A Hatchling for Springtide (Santaclaws Book 2)

by Marc Secchia

  Guess who had taken charge of the packing?

  A muzzle nudged Keir’s leg. “Oh, ye think, eh?” he asked. “Smelled something good on the table, did we? Now’t for wee wicked dragonets up here, I’m telling ye.”

  Keee-irr?

  “Ye can just ask nicely, after the cartload of mischief ye caused this evening.”

  The neat, slit nostrils upon the point of her muzzle quivered as she sampled the delicious scents of meat and thick gravy. Her stomach gave a tell-tale growl. Keee-irr … prr-iss?

  “Please? Very decent of ye,” he said, catching a curious glance from his father out of the corner of his eye. “Up we get – easy with those ribs, lass. Ye still a wee bit sore? Aye, I ken.”

  In a moment, a gleaming muzzle peeked over the tabletop. How had she become so clean so quickly, he wondered? Auroral Storm Diamond wriggled into position on her haunches and then sat up straighter, her head now just below his breastbone, while her tail restlessly patted the side of his right thigh. She peered around the dinner table as if sussing out what everyone was up to, which by and large, involved watching her antics. A spoon for eating with and a knife for cutting were clearly implements of significant mystification, but Keir had a different idea.

  He said, “Watch this, everyone. Here. Ye use yer talons like this – ye pick up a bit of meat, and pop it in yer mouth like this.” Snap! “No! Ye do now’t snatch. My fingers are nae snacks for the munching. Ye take it gently, lass, or ye’ll be going hungry tonight.”

  Krrrr!

  Nicely, I said! I will teach you if you allow me, he explained. You’re welcome here at the table, if you’ll learn a few manners.

  Krrrr … Amazing how much one syllable could communicate. From defiance and perhaps instinctive protectiveness over a meal, she switched to acquiescence. Her stomach voiced another protestation of hunger and she rubbed her belly with her paw, glancing askance at Kalar as she growled, Grrrr-dd.

  Good? he snorted, as she reproduced his mannerism almost perfectly. “That’s nae how I … really?”

  Laughter rippled around the table. His Dad patted his belly. “Och aye, ’tis fine fare indeed. This is a table of legendary magnificence, fit to be graced by the mightiest Dragons of yore, youngling – so ye’d best brush up on yer behaviour and thank Mistress Meritha right-like and proper.”

  Auroral Storm Diamond’s head swivelled. Apparently she did not yet know ‘thanks,’ but she purred genially and inclined her head with studied grace.

  “My pleasure,” Meritha beamed, clearly rather taken by her response. “Eat up, little one. I’ll be having nae empty bellies around this table.”

  A razor sharp talon pointed at the plate; but Keir was ahead of her, selecting a morsel. Ever so delicately, she pinched the titbit off his fingertips with the points of her fangs, tipped her head back, and slipped the meat down her throat. The families cheered with gusto, which almost startled the hatchling into falling off his knee, but when she realised that the kerfuffle was about her – well! Manifestly, this was show time and she was the main attraction. Mimicking Keir’s action, a slim white paw stretched toward his plate and selected a hunk of meat from the stew. This required such a dint of concentration, she lost command of her tongue and it lolled out of the side of her jaw. She tried to pop the chunk into her mouth. Keir caught it before it landed in his lap.

  “Excellent!” he enthused.

  She hissed unhappily and made to climb down.

  “Nae, ye do now’t give up so easily.” Keir stopped her with his arm. “Try again. Ye’ll have the knack of it lickety-split, ye will.”

  Plucking food off a plate with one’s talons was not a skill Keir fancied most Dragons would have mastered. The occupant of his lap grew frustrated enough to lose control at one point, shoving her muzzle into his plate and gulping down several mouthfuls before he noticed what she was up to. By persistence and persuasion, he was able to help her to a point where she was successfully snaffling up two efforts out of three – it was the fine motor control that she still lacked, his mother pointed out, saying that learning the pinch grip was a key developmental skill for babies of the non-scaly sort as well.

  “See how well she learns, Dad?” he said.

  “Impressive,” Kalar agreed.

  “What d’ye think, Mom? I wonder what else we could train her to do?”

  “Teaching her to wash yer socks would be a start. Has to be my least favourite household job,” Shanryssill teased.

