A Hatchling for Springtide (Santaclaws Book 2)

by Marc Secchia

  He sat with a bump on the edge of the bed, shocked by the King’s gravity.

  Daryan sat too, saying, “D’ye ken why they call me Good King Daryan?”

  “Because it’s true?”

  His father smiled with his eyes, but said not a word. Aye. He spoke his mind, and what of it?

  “I hope so. Truly, I hope so, but there are those who see goodness as weakness, son. There are those amongst our allies who feel that such a weakness in the Amarinthian lynchpin in the mountains leaves the Southern frontier exposed. Thus it was expressed to me last I spoke with the leaders of the Northern Pentate. They feel I concern myself overly with the nature of the threat posed by the dread Certanshi. Maybe I am misinformed by my spies. Maybe I am naïve; if I show weakness, I am both a lynchpin, and a pin that must be removed and replaced with one more … fitted to the task.”

  “Nae, sire!” he breathed. “What wrong have ye done to deserve such – it cannae be true?”

  Leaning forward, the King said, “For the last four anna, I have been secretly refortifying the passes south of Amarinthe. The keys to the mountains. That is the task which has drained the treasuries. That, unfortunately, is also the split of resources that led to us losing the Bridge at River Arangar this fall – a terrible strategic blunder. What say ye to this, son?”

  Keir scratched the hatchling’s neck with a brooding air, searching for words. His eyes dropped to a scrap of parchment perched upon his father’s knee.

  “Who’s Sankurabi Blood – whatever?”

  His father covered the message. “Keir! Nae reading the kingdom’s secret messages.”

  Daryan said, “Our enemy has identified himself as Sankurabi Bloodfang. He wishes to eat our entrails and decorate his private swamp with all of our heads set up on spikes.”

  “Charming,” Kalar said dryly.

  “Quite the charmer. We ken exactly two things about him,” the King said soberly. “One, he’s come out of complete obscurity to lead at least one very large contingent of Certanshi troops. He may have united several of their tribes, which is unprecedented. Two, he’s organised them in new ways and recruited additional troops. The danger has never been greater, mark my words well and proper.”

  His audience nodded.

  “Keir. My question?” the royal prompted.

  “Sire, uh … I cannae grasp why ye would choose to refortify those old battlements and forts, unless ye anticipated sore need farther down the road,” Keir said. “That need would only be in case of a mass retreat from … aye, from all the territories south of the mountain range.”

  His father nodded slightly. Encouraged to continue, he added, “Making that decision to empty major towns and cities and endangering thousands of lives – I dinnae believe ye’d do that lightly. Only if faced with overwhelming force. That’s the part that I dinnae ken, my King. Where is that overwhelming force? Is this Sankurabi Bloodfang the source of these rumours? So far, I’d judge, we’ve held well enough – at least, those are the reports that reach one who is as yet untested on the field of battle.”

  King Daryan raised his right hand. “And?”

  And? Why did the King ask this question? He knew he was being tested, he simply did not understand how or why.

  Then, the answer came to him. He said, “Ye have indeed learned either that the Certanshi have been holding back their true strength, my King, or that they are ready to unleash a new, devastating weapon upon our Kingdom of Amarinthe. Is this true?”

  “He’s yer lad, Kalar. I see where he gets it from.”

  His father said, “Och aye, trouble from the moment he was born, and there’s a true word. Ye are right, Keir – right on both counts. Recent intelligence – reports men have died for – tell us that thanks to Sankurabi Bloodfang, the Certanshi are preparing to assault us with ten times their previous numbers, this Springtide.”

  “Ten times!”

  Krrrr. Krrrr-Krrrr!

  “Shh, my diamond. All will be well. We but speak of –”

  “Rumours? I wish these were rumours,” Daryan sighed, “yet our best and strongest allies insist that is all they are. Ten times the numbers, aye, as the major clans have now united with those who led the battle these last anna, and amongst those numbers will be a multitude of new troops. Grey and Green River Trolls. Imagine a slimy boulder about the size of this house, with thick, bandy arms and legs and a face as could crack a cliff with its sheer ugliness, and ye have yerself a River Troll. Their hides are about as tough as boulders, too, and I’m told they feed the beasts Ogres from their breeding camps. The rejects.”

