Dragonshade

by Aderyn Wood

  Danael’s stomach dropped, and his throat constricted. “No.”

  “I’m sorry.” His father was shaking his head. “The Dark Wynter took her.”

  Hot tears filled Danael’s eyes and his focus blurred. “No, no.” The world seemed to crumble beneath him and his knees buckled and hit the ground as he let his roars bellow from him to shake the very mountains.

  The murmurings of Drakian and Zraemian mingled, but Danael didn’t care. He let his mournful cries fill the world, and the tears drench the ground beneath him, and when he was done he wiped his cheeks and standing, turned to face the king.

  The king looked at him with concern. “Tell me, what has befallen you? What gives you grief?”

  Danael shook his head, a sad grimace on his face. “My mother, she is dead.”

  Sargan

  Sargan’s food sat mostly untouched and growing cold on the table before him. The longhus hall contained all Estr Varg’s warriors and his father’s high-ranking officers – Uncle-admiral Dannu, Uncle-commander Rigut, the eight captains and all the overseers. The khanax had invited them for a meal, to share his meat and mead, so as to send the message that he was not intending to put up a battle.

  The day had been a strange one. Sargan’s father met the khanax that morning in front of the Longhus. Sargan translated their greetings, and was glad to hear no threat of violence from either side. The khanax invited the king and his men to share a meal that evening, and that was the end to it.

  Danael returned to the ships with Sargan’s father, while Sargan remained in the village. In the afternoon, the Azzurians began pitching tents, forming a large encampment on the stretch of bare ground beneath the large oak. Sargan waited for the khanax to do something. To tell them to stop, or send a group of warriors down, but he did nothing, and by dusk the king’s encampment took up so much space it blocked out the entire eastern view of the bay.

  Now it was dark, and here they all were, two groups of strangers, sharing a meal in the longhus hall. Outside, Sargan’s countrymen, soldiers of the king’s contingent, stood guard and sent their own signal to the Drakians – don't try anything.

  Sargan sipped his ale and wondered how the khanassa would have treated with his father. Perhaps she would have allowed Petar to approach the other isles, to form a large militia and stand in wait, ready to attack the Azzurian soldiers as soon as Danael was safely returned.

  He put the cup of ale down as his stomach roiled with worry. No doubt the Drakians would have killed him then. He squinted, trying to think through the possibilities of a battle. The Drakians were strong and ruthless in battle. But a Zraemian army was disciplined and their weaponry superior. He failed to decide which party would come out the victor. Many would die, that was the only surety.

  Danael sat beside his father the khanax, looking cold and forlorn. Grieving.

  They would not yet be formally exchanged. Not until Sargan’s father had got what he came for. An agreement from the Drakians.

  “Tell me what you have learned about the khanax.” Sargan’s father-king leaned close and spoke softly, his gaze fixed on Krasto.

  “What would you know?” Sargan asked. The distance between himself and his father seemed even greater than before. Sargan had noted the way Danael was embraced by the khanax. All that Sargan had received from his own father was a subtle almost non-existent nod. It made him ache with disappointment, and then anger. Sargan wanted to yell at his father in front of soldiers and warriors both, “Why did you leave me here? Why did you lie to me?” But that would be childish in the extreme, and his father wouldn’t tolerate it, not for a moment.

  “I understand he only recently became their leader?”

  Sargan sighed. He’d liked the khanassa well. She was distant, like his father in many ways, but she was just and led her people fairly. “Yes, Khanassa Ashrael died in the winter.” Sargan inclined his head toward his father and lowered his voice. “Many believe the khanax himself arranged for her – disposal.”

  The king raised an eyebrow. “And what is your conclusion?”

  Sargan glanced around the hall. Soldiers and warriors alike were busy eating, talking quietly amongst themselves. Sargan noted the Azzurians were relishing the venison. It would be the first time they’d tasted the rich meat.

  The hall wasn’t overly noisy, which was unusual for a Drakian feast, but it wasn’t quiet either. In any case, no Drakian would understand him. Aside from Danael, but the khanal sat on the long table next to his father, too far to hear. Still, when Sargan caught a look from the seer Sidmon, a shiver convulsed along his spine. “Perhaps we should discuss this in private, Father.”

