by Aderyn Wood
Alangar approached and talked quietly with the Zraemian leader. A brief exchange followed, in which Mutat gave him a short nod and Alangar and another friend, Lu – a reed of a man with a hooked nose and thin hair that hung about his shoulders like limp seaweed, stood either side of Danael and escorted him off the boat.
They walked the long stretch of the stone jetty, all around them the hungry black sea roared and crashed its waves on the rock below. Ahead, through the haze of salt and desert dust a large village came into view, at least thrice the size of Estr Varg. Rows upon rows of dwellings lined the riverbank as far as the eye could see. Their walls matched the gold of the land, and the homes were square rather than round. Here, at least, there were trees and plants dotted amongst the gold and brown tones.
Danael closed his mouth as he took it in, but opened it again when he spotted a vast stone construction that loomed up over the entire village. Danael had to tilt his head to see it all. Their longhus? Though a construction such as that could fit a hundred longhuses.
They drew closer still and the village became clearer. Danael’s gaze followed the line of lanes and alleys. Some were nothing but dirt, but others had been lined with cobbled stone. Danael shook his head at the effort it must have taken to pave so many streets. In Estr Varg, only the street hugging the village circle had been paved in order to provide safer footing at the trading market.
Zraemian villagers bustled through the streets. Their clothing was made of a material similar to the warriors, only more convoluted. Rather than a simple knee-length skirt, they wore a long stretch of cloth tied in strange contortions around their bodies. While the soldiers wore grey or white, the people in the village sported a medley of colour, and Danael again wondered at the effort these people must invest in such things as paving their roads and dying their clothes when there were always more important tasks to be done, like providing food.
Laughter and joyful shouts filled the jetty now as the soldiers slapped each other on their backs, broad grins flashing.
Alangar gripped Danael’s arm and pointed to the village. “City,” he said.
“City,” Danael repeated.
Alangar nodded. “Praeta.”
A set of jetties stood along a section of the bank ahead and was lined with docked longboats, similar in size and appearance to Drakian war vessels, without the gangways of course.
The closer they drew to the city, the stronger the stench became. A raw mix of, cook fires, spoiled fish and shit. And some other odour Danael couldn’t recognise. Something spicy. He scrunched his nose, but noted the stench had no effect on the soldiers. Perhaps there was something wrong with their noses not to notice such a reek. Or else, they’re used to it.
They moved to the jetties, and Mutat gave orders to Alangar whose friends had gathered round him. Mutat gestured to Danael with a pointed finger and a scowl, then to one of the longboats. In another heartbeat, Danael was turned about and led by Alangar’s small band of men onto a boat, while the other soldiers continued into the city.
This boat was more familiar. There were oars and the proportions were similar to those he was used to. But why had they changed boats?
Raised voices interrupted his thoughts. Lu and another of Alangar’s friends, the one called Ibbi who always held a square lump of clay in his hands, were arguing, pointing at Danael. Danael frowned, frustration building once more. Then Alangar approached and seemed to settle the matter by slicing the ties on Danael’s wrists and handing him a cup of ale.
Danael slept fitfully that night and awoke often with the drunken shouts of soldiers returning to the boat. At dawn, Danael was woken with a rough shake of his shoulder. He frowned as he blinked bleary eyes. The Zraemian had moved on, shouting orders and shaking other shoulders. The deck came alive with the grunts and groans of waking men.
Danael rolled onto his back. Dawn cast purple colours over the sky. A few stars still glimmered in the west, hanging on to night the way he’d grasped at hope in his dreams.
More shouts of excitement filled the air. Danael got to his feet and rubbed his eyes. Soldiers took up benches and readied their oars. In another breath the boat was moving.
“Skrut.” The familiar voice came from behind.
Danael turned.
General Mutat stood next to the bucket of lard, his typical self-satisfying smirk stuck to his face.
Danael took a breath and bent to his task. “Skrut,” he whispered. What did it mean? Work. Clean. Polish? Something more sinister, like scum?