  “Delightful,” Keir quipped.

  So, that was what this Bloodfang must have achieved. These were tidings more chilling than any Winterfall.

  Shanryssill said, “I dinnae ken Trolls bent to being tamed, Daryan?”

  “Our spies suspect that our friend Sankurabi Bloodfang found a way, if now’t to train Trolls, then at least to command them. We wonder if this is new magic, or merely a knack – but more importantly, I’ve nae need to tell ye what that means for Amarinthe, aye?”

  Kalar said, “If we stand at the battle lines, we shall be overrun within hours.”

  Keir found he could picture that disaster all too clearly. The faces foremost in his mind were his best friend Prince Zyran, and his older brother, Crown Prince Garyan. Picturing them falling beneath a stampede of thick, brutal green feet, he shuddered despite himself.

  His mother touched his knee, whispering. I know.

  Shame burned like acid in his craw. He must be strong for his friends and his kingdom, not weak.

  Lowering his voice, Daryan said, “As I intimated, the situation grows complicated. My preferred plan was to evacuate all the major towns and their provinces even before Springtide – by that I mean Yarando, Aluban, Faraziki, Tomar and Varandu. Tens of thousands of people. We would withdraw behind the mountain passes, where few can hold against many. If the Certanshi horde indeed rises as I feel in my bones it must, we will be besieged by a force we cannae face in the lowlands or the hill country. The fortified passes would become our only hope of survival. The last line guarding Humankind.”

  Addressing Keir directly, he said, “Ye must breathe now’t a word of this, son. Have I yer word?”

  “My word is my oath, my King. About Zyran –”

  “I have briefed him.”

  What about the other Princes? He did not understand, but had the sense that King Daryan chose his words very carefully indeed. What was this? Plots within plots? Glancing down at the dragonet, he found her listening alertly, her attention fixed upon the King. How much did she understand of their exchange? She was barely a day old!

  He could not shake the premonition that these dreadful tidings must somehow be linked to the re-emergence of Dragons in Tyanbran. One Dragon. His Dragon.

  Eighty-three anna before, the Dragons and Guardian Riders of old had vanished from the continent of Tyanbran, marking the abrupt and inexplicable end of what had once been a mighty but secretive society, and the age of Dragons. Some said they had been the greatest power in Tyanbran. No-one knew the reasons why, but he was certain of two things. One, not all Humans of Amarinthe or the mixed Human and Elven population of the Northern Pentate would welcome the resurgence of the Dragonkind, be they one or be they many. Two, their mortal enemy, the ruthless Certanshi, would despatch assassins the minute they learned this dragonet had broken her eggshell.

  Little paws must not grow large.

  Chapter 2: Hatchling a Plan

  2nd Post-Dragonmas

  WITH HIS MOTHER ONLY just having recovered from her comatose, near-death state, Keir feared relapse. Instantly. Worse, he feared to wake up and discover that this Dragonmas had all been a dream. No Dragon, no joy, no mother anymore among the living.

  Shanryssill’s beloved violet eyes touched his. He could not bear her glance. The fear, crushing his windpipe. The nausea when he considered how faded she still appeared, yet that pinch of pink in her tan Elven cheeks �
� he ducked his head.

  Please, please, please o Santaclaws, have mercy upon my mother …

  The King’s hand touched his knee, jolting him out of his reflection. “Son, ye ever seen a King jump for joy?”

  “Uh … nae, sire?”

  “I did, yesterday. Nae sleep, now’t one wink had I – instead, I came here down and woke yer parents at an hour when even the azure snows sleep.”

  Rising briefly, the King mimed a silly dance, a soundless cry of joy directed to the heavens, a few fist pumps – Keir grinned – and related how the servants had thought him quite mad. Until they learned the truth. Then, pandemonium! So much so, that several elderly nobles had to be reassured that the Kingdom was not under attack.

  Krrrr? the hatchling commented drolly, clearly picking up on the humour.