  Sargan sensed his father stiffen. “On the contrary. Raise your cup. Drink. Eat.” The king picked up his own cup and took a large swallow. “The best place to communicate such matters is here, now. Quietly, mind you.”

  Sargan lifted his cup and followed his father's order, gulping down a mouthful of ale. His gaze then turned to his father who gave him a nod before returning his attention to his meal.

  “Now, tell me,” the king said.

  Sargan glanced back at Sidmon, but the seer now spoke to Krasto. Sargan licked his lips and began. “During the winter, I overheard the khanax and his seer talking.” Sargan quietly told his father the bare facts of the conversation he’d overheard by the sacrificial altar. “And so,” he finished, lowering his voice further. “Petar and others believed he murdered his wife to wrest power from her. To become the sole leader.”

  “This Petar, he was a soldier?”

  “Warrior. Drakians do not serve in a disciplined military such as our own soldiers.” Sargan leaned closer. “Petar was a woodsman as well as a warrior, and something of a sagast—”

  “Sagast, a bard, yes?” the king asked.

  Sargan’s eyebrows shot up. “How did you know?”

  “Danael has been teaching me some of the rudiments of the language.”

  “Well, he wasn’t a true sagast, but he enjoyed songs and poems, just as I do.”

  His father raised his hand a little. “Not so close, don’t make it appear as though we’re conspiring. We are merely having a pleasant conversation, a father and son reunited.” The king arranged a smile.

  Sargan shuffled over on the bench seat and took his cup once more and swallowed another mouthful of bitterness. If only his father was interested in a pleasant conversation with his son.

  “You think this man, this warrior-come-bard, was killed as a result of the khanax’s conspiring?”

  His father’s wits, as ever, were quicker then a striking viper. “Yes, Father. I believe that meeting between the three of them was to arrange Petar’s death in battle.”

  “And have you shared your suspicions with anyone?”

  “Only Petar’s supporters.”

  The king sat back, patting his mouth with the back of his hand. “They do not believe in table linens in Drakia?”

  “No, Father. Nor do they worry about table niceties. As you can see, setting aside dagger and spoon and eating with one’s hands is quite acceptable here. As is belching and other bodily sounds we don’t abide in the palace.”

  The king took a last gulp of his ale, slapping his lips and looking at the cup in marked disapproval. “The meat was good, but their beer is horrid.”

  “Just so. Though there is a duck breeder here who provides the most delectable meat in the known world.”

  “A big statement.”

  Sargan shrugged. “It is true.”

  The king gave Sargan a lengthy stare. “You look well, son. You’ve trimmed up and grown taller. Have they treated you properly?”

  Sargan swallowed. A part of him was still tempted to retell of the way he was imprisoned. How Krasto looked at him with derision, and treated him like he was nothing more than mud on his boot. But, if Father was displeased with Sargan’s treatment here it would not bode well for the people of Estr Varg. And Sargan liked them very much. “Yes, Father,” he replied. “I’ve been t
reated like a prince.”

  The king nodded and returned his attention to the long table. “And this man, Petar. He was of a worthy character in your opinion?”

  Sargan blinked. His father was asking his opinion. A sudden nervousness rose in his chest. He straightened his shoulders. “He was. I knew him but a short time. He was a good man. He would have made a sound leader. You see, many here believed he would be voted in as the khanax at the mid-sommer Choosing.”

  The king frowned. “They vote for their kings?”

  “Yes, though it’s a little more complicated than that. It’s usually the women who rule, in fact out of all the nine clans in Drakia, only one is led by a male – a khanax. The others have female rulers – khanassas.” Sargan frowned. “Though that’s not strictly true either. Now Krasto is leader, there’s two males. And Kania Isht has been annexed by the Halkans, and then Estr Varg and Westr Varg are part of the one isle called—”

  “Why are they ruled by women?” Father interrupted.

