Dragonshade

by Aderyn Wood

  The others laughed as Varashti scowled at them. “Azzuri hasn’t faced war for ages.”

  “No.” Nanum took a step toward Varashti. “But who do you think the king dispatches to our leal cities when they need assistance? Well, I doubt they’ll send you, Varashti. Let’s just hope your ill-luck doesn’t affect us today.” Nanum poked a finger at Varashti’s chest, making the young man’s scowl turn darker.

  Danael couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He, too, received scorn for his place in the prestigious king’s contingent. Qisht had told him it was expected that a prince, and diplomatic hostage should be placed there, and to ignore the japes from those who were no doubt jealous of his position. But Varashti didn’t have a drop of royal blood, as the Azzurians were like to say – he was a commoner. It wasn’t his fault his father had bought him a place in the king’s contingent, just for the prestige of it. “In Drakia, Varashti,” Danael said, “we have saying. Chin up.”

  Varashti lifted his head but gave Danael a shrug. “I’m a merchant’s son, good for nothing but trading in rugs and pretty ornaments. You’re all soldiers’ sons. What is my father thinking? Why does he want me here? I do not know.”

  “He wants you to make him proud so he can trade more of his silks with our fathers. He wants to get rich on your blood, Varashti,” Nanum said with a mean laugh.

  “I’m not the son of a soldier, either,” Lu said.

  “Yes,” Varashti replied, attempting to tie his own wristbands. “It still baffles me why the son of a king’s scribe would want to join the army. You must have sand in your head.”

  Lu raised an eyebrow. He was tall for a Zraemian, though not as tall as Alangar, or the general, or the general’s son, Ilbrit. Slender too. Lanky, Danael’s mother would say, not the type she’d have as a warrior. If Danael was honest, he also failed to see what had drawn Lu to become a military man. He, like Ibbi, seemed to prefer reading tablets, or scrawling mysterious scribbles to getting dirty with swordplay.

  “Something about the song of a sword,” Lu said wistfully.

  “Ridiculous,” Varashti scoffed, his voice rising until it almost squeaked. “I hope General Mutat doesn’t pair me with his son. In the two moons since I’ve entered the army, I’ve managed to avoid a duel with him.”

  “Ilbrit should be paired with me, or one of the other overseers, Varashti.” Alangar tapped Danael’s arm. “You’re done, barbarian. My turn.”

  Danael stretched and turned. He picked up Alangar’s wristbands from the bench. Alangar was the leader of their band, the overseer he was called. There were ten bands in the king’s contingent, the best of the best, excluding Varashti, and together, they were led by the general himself.

  It was customary for each warband to be made up of eight men. Eight was considered a lucky number by Azzurians. They had that in common with Drakians. And luck was something to believe in here. But, with Varashti’s admittance, they now numbered nine, and nine was a most unlucky number. It brought Varashti no affection. Perhaps if he’d been more capable and less irritating, the others would have overlooked the luck problem.

  Still, the others were good men, and Danael considered them friends, mostly. Alangar, Nanum, Ibbi, Ru, Ubranum and Tizgar were all sons of soldiers. Lu was the son of a scribe, but he’d taken to swordplay the way a goose took to the air – a bit awkwardly to start with, but once he hit his strides, he soared. Varashti was the son of a merchant and lacked the fundamental knowledge the others had ingrained in them since they could walk. It was an oddity to have someone like Varashti in their ranks, and it would never happen in Estr Varg. Danael’s mother wouldn’t allow such a poor swordsman to risk his life in battle. No, he’d be set to work in the trade market, or the fields, the silver tunnels, or on the boats, wherever his natural skill would benefit both him and the clan.

  But Danael wasn’t in Estr Varg now. Home seemed a long way off both in distance and time. It would be wynter in Drakia, as it was here, but a Zraemian wynter proved vastly different to the snow-laden seasons he’d known at home. The Zraemians took comfort in the dew and occasional fog of the mornings, and the chilly nighttime air. Alangar had told him that during the coming Reaping thick ice would coat everything. The Reaping would occur with the next moon, and Danael understood it to be the stretch of eight days and nights in which the world would be cast in darkness. The Drakians called it Dark Wynter, and he shivered with the thought of the Dark Ones let loose onto the world.