  “Aye, that’s right, lass. Surprised ye dinnae hear the commotion from down here,” he grinned, settling back on the end of Kalar and Shanryssill’s bed. “Folks love yer parents, lad. Love ’em to bits.”

  A slow grin stretched his cheeks in response. King Daryan really was over the Moon, wasn’t he?

  Kalar hummed cheerfully:

  Ding dong merrily on high, in heaven the Dragons are soaring,

  Ding dong verily the sky, afire with Dragons roaring!

  “Too right ye are,” his mother agreed, lacing her fingers together with his Dad’s. “Though, some of those Dragonmas carols are a tad grim and bloodthirsty, would ye now’t agree?”

  “The best miracles are the hardest won,” his father responded.

  A near-death experience certainly put being alive into perspective, Keir had to agree. May he never lose sight of the gratitude that filled his heart due to this Christmas miracle.

  The King said, “Ye see, lad, the thing about miracles of Santazathiar’s paw – well, let me put it this way. Miracles are undignified. They pierce all logic, reason, grief … hunger, even, and draw out a warmth of joy from a person’s very soul. This Kingdom has experienced not one but three miracles this Dragonmas.” He ticked off on his fingers, “Food, this wee diamond scamp’s arrival, and yer mother’s escape from the eskirêna-l’næ. Keir, these are nae easy things. Ye need to take the time to let them soak in, seep deep, and mould yer heart.”

  Kalar put in, “Aye. What we take for certainties can be interrupted.”

  “As it has been, and fate’s shackles thrown off,” Shanryssill whispered. “Keir – son, come here.”

  He leaned in for a hug. “Ouch! Mom?”

  She pinched his arm a second time, bright laughter trilling from her lips. The hatchling stiffened but cocked her head as if evaluating the unfamiliar sound.

  His Elven mother teased, “Still think yer dreaming?”

  “Aye … and nae.”

  Keirthynal-my-soul, the pulse of life strengthens within my body. You’ll see. I have faith; what about you?

  He considered this. Faith? Never had a small word struck him as so enormous. Working on it, mother-most-treasured. My faith muscles need work.

  You’ll get there.

  Her Elven fragrance had changed, he realised, burying his face in her lank hair. Something had changed. These previously lustrous silver strands had gone grey with the illness, but now … the scent was less bitter and the colour, turning already. Glinting in the lamplight. Like a change of season in the jungles and forests so dear to every Elf’s soul.

  I will. He smiled at her with his eyes, then laughed as a jealous little someone wormed her way between their bodies, purring to demand his attention. Behave yourself, you rascal. This is my mother. We’re family.

  Near-death. New draconic life. Food for a kingdom. Good King Daryan was right, only he had lost count, for the state of his father’s legs might yet count for a fourth miracle. Kalar had moved from requiring a wheelchair to stumping around using a pair of walking sticks. That too was reason to celebrate.

  Pensively, he explored the hatchling’s head and neck with his fingers. Despite the softness of her scales, the muscles beneath were like pliant iron, the tensile strength more than apparent even to an untutored touch. How strong would she become?

  Speaking of fate, his immediate purpose must be to ensure this hatchling survived her formative anna, to become the formidable creature of magic and mystery she was destined to be. It was more than a task. Somehow, it infused his mind with a sense of the sacred. Aye, sacred. That was the word that leaped to mind, and it shivered every drop of blood in his veins. Not fright, so much as a sense of terrible, sobering awe. The kind of responsibility he had not been the best at shouldering in the anna of his life so far, he might be persuaded to admit.

  Softly, he said, “Ye were speaking about retreat, my King? Retreat and survival. Is the situation in the lowlands so severe?”

  Daryan’s brow drew down into solemn lines. In a whisper as bleak as Winterfall itself, he said, “By my oath, I believe it is, lad. However, our allies and many of my Council view any talk of retreat as treason, even madness. Abandon all the fortified towns that guard our southern border? Insanity. Therefore, I anticipated and now have received word of a plot – a planned coup – against my rule, seeking to replace my kingship with a person of stronger mettle. I cannae say now’t but that it appears to originate with a person very close to the crown.”

  Keir bit his lip. Hard. He must mean the Queen.