  The expression on the king’s face was one of mild bewilderment. “Well,” Sargan began. “It’s to do with their religion. I’ve started chronicling all their peculiarities on my tablets.” Sargan licked his lips and edged closer again. “You see, all their deities are female, aside from one. I believe being female here in Drakia is considered to be closer to the gods, so that is why they have more faith in female rulers—”

  “I see, thank you.” His father turned his shoulder to speak with Uncle-commander Rigut who sat on his right.

  Their conversation was over. The only time his father had taken an interest in Sargan’s chronicles had ended as quickly as it had started. Sargan took a sip of ale and berated himself for his emotions that threatened to betray him. During his time here, he'd become a man. That's what Petar had told him once. He hadn't sniveled or slouched his shoulders in nearly a year. He could wield an axe and even a hunting bow like any proud Drakian. There were times when he'd been afraid, like the day Yana took him deep into one of the tunnels. The cold whispering darkness down there would have made the old Sargan crumple in fear and soil his skirt. But the new Sargan kept panic at bay.

  I'm a man now. Couldn't his father see that? Sargan suddenly felt like a boy again, and a turbulent flurry of anger and hurt rushed to the surface. He glanced around the room. The mix of soldiers and warriors were all fixated on their meals or private conversations. No one noticed the tears Sargan hurriedly blinked back. But then his gaze went to the long table, and Sargan froze. Danael was looking him straight in the eye.

  Sargan walked the now familiar paths and alleys down to the village circle. The stars shone overhead and reflected on the still waters of the bay where the hulking shadows of the ships lingered. His father’s encampment looked like its own little city in the starlight. Sargan shook his head. His father-king could have stayed on the ships quite comfortably. But pitching an encampment here sent another message to the khanax. The King of Azzuri was here to stay until his wishes were met.

  Sargan stifled a yawn as he walked, wishing he could return to the humble comforts of his goat-hus to work on his tablets by candlelight.

  “Sargan!” A familiar voice shouted as he drew near the encampment.

  Sargan looked to his left to see his royal cousin, Ushtan approach, and he grimaced. Sargan had been well-pleased to learn his Uncle-general Mutat, and his brother Hadanash, along with his annoying cousin Ilbrit, had all been sent to the Sisters on a campaign to win back Sakaad. If only his father had sent all the other royal cousins along too.

  “Hello, Ushtan.”

  Ushtan laughed. “It’s good to see you, Prince Hog.” He winked. “You’ve shaped up a bit. Not so fat. How’s the swordplay?”

  Sargan sighed. “What do you want, Ushtan?”

  “Why so short? Aren’t you glad to see me, cousin?”

  Sargan pressed his lips tight as the old panic from his childhood threatened to overpower him once more.

  “Ilbrit sends his regards.”

  Forcing his shoulders to relax, Sargan took a slow breath. He didn't want to go back to this. He didn't want to let his cousins get the better of him anymore. Sargan gave Ushtan a casual shrug. “I'm surprised Ilbrit's not here. The chance of battle and bloodshed must have been tempting.”

  “He's been sent away. Like his father. And your brother.” Ushtan stood closer, less than an arm’s length away. “You might be sent away too if you’re not careful.”

  “What do you want?” Sargan repeated, with less patience in his tone. He suddenly realised he was taller than Ushtan and the old panic dissolved. Sargan leaned forward, his height now obvious as he stared down on his cousin.

  “I’m to escort you to your father’s tent.” Ushtan stepped back. “Don’t know why. I’m sure you could find it yourself. It’s the biggest one.” He pointed to the encampment, but in the darkness Sargan couldn’t make out one tent from the other. They all looked about the same size too.

  “Follow me then, cousin.”

  Sargan followed his idiot cousin through the rows of tents until they came to a stop in front of one, right in the middle of the encampment.

  Ushtan bowed low. “Here we are then. I’ll see you later. I’ve got guard duties now.” He turned and left, glancing back once with a look of confusion on his arrogant face.

  Sargan took a breath and stepped inside. His father sat at a table with Danael facing him. They were mid-conversation, but now they paused to look up at him.