Danael sunk the cloth into the fat. He had to be grateful. He’d been fed, and still lived, and that was much to be thankful for.
If Danael wan’t scrubbing the deck he was manning an oar. The Zraemians sang as they rowed, just as the Drakians did. Different songs but the same rhythm, to keep the men in unison. They passed another city that day, city of Gordas, Alangar told him. And another the day after, each city proved larger than the first. It took another five days before they reached their destination.
Danael knew they’d arrived before the city even came into view. The excitement of the men grew to such a level that they began drinking much earlier than usual. Just as he’d done when Danael and his fellow warriors had returned from the warring in Uthalia Isht.
And then their city came into view.
If the others had impressed him by their size, this monster made him gasp in astonishment. It would stand like a giant over the others, at least five times the size of the largest city he’d seen so far. Scores and scores of people lined the banks, streets and alleys, so many, they’d be impossible to count.
This place was more opulent than the others as well. Gold and silver adorned rooftops and statues, the sides of many buildings were blue, and nearly all the streets were paved.
Like the other cities, a large building stood at the easternmost section – so tall it cast a shadow all the way to the other side of the river. It was terraced so that each section was slightly smaller than the section beneath it. At the very top sat one small hus, completely blue in colour, aside from the golden roof that glittered in the morning sun. Danael shook his head at the sight of it. Gold for a roof!
Along the riverbank, a large stretch of jetty came into view and the galleys were heading for it.
Danael licked his lips. They had arrived, at long last, and his mind leaped with questions of what would come next.
On the jetty stood a long line of official-looking soldiers. Their white skirts, trimmed with blue, were brighter and more crisp than those of the soldiers on board, and they’re bronzed skin was free of sunburn and salt.
A tap on his shoulder made Danael turn, to see Alangar looking at him with a smile. “Azzuri. Chantro, Danael,” he said. Chantro, it meant ‘come with me’.
Danael nodded and followed Alangar to the galley’s prow to stand with Prince Hadanash, General Mutat and a few other men of importance.
The galleys docked, orders were shouted and the large group of soldiers were marching in a unison Danael had never witnessed before, over the gangplank. They formed a line facing those already standing on the jetty.
General Mutat grasped Danael by the shoulder and Danael was spun around to face him. Mutat’s smirk had twisted to a sinister grin as he produced a length of rope and tied Danael’s wrists together. He yanked the rope hard and Danael nearly fell and a bolt of pain shot through his calf. Laughter rang out as Danael regained his balance. The general pulled him along as he followed prince Hadanash off the boat.
Hadanash came to a stop in front of a man, also tall for a Zraemian. He wore a skirt, white and crisp like the others, but he also wore a collar of gold on his shoulders. He shared some of Hadanash’s features, particularly his eyes, like fire. His hair fell free to his waist.
He was the khanax. No, king is their term.
The king’s amber eyes assessed Danael and when they swept over his tied wrists, Danael though he detected a flash of irritation in the king’s gaze. Though it was quickly smoothed, a
nd a neutral expression returned to his face. Just like his mother when she sat on the seat of rule.
The prince stepped forward and kissed the king’s hand. Words were exchanged, then Hadanash looked at Danael. General Mutat pushed him forward. Once again he was knocked off balance, but now, no one laughed apart from Mutat.
Danael straightened his shoulders, and lifted his chin. Give me a sword and Mutat will be the first to die.
The king’s gaze returned to Danael and he said a few soft words, his voice deep, sonorous.
A soldier stepped forward and removed the rope from Danael’s hands. Danael looked at the king with a questioning frown, but the man’s neutrality gave nothing away.
The king circled him with slow steps, and now and then touched a part of him – the muscles in his arm, the whip marks on his back, and the now healed wound on his calf. Finally he returned to face Danael and touched his red hair, gazing at it as one would examine wool at the market.
The king then looked Danael in the eye. He raised a hand to his chest and said. “King Amar-Sin,” and bowed his head.
Danael blinked. He cleared his throat and replied, “Danael.” He also raised his hand to his chest.
“Danael,” the king repeated with a languid accent. And then he smiled.