  Suddenly, his parents’ simple wooden bedroom became a place of great vulnerability. To speak of such dark secrets here profaned a space he realised he had always seen as intimate and inviolable.

  Miracles to terrors. He shivered and at once had to reassure the anxious hatchling.

  “In addition,” Daryan said, “the lives of my sons and closest confidantes would likely be endangered by such a turn of events. By extension, that includes any who are close to them, who might be regarded as untrustworthy. Non-Human friends, foremost.”

  In the periphery of his vision, he caught his father’s sober nod.

  Aye. Clear enough.

  The King’s grey eyes became as shadowed as a winter storm, and his logic was like a blacksmith’s relentless hammering at a stubborn hunk of iron. “I regret to report that this particular view is now openly discussed among my Councillors. Ye see, the Elvenkind have now’t been as supportive as they, and I, I freely admit, would wish. They have withheld, allowing our beloved Amarinthe to bleed while the Elven Council bickers and dallies and refuses to commit in strength to the war. This protracted delay has created a deep-seated sense of injustice and rage over these past anna, particularly amongst those who have served in the war or lost loved ones.”

  Daryan raised his hand. “Ye hoped to be mistaken, but I’m afraid I do believe yer Rhyl is indeed in grave danger – and likewise, all Elvenkind in my Kingdom. Shanryssill. Rhyl. Others. The threat may now’t be imminent, but neither do I judge these ill feelings will soon abate. Here in the mountains, Elves are few, but there are some, aye, even amongst my own most trusted staff … let me say this: I dinnae trust an Elf simply because they are an Elf. All beings are corruptible. Some Elves despise Humans, and vice versa. I trust people on character. Yet, I will soon be forced to take open action – aye, forced.”

  Shanryssill sighed, “Aye. We understand, my King.”

  They exchanged a glance laden with the knowledge of a friendship of many anna. Since before he had been born, Keir understood. His parents had always stood close to the Crown.

  “Now, to ye.” Daryan smiled at Keir, but it was a like a bleak, stormy crag cracking open a crevasse and calling out a welcome. “Ye and yer hatchling represent the greatest complication yet, and the greatest opportunity. First, there are those who believe a Dragon may be turned to a new master, and I’ve heard report of dark lore and magic which might aid such an endeavour. Second, some hold that all Dragonkind are traitors and should be slain long before they reach the age of maturity. Third, there will be those wishing to thrust ye into battle before ye are ready, and fourth, even amongst our allies, there are avar
icious eyes, yea, and ruthless rogues who will wish to steal such a weapon from ye, and from the Kingdom of Amarinthe.”

  Keir sucked in his lip. “Aye?”

  “Aye, lad,” the King stressed. “For my part, I see her as a symbol of hope. Well is it said that little paws grow into great ones. Fate has spoken into yer life – och aye, she has roared, and the voice of Santaclaws himself has thundered over ye both. Even in yer eyes, I see the deep bond ye are forging with yer dragonet. If it were but me I would say, and I do say, be welcome in my kingdom, mighty Dragon and Guardian Rider both, but as a friend, I am now urging ye to flee.”

  * * * *

  Flee. He stared at his King, that final word thundering in his ears. Flee? How could he flee, when his family was so clearly in the gravest danger, his little sisters, his mother – she could not possibly hope to travel, could she? She was too weak, and his father was incapable of walking far …

  Krrrr?

  The dragonet gazed up at him, her fiery eyes changing colour to pinks and apricots and even hints of turquoise, and he cupped her warm, slim jawbone in his right hand, and said, “It is now’t yer fault. All shall be as Santazathiar intended when he bequeathed ye to us, to love and to cherish, as a true Dragonmas miracle. For such a time as this, a Dragon has been born.”

  Eh? Had he just said that?

  Why did his speech suddenly ring with archaisms, as much as with new power? Had the hatchling’s magic changed something within him? Could this developing connection between them be more far-reaching, and perhaps considerably more treacherous, than he had anticipated? Could Dragons control Humans, say? Had they done in the past? The histories and lore sagas he knew of were silent on the subject, but Keir told himself he should not be naïve.

  The powers of this hatchling would bear watching.