, and a narrow stair crisscrossed up the cliff-face connecting the jetty to the city above.
Sargan’s gaze returned to the top of the cliff and the little round buildings. In the forefront, a large nearly leafless tree drew the eye, and close-by a wooden statue stood in what looked to be a square
or plaza, or perhaps a rudimentary kind of bazaar. The statue appeared to depict a woman. Perhaps one of the foreigners’ deities. Sargan licked his lips, his cold, runny nose and welts suddenly forgotten and a new longing to learn more sparked in his mind.
The foreign people were coming out of their houses now, and it didn’t take long for them to notice the two large ships coming toward them in the bay, and the line of soldiers on the decks, all wearing swords. Panic spread like a hot desert wind. Their screams and shouts carried over the still water. Sargan glanced at his brother and uncles as people began running around in circles and through the little city.
Hadanash held a studious gaze, while his Uncle-general was grinning. Then a horn sounded. A single despondent call that echoed off the mountains beyond. People were everywhere, coming out of their houses and running for one of the buildings – the largest, further up the hill. Sargan squinted. It must be where their king lived.
“They know we’re here,” Mutat said.
Hadanash nodded. “Indeed, and they’re already as frightened as kittens. So far, it’s all going exactly to plan.”
Sargan pressed his lips together as another shiver took hold. “What is your plan, brother?”
“We take control.”
“Father said we were not to spill blood if we could help it.”
“We won’t. If we can help it.”
Sargan puffed his cheeks. “Father was rather strong on that point. He said—”
“Father's not here. He put me in charge. Which means that you, Prince Hoglet, must follow my orders, and if that means raising your sword for once and bringing it home to a bloody target, that is exactly what you will do.”
Sargan winced; he’d never hit anything. He'd never killed anything either. Even the scale beetles that sought shelter in the cool of the palace were safe from Sargan. He could never bring himself to squash them as was the habit of most Zraemians. He’d collect them gently in the palm of his hand and relocate them to another cool space around the palace. How could he raise his sword against a man?
As the ship moved closer, everything grew quiet. The people had disappeared. The streets and alleys, abandoned.
“They’re hiding,” Uncle Ru said.
Hadanash nodded. “Yes, but we know where.” He pointed to the big house on the hill. “I didn’t see any soldiers or men with weapons. Did you?”
“No,” Mutat answered. “They’re nothing but a rabble of women, children and skinny old men. Easy enough to subdue. Prince Hog will get his wish after all. We needn’t shed blood here.”
Sargan let go a heavy breath and released his grip on his sword hilt.
The two ships anchored and the small boats were prepared to take them ashore. Sargan went with his brother in the first boat and four of the soldiers rowed them in. Clearly, the foreigners were a seafaring people. A few small vessels were dotted here and there, fishing boats by the look of them. Heduanna had emphasised them as an elite fighting force, especially at sea. So where were their war boats? Sargan turned to look back toward the south, and the mist-laden sea from whence they came. Were they out there in battle somewhere?
“You want to go home, brother?” Hadanash asked him. “There is no looking back. You’re a man now, Prince Sargan, it’s time to start acting like one.”
Sargan pursed his lips. Yes, he was a man now. He’d had his sixteenth birthday on this miserable journey. A day that would have been a cause for celebration in the palace and marked his entry to the temple. But on this sodden journey his brother had given him night command of the fleet while everyone else got drunk celebrating his birthday honours. “Time for some responsibility,” Hadanash had told him, with his Uncle-general smiling on. “Maybe you’ll appreciate your brother-prince a little more if you understand what it means to be a leader.”
It had been a stormy night and the ocean was violent. Sargan had no knowledge of what to do or how to instruct the men. But he’d come to realise the soldiers didn’t turn to him anyway. The whole thing was a ploy to make Sargan stay out in the cold rain all night, foregoing sleep and feeling every bit the incompetent prince he was.
Sargan glanced at his brother. “I wasn’t thinking of home—I was looking for their—”
“Disembark!” Uncle-general’s voice boomed. “Moor the boats. I want every soldier ready and standing to attention in formation by that ugly statue. Go.”
“Sir!” came the unified response.
Sargan sighed and bent his head to climb up the steps. He considered the design. One set of narrow steps provided the only access to the top of this sheer cliff. It was a defence, and an effective one, but why weren’t the foreigners raining arrows and rocks upon them. Why weren’t they defending their city? Perhaps they’d got it wrong. Perhaps they hadn’t reached their true destination. These people were hardly warrior types at all, it seemed.