  “We are ready, friend,” Alangar said when Danael knotted the last tie on his wristband. Alangar slapped his back and gave Danael a nod. “May Phadite be with you. Remember to ask me if there is anything you do not understand, and watch the hook on the khopesh.”

  Danael nodded; he understood Zraemian far better than he spoke it. Qisht proved an excellent teacher, and Alangar had taught him the language of combat. In the ring there were as many similarities to the way swordplay was fought in Drakia as there were differences. Yes, he was a prisoner of King Amar-Sin. Not that it was called ‘prisoner’, he was a diplomatic hostage according to Qisht. They dressed the word up, but when the ornamental meaning was examined and stripped bare, Danael was nothing more than a prisoner. It still rankled, but less so with every day. He was treated like a prince here. Better than any khanal had been treated by his own people, with slaves to do his every bidding, and the luxury of it was difficult to deny, and impossible not to enjoy.

  Danael and Alangar followed the others up to the arena. The combat ring was surrounded by stalls that fanned out and up. It provided a secure space for training, and General Mutat and his commanders could watch and shout orders from the platform above. It was all part of their strategy to learn who were the best fighters for the coming war. Gedjon-Brak. Danael knew precious little about it, but one thing was clear, he would be part of it.

  As they entered and took their seats, Danael’s eyes swept up to the platform where the general and his commanders, also the king’s brothers, stood. Mutat wore crisp white and his usual dour expression. It made Danael want to punch him in the face, or at least glower at him.

  The general took a step onto the edge of the platform and gazed down on the assembled soldiers. There were roughly one hundred men in the king’s contingent. The finest warriors in the Azzurian army. All the commanders’ sons were present. They sat together, as usual ‒ the royal cousins they were called. Danael knew them all by name. He shared meals with them and other noble’s sons lucky enough to lodge in the palace rather than the barracks. Ubranum also resided there, as did Varashti, no doubt another benefit bought by his merchant father.

  Danael had learned to steer clear of the royal cousins. They didn’t want outsiders in their ranks. Not Varashti, and certainly not Danael, the pale-faced barbarian. Mutat’s son, Ilbrit was particularly touchy. Pigheaded and arrogant like his father, with a broken nose and battle scars on his face that bespoke his passion for violence. Ilbrit was nothing but a cunt, Danael’s new friends had told him. The first time Danael went to the dining hall Ilbrit feigned a warm friendliness and welcomed Danael to his table. He poured him a cup of beer, and Danael had slurped it with all the royal cousins watching on. Every time he took a mouthful they laughed. Danael grew quickly suspicious. The beer had a strange taint that was bitter, and wrong. Later, Qisht told him of a trick Ilbrit liked to play on newcomers. He would piss in their beer.

  Danael blew a slow breath over his tongue, an attempt to forget the memory of the foul tasting ale.

  “Yahdun and Lim.” The General’s gravelly voice echoed. “In the ring. Let’s see how you lovers do today. First cut.”

  Danael frowned and gave Alangar a questioning look.

  “First cut. It means fight until there is blood.”

  Danael raised his eyebrows. Not again. Last time they’d practiced with bronze short swords one of the soldiers had died from infection from a cut that had gone too deep. A waste of life, and another thing Danael’s mother would never allow.

  Yahdun and Li
m were good friends, more than that in fact, not that it mattered here. Another oddity about Zraemia. Men could love men, sexually, and no one raised an eyebrow. It’d shocked Danael to the very core when he realised. In Estr Varg such love was taboo, and considered another manifestation of Daemona’s chaos. It happened in secret, if it happened at all. If discovered, lovers would face Sidmon’s judgement.

  The two soldiers circled each other, then Yahdun parried Lim’s strike. They moved almost in unison, one striking forward the other stepping back to dodge the attack.

  “Come, young lovers. Let’s have a fight not a dance,” Mutat called.

  Danael noted his companions on the bench seats in front of him had their heads together talking quietly. Ibbi clutched a tablet and was making scratches upon it. Danael frowned. He’d seen Ibbi with the tablet the last time they used the real swords.