Danael was led down a deep tunnel to a room full of steam. Flame sconces lit the gloom and revealed colourful artwork along the walls. Danael studied them. Scenes of fishing and farming, mostly. Some artwork showed the construction of the city in the background, but it was the wheat fields and mounds of grain that dominated. Danael shook his head, wondering how they’d created such life-like scenes.
The space was infused with strong-scented incense, spiced and sweet. A large pool of greenish water took up most of the room; steam rose from it in dancing tendrils.
“Laver.” The man who’d led Danael faced him and pointed. He was a strange looking man. At first, Danael had thought him a pretty woman. His painted face and jewels lent him a feminine touch. He was slender too, even for a Zraemian man, shaped more like a girl or boy, with long slim limbs and narrow waist. He moved forward and placed a hand on Danael’s tunic.
Danael stepped back and held his arms in front of him and frowned. “What?”
“Laver,” the man repeated as he pointed to the pool and performed a series of gestures with his arms.
Danael understood. He’d dreamt of a bath on the galley, but here and now in this strange room – he was unwilling to be so vulnerable. What if it was a trick? He peered at the dark corners. A whip was curled and hung on a hook over there. He faced the exit – a black passage. Only echoing drips from all the steam and the crackle of the flames could be heard. Perhaps Mutat was busy having his own bath somewhere.
Danael nodded at his companion. “Var,” he said. “But I’ll bathe in solitude.” He pointed to the man, then the exit.
The slender man seemed to understand and he placed a bundle of clothes on a bench topped with various oils and jars, and bowed before turning to leave with silent, hurried steps.
The water was exquisite. It was hot and filled with some kind of mineral that enabled Danael to float. It seemed to penetrate his muscles and eased the tension in his back and calf. He rubbed the salt, fat and stench from his skin, and submerged his hair fully. For the first time since leaving Estr Varg, he allowed himself to relax. If only for a moment.
When Danael emerged on the terrace, blinking into the bright sunshine, the slender man was waiting for him. His dark eyes scanned Danael’s clothing and he flashed a small smile before pursing his lips. He reached out to touch Danael’s waist.
Danael stepped back. “Do not touch me.”
The man put his hands in the air and uttered strange words as he pointed to his own dress.
Danael understood. He had no notion of how to dress with their absurd clothes. He raised his arms, and looked at his helper. “Var, show me how it’s done.”
His companion nodded and with nimble fingers he flicked the entire stretch of cloth off so that Danael stood naked for less than a heartbeat, before winding and tucking the material in a far more secure hold around Danael’s waist. It was meant to be worn as a skirt, like the warriors on the boat had worn it, rather than a tunic.
Danael grunted. How am I ever going to learn to do that?
The man smiled, before fixing leather bands around Danael’s chest, similar to the bands worn by the warriors on the boat. The man then placed a hand to his own chest. “Qisht.”
Danael cleared his throat. “Keesht,” he responded slowly.
Qisht nodded. “Sut?” He pointed at Danael.
“Danael.”
“Var. Hrat!” Qisht replied. “Chantro.” He waved for Danael to follow.
Danael followed Qisht along the terrace, practicing the new words he’d picked up so far in his mind. Var, meant yes. Chantro – follow. He supposed Sut meant you, and Hrat meant good. And then there was Skrut, though he still wasn’t sure of its meaning.
Eventually they came to a double entrance and inside a small room filled with the tall trees in pots they favoured here. He followed Qisht through another arch and a vast room opened up to him. Danael gaped once again. This place did nothing but astound him. The room was at least three times the height, and five time the width and length of the biggest Longhus hall he’d ever seen in Drakia, the one in Kania. The walls were gilded in parts, other parts were painted with violent scenes of battles. Soldiers impaled on long spears, their blood and guts spilling from them. A terrifying scene.
More trees grew in decorated pots in sections along the wall. Sconces lit the room and the reflection of their flames danced on the polished floor. There were no gaps where the wind got in. There was no dust. No rats. No stale air or stench from old smoke, or spilled food and ale. It was perfection.