Half a hand later, all puffing loudly, the men stood to attention beneath the statue. Sargan gazed up at the wooden idol. Definitely a woman, but poised as though in battle, and her right hand clutched a spear. Perhaps Heduanna had been right about that too. Perhaps their women really did join in battle with their men. What a strange notion.
“Sargan,” his Uncle-admiral hissed. “Stand to attention!”
Sargan blinked and straightened his shoulders and faced his brother. “Sorry,” he whispered back.
Hadanash addressed them. “I want every man ready with his sword and shield. It seems the people here are nothing but a group of women and old men. I doubt they’ll make the army we seek, but perhaps they will make fine slaves. In any case, we will subdue them and treat with their king. Questions?”
“If they’re not easily subdued?” It was Ilbrit who asked. His nose was recently broken thanks to a fist fight he’d got himself embroiled in after the dung roach incident. That little jest had worked wonders and Ilbrit found himself on the other end of the japing stick when the others teased him about his stench. Now his nose would be permanently crooked. It suited him though. Ilbrit was renowned for his blood lust. Sargan felt sick with the realisation that his royal cousin hungered for violence.
Something made Sargan open his mouth to speak. “Father does not want blood,” he said, his voice shaky.
“I could do with some blood on my fingers, Prince Hog,” Ilbrit said as he licked each finger.
Some of the others laughed.
“My brother is right,” Hadanash said, flicking Sargan an irritated glance. “Our father-king prefers that we remain as peaceable as we can. Nevertheless, we must demonstrate our strength. I will select a small group to approach the building up on the hill.” Hadanash pointed. “Alangar, Suranan and Ragut, I want each of you to take three of your best and circle that house. Look for its entrances and exits. Return to us and we shall formulate our plan.”
The men nodded and talked amongst themselves and in another heartbeat they were off walking up the path towards the building.
In the grey sky a bird the colour of night flapped its wings and squawked loudly, circling them. Sargan shivered and drew the damp linen, tight around his shoulders. Please, dear Phadite. Let’s not shed blood today. Or any day.
Danael
Danael helped Jarlg with the ropes to lift the newly-boiled pots of water up to the longhus loft. Danael had just come from the doors – the double entrance at the front, and the two single doors at the back – to triple check they were barred and well fastened. He’d cursed his father silently as he’d strode the longhus passages. If the khanax had set the nightly watch like he’d suggested they’d have more time to prepare. They could have stopped the foreigners at the ramparts. But here they were, as vulnerable as trapped rabbits before a pack of hungry wolves.
“Jarlg,” Danael raised his voice as he glanced up to the gangway above. “The ropes are fastened. What can you see now?”
The old warrior peered through the loophole at the front of the longhus. “A group of them are heading toward us,” Jarlg replied, panic poorly conce
aled in his voice.
Gasps and cries of alarm rang out from the hall. The clan was afraid. The whole village now stood in there, what remained of them with the warriors still away warring. Danael bit down hard on a lip. He needed to talk with his father.
He looked up again at Jarlg. “How many?”
“Hard to say. Perhaps two hundred stand by Prijna’s statue. Nine now approach.”
“Armed?”
“Every one of them wears a sword.”
“I’ll get someone to help hoist this up, Jarlg.” He ran an eye over the two large pots, each half filled with simmering water. It wouldn’t be as effective as tar or fat, but they didn’t have much choice, thanks to his father. The water would do some damage at least. Footsteps ran along the gangplank. Some of the children were still lugging rocks and logs up.
“And tell those young ones to get into the hall.” Danael walked down the gloomy passageway and through an archway into the longhus hall. It was warm inside, both fires were lit. He spied Borul and Viktar helping with the central fire, and preparing another large pot to set water to boil. Danael told them to go and help Jarlg. Then he looked to the seat of rule. His father sat in a hunched conversation with Sidmon by his side.
Danael strode over, and kept his voice quiet. “I’ve got the defences readied, as best we can. Nine men approach. Jarlg estimates there’s up to two hundred of them.”
His father frowned and Sidmon leaned further toward the khanax to whisper.
Danael grimaced. “Father, we must prepare. I’ll organise our remaining warriors—”
“What warriors?” the khanax snapped. “That demon Petar convinced your mother to take all our warriors to fight someone else’s battles.” His father’s green eyes burned. “Or had you forgotten?”
Danael licked his lips. Now wasn’t the time for this bitterness.