  In the ring, Yahdun changed his footwork and circled, bringing his sword down on Lim’s outstretched arm. A line of blood welled, and Lim dropped his sword in surrender.

  “Good fight. Lim, get down to the armoury and have the priest attend you,” the general ruled.

  The next pair in the ring quickly entered and began. Jusuran, the general’s youngest son and another royal cousin, Ushtan, circled each other. Suddenly, Jusuran flicked his blade in the air and it lit up with flame.

  Danael’s mouth fell open. “What?”

  “It is a popular trick, particularly among the younger ones,” Alangar said. “They all want to be the blaze bearer.”

  “Blaze bearer?”

  Jusuran swung the fiery sword from side to side, it made a frightening sound, but Ushtan, slightly older and more experienced, avoided it easily enough.

  “It’s part of the prophecy. A foretold hero if you like,” Alangar told him.

  Ushtan sidestepped, lunged and cut Jusuran with ease on his arm. The blazing sword dropped to the sand, the fire vanquished.

  “Yes!” Nanum shouted nearby and the others shushed him.

  Ibbi scrawled furiously on his tablet, and others were coming over now to whisper in his ear.

  Danael leaned close to Alangar to ask quietly, “What is Ibbi doing?”

  Alangar opened his mouth to answer, but the general roared another command. “Ilbrit and Princess Varashti. Get in.”

  Danael sucked his breath as he snapped his gaze to Varashti. The merchant’s son’s face had paled almost to the pallor of Danael’s skin, and his mouth gaped open as he stared at the general.

  “Didn’t hear me, Princess?” The general said, a smirk on his face. “It’s time you knew what you’ll face in war. Ilbrit,” Mutat addressed his son who was climbing into the ring, muscled arms and legs gleaming in the sunshine. “No mercy.”

  Ibrit nodded before tightening the notch on his waistband.

  Varashti hadn’t moved and some of the others had their arms around him, giving him advice. Telling him that Ilbrit favoured his right hand, that his oldest battle wound, in his knee, troubled him, that Ilbrit was quick to anger like his father. All of it was useless. They may as well have told a kitten how to fight a bear.

  “Not fair,” Danael whispered to Alangar. “No chance.”

  Alangar shook his head. “Varashti has no chance against any of us, friend. But we go easy on him.” Alangar shifted his eyes to the ring where the merchant’s son was climbing in, his soft form a stark contrast to Ilbrit’s athleticism. “Ilbrit will not go easy. Not one whit. He is his father’s dog.”

  Danael glanced back at Ibbi. His tablet sat on the bench by his side. The circle of onlookers around him now still and silent, all watching the ring.

  “Very well, Princess,” the general growled. “Let’s see your form against a true soldier. Give you some bruises to make that weasel father of yours proud.”

  “Weasel?” Danael asked.

  Alangar frowned. “Sounds like the general wants to get personal. He hates imposters to the royal court, as he would call them.”

  Danael gave him a questioning look.

  “Varashti’s father. He’s not a true noble but has bought himself a place among them regardless. It’s no secret the general and certain others don’t like it.”

  Danael shook his head. “Your city, hard to understand, Alangar.”

  Alangar smirked. “You’re telling me. Now, shhh, let’s watch.”

  The two soldiers circled for a short time and Danael fixed his attention on the panic written all over Varashti’s fat-cheeked face.

  Then the merchant’s son stunned them all by raising his sword and bringing it down to slice his own forearm.

  “What are you doing?” the general shouted, his gruff voice echoed through the ring.

  Varashti put his arm up, relief and pain mixing in his smile. His kohl had smudged and lines of it had streaked down his cheeks. “We fight until the first blood. Well, here it is. Fight’s over.” His whiney voice cut through the rising murmurs and silence descended as every man in the stalls cast nervous glances from the general to Varashti.

  Then a new wave of hushed murmuring grew. A group formed around Ibbi and spoke in rapid words as Ibbi clutched his tablet once more.

  “You baulk at a direct order from your general?” Mutat roared as he thrust his jaw forward.