People wearing coloured clothes milled about throughout the room. They’d turn to cast curious glimpses at Danael as he walked through. Qisht led Danael to another room, not as large, but even more lavish, and to a long table, at the centre of which sat the king, General Mutat, Prince Hadanash, and other warriors Danael recognized from the boat. Danael’s eyes quickly fell to the young woman who sat next to Hadanash.
She was beautiful. Her black hair hung in gleaming waves about her face. Her eyes were lined perfectly with kohl, which served to emphasise their dramatic curve and seductive slant. Her nose gracefully curved down and her lips were as full and pink as a spring blossom. Her skin was golden and much of it was on display so that Danael’s gaze was drawn ever down to the irresistible promise of her breasts.
Her fire-coloured eyes locked with his and the world was torn asunder. Giddiness made everything spin.
Laughter broke the spell and Danael blinked.
Hadanash was chuckling as he glanced between Danael and the woman next to him. General Mutat and some of the others joined in the laughter.
A fiery heat burned Danael’s neck and cheeks, but when he risked another glimpse, she wasn’t laughing. She assessed him the way a hunter looked at prey. Her eyes roamed the very length of him.
This one knows the secrets of lovers. Danael was sure of it. He forced his gaze away. Only danger lurked in such desire.
Qisht tapped his hand and pointed to a spot further along the table.
Danael sat and Qisht served him a plate of food – great stacks of it were delivered on trays carried by two people – hus-thralls, perhaps.
It was a feast. One that put the Drakian banquets to shame by the splendor of the food, most of which was beyond recognition.
Qisht tapped him on the shoulder once again and pointed to Danael’s plate then his mouth. “Masa.”
“Masa,” Danael repeated. His stomach growled. “I can Masa like no man here, Qisht.” Danael dove into the food. Some of it proved sloppy and fell through his fingers, but the taste was divinity itself.
When he glanced up he noted several faces frowning his way.
“Danael,” Qisht hissed.
Danael raised his brow.
Qisht picked up a small spoon by the plate and held it up for Danael to inspect. “Masa ta ed.” He scooped the food with it.
Danael glanced to the other diners. No one used their hands to directly handle the food from the plate. They used a small dagger to pierce or cut, and a spoon to scoop.
Danael shook his head, but attempted to eat the way they would expect. As mysterious as this new world was proving, Danael was thankful his luck had turned since the boat. He’d enjoyed a nice bath, and now a delicious meal, even though it was impossible to eat it with their peculiar method. It was a great improvement to being yelled at by Mutat and scrubbing the bloody deck.
Now, he thought as he sipped the sweet wine and allowed his eyes to roam to the young beauty once more, I shouldn’t keep myself from experiencing all the fruits this world has to offer. His cock stood hard and upright for the remainder of the meal.
Heduanna
“What do you think?” Ri whispered as he refilled Heduanna’s cup with wine.
“Of the wine? It is very good. Is it the Praetan?”
Ri rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Heduanna gave him a sly grin as her eyes roamed to the new arrival once more. The barbarian was a striking figure, sitting like a peacock amongst a flock of pigeons. “Jealous, Ri?”
Ri scoffed. “Of the barbarian with gaudy hair? He is a jester, surely.”
“The hair is most unusual, but it is the body that has taken my eye.”
“Yes, I see what you mean. I wonder if he likes boys.”
Heduanna gave him a glare. “Gone the way of Qisht then, have you?”
Ri’s eyebrows shot up. “On occasion. You don’t like it?”
She waved her hand at him and Ri move on. Heduanna returned her attention to the barbarian, studying him over the rim of her cup. She’d never seen a man so tall, or shoulders so broad. His arms were as thick as tree limbs. His high cheekbones and narrow nose so different to a Zraemian face. He’d smiled before, just briefly, and two crescents dimpled his cheeks, and Heduanna wished he’d smile again. His skin was the colour of milk, and flushed now and then with a bloom of pink, especially on his cheeks. He had wide lips made for kissing.