  The tent was simple, yet luxurious by Drakian standards. A hemp canvas lined the floor. There was minimal furniture. A bunk bed, table, chairs and trunks. All lit by two lamps, one on the table, and one by the bunk bed.

  “Thank you, Danael,” Sargan’s father said. “You are to return to your chamber on the ship. As you know, you and Sargan are not officially exchanged as yet.”

  Sargan looked at Danael, expecting some kind of rebuke. Surely he would want to return to his own people. Sleep in his own room in the longhus. Rather, Danael simply nodded and turned to do as he was bid by the king of another land.

  Danael paused on his way out. He seemed even taller than Sargan remembered. And older. A true warrior in every way with arms well-muscled, and eyes that saw beyond what was in front of him. He reached out and placed a hand on Sargan’s shoulder. “Well met, Prince Sargan.” Danael spoke in Drakian. “Alangar spoke fondly of you, and with great respect.”

  “Alangar?”

  Danael swallowed as he glanced at the king, then looked back at Sargan. “He’s passed to the Overworld, friend.”

  Sargan gaped, his throat constricting. “I’m so very sorry to hear it.”

  “And I’m sorry to tell it.” Danael gave Sargan’s shoulder a squeeze before releasing him. “But Lu and the others are here, on the ship. They look forward to seeing you.” He glanced one more time back at the king before ducking out the entrance of the tent.

  “Sit, son.” The king gestured to the seat Danael had occupied.

  Sargan sat opposite his father.

  “Now we are alone, you can tell me everything I ought to know about the khanax and these people,” the king said quietly.

  Sargan nodded, and taking a quick breath, he began. He told his father Drakian habits of warring, of their longterm enemy in the north ‒ the Halkans ‒ of their culture of fighting battles at sea on longboats, of their systems of rule and working the land, of their religion, hunting, festivals, food, drink, everything.

  His father listened, interrupting now and then to ask a question. When Sargan had finished the king said, “Is there anything you have left out?”

  Sargan licked his lips. “Not about Drakia, but there’s something I learned in Praeta you should know about.”

  His father raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “I met with Grand Blessed Rathaqar. He told me some disturbing news about Grand Blessed Lipit. That at the festival of Phadite’s Long Night, Rathaqar and other high priests attempted to meet with Lipit, many times, but wer
e refused.”

  His father narrowed his eyes as he refilled their cups with wine. “Go on.”

  “Rathaqar told me that Lipit only found time to meet with one other high priest, and he did so every day of the festival.”

  His father took a sip of wine and lowered the cup to look at him. “You mean Grand Blessed Zuran of Urul.”

  “You knew?”

  “Did Rathaqar also know of the other guest Lipit found time for?”

  Sargan shook his head.

  “A man called Xan was also in regular contact with our Grand Blessed.”

  Sargan frowned. A vague recollection of the mysterious looking man who’d travelled with the enemy king came to mind – those dark, almond-shaped eyes, and the dreadlocks. “You mean the strange-looking seer?”

  Father nodded.

  “Why would he meet with Lipit?”

  The king’s amber eyes seemed to flare in the dim light of the lamps. “A worthy question. I’ve learned precious little about the seer. It is something I hope you will help me with when you return with us. I would have liked to bring it up with the desert seer, but he has remained somewhat elusive in recent moons.”

  A flush of pride swirled through Sargan’s chest. More and more his father seemed to turn to him.

  “But there is something you should know.”

  “Yes?”

  “Lipit is dead.”

  Sargan’s jaw dropped. “Dead? How?”

  “His heart failed.”

  Sargan stared. “And the new high priest?”

  “There isn’t one as yet, though one has entered the temple. One who will become high priest, with time.”

  Sargan swallowed bitter disappointment. Perhaps his father didn’t have belief in him after all. Someone else had entered the temple and father had ambitions for him as the next high priest rather than his own son. Sargan’s eyes prickled as the information sunk in.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Sargan. I know of your desire to join the temple, and your ambition for the highest seat therein.”

  Sargan's eyes narrowed.