  Varashti had the good sense to look ashamed, and he bowed his head before returning an audacious glower at Mutat. Pointing at the bloody streak on his arm he said, “I followed your orders. Fight until the first blood you said. That is what I’ve done.”

  Alangar winced but the others now buzzed with excitement, talking hurriedly to Ibbi who was scratching on his clay tablet more furiously than ever.

  Danael watched him. The Zraemians’ penchant for writing everything down on their little clay tablets still awed him. It seemed like a strange magic to turn words, usually as ephemeral as the breeze into permanent marks on a tablet.

  Danael tapped Alangar’s shoulder. “What’s that word? The word said by Ubranum.”

  Alangar shifted his gaze from the ring to the bunch of soldiers surrounding Ibbi. “Wager?”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Wager, it is a bet. These fools are making bets on the outcome of this little challenge of Varashti’s.”

  Ibbi glanced up to give them a grin. “You may call us fools now, Alangar, but I’d like us to compare riches later.”

  Alangar ignored him. “Some believe the general will let this slide, as they wisely know he understands Varashti’s father has too much influence in the palace. Having so many nobles indebted to him is central to said influence.”

  “Why don’t you shut your face, peasant.” Melsut, a soldier whose linen skirts were crisper than any another, said before stomping off back to his seat.

  “He’s upset,” Danael said.

  “Yes,” Alangar replied. “His father is indebted up to his eyeballs. A good thing he lives in the palace or he’d be starving on the streets.”

  “Why did he call you peasant?”

  Alangar shrugged. “They think I’m no one because my parents have both died, and I’ve no siblings. No grandparents or uncles. Not even a distant cousin to my name. And I was the son of a slave.”

  Danael’s mouth fell open.

  Alangar laughed. “Don’t look so shocked. It’s quiet a common thing in Zraemia. My father fought for old King Amar-Yassur. My father was a slave, but he was also a great soldier. Taught me everything I know.”

  Danael looked back at the wagering, trying to digest what Alangar had told him. It seemed so odd. Alangar seemed anything but a slave. And why would he speak of it so openly? In Drakia, bondage was considered most shameful, even if one was enslaved for only a short time. “So, with wager, you win something?” Danael asked, keeping his mind on the wagering rather than Alangar’s background.

  “That’s it, barbarian,” Tizqar answered. “I’m betting the general does something sly, not an explicit punishment, but Varashti will face some cruelty nevertheless.”

  Danael looked at
the general who now turned to face Varashti.

  “I’ve always said you were a princess. Too precious for the likes of the ring.” The general’s voice was oily. “No doubt you require a champion to do your fighting for you. Men,” he turned to face the soldiers, many of whom were still scampering back to their seats after placing their wagers with Ibbi. “Is there a champion among you? Someone brave enough to face the best of you and to defend the sweet Princess Varashti?”

  Laughter rung out in the stalls.

  Danael thought of his mother. She would rise to this challenge, only she’d stride straight up to the general with her tall shoulders set and reduce him to a quivering mess with her tongue.

  Silence fell once more, aside from Ibbi’s scratchings.

  The general continued, “If no one will stand as your champion, you must face Ilbrit alone. This time we stop at three cuts. And that. Is an order.”

  Gasps and renewed chatter filled the stalls, and Varashti fell to his knees in the sand. “No, please, I surrender.”

  “There’s always one,” the general said. “One weak link in the chain. First Prince Hog, now you.” The general’s mouth set in a straight line. “I don’t abide weakness, Princess. You fight, or you leave and go back to your father. On your feet.”

  Prince Hog. Alangar had told Danael about Sargan, and how he was treated by the general. It seemed inconceivable that the son of King Amar-Sin would be treated in such a way. It was different with Prince Hadanash. He was praised wherever he went, but for some reason Sargan had been treated as no better than dirt by the general.

  “This fight,” Danael sputtered at Alangar. “It will not be—” he searched for the right word. “Just,” he said finally.

  “No. Very astute, friend.”

  “Let’s go, Princess,” Ilbrit shouted as he advanced on Varashti. He lunged casually and sliced the boy’s cheek.

  Varashti squealed and pressed a hand to his face. Blood welled through his fingers.