  Meritha chortled happily, “Teenage boy socks? Cannae say I’m looking forward to that experience!”

  Ignoring this interlude in the conversation with the disdain the comment clearly deserved, Keir said, “This Dragon training business is going to be easy. I mean, she’s quick on the uptake, so precise with her paws, and clearly intelligent to the point of –”

  That was when the hatchling picked up the stoneware dinner plate with her newfound grip skills, and took an experimental bite out of its rim. Crunch.

  * * * *

  Three days later, they heard that the Halaryssill family was staying in an abandoned farmhouse two miles up-valley. Kalar and Shanryssill went over to talk with them.

  We can’t take another Elven family along with us, can we? Keir asked Rhyl.

  Why not, Keirthynal-my-kinsman?

  They’re hardly prepared for the mountains. They came without jackets or snow gear.

  I guess you don’t need much special gear when you’re working indoors at the castle? she said doubtfully, likely picking up on a selfish undertone to his complaint.

  Keir winced and sighed, Aye, I’ll admit it would be a hard journey for them, but if we must – we must. No question about it. How’s your hand coming along?

  Very well. However, the silver isn’t really washing off. Rhyl showed him the back of her right hand.

  Having expected to see blobs or splashes, Keir puffed out his cheeks and leaned closer to examine the shimmering silver patterns – almost organic in nature, like a cross between a fern frond and a snowflake. The detail continued to the microscopic level. An area of about an inch in diameter near the thumb of her right hand was affected, and a smaller patch on the first segment of her smallest finger.

  It’s not growing or spreading?

  Not so far.

  Itches?

  Not in the slightest. Trust me, I’ve checked.

  I’m sorry –

  I don’t mind it, she said at the same time. A smile quirked her lips. Do you have any idea what this might mean? Or why her blood has affected me like this? Anything in the lore or legend …

  No, Rhyllaryssill. No, I don’t – but … I will try to find out. Can’t have you turning into a silver ornament.

  That might be awkward. I’ve no intention of becoming a prince’s choice bauble.

  He tilted an eyebrow in her direction.

  Rhyl pushed him away with an annoyed hiss. Shut it, you grumpy pest.

  Did I say a word?

  You thought it!

  Later that same night, the dragonet woke him by the simple expedient of standing on his head. Keir was less than impressed, but he was also very quick to catch a soft knocking at the barn door. Padding up from the makeshift bedroom he shared with his family, there beside Harik’s work area, he peered through the crack provided by an imperfection in the finishing of the tall oaken doors. Elves. A small jungle’s worth of Elves.

  He knew them all.

  Keir threw the deadbolt and then lifted the large crossbeam. White starlight from the clear night spilled into the barn, more than enough for him to see clearly by. They were the Elves from the town and the castle – all of them, if he was not mistaken. Even Councillor Varanthyal, dressed as ever in one of his dapper, loose-sleeved Elven formal fararian suits, had made the journey. Almost without exception, the Elves were neither dressed nor prepared for mountains travel, but it was the anxiety graven upon their faces that moved him most.

  Keirthynal-our-kinsman, we have come to join you in your travel
s, said white-haired Granny Garamyssill. She was definitely old enough to be his grandmother!

  He welcomed them warmly, but not without an inward groan.

  Thirty-seven more persons! How was he ever supposed to see this number safely through the mountains? For they could not stay in this hamlet much longer. It was too close yet to Royal Amarinthe; but a short journey. Word would spread. Any kind folk who harboured these Elves would invite the wrath of their enemies, if not today or tomorrow, then soon.

  How could they take eighty anna-old Grandpa Garamyssill across Drakabis Abyss? Mrs Falanyssill had a two week-old infant in her arms. Tranbyss Pass was said to be the highest in the entire Amarinthian Bulwark. How could they safely lead these good but untrained Elves over the winter-bound mountains?

  After what his family had been through, how could they not?

  Chapter 11: Commander

  AT DAWN THE FOLLOWING day, the families met around Harik and Meritha’s table, with the children relegated to the barn. Keir smarted. Almost stuck with babysitting duty. Great. However, he and Rhyl were now present with all the adults. Two other older teenagers were present, Laran and Fayri, who had served at the castle since leaving school three anna before him.

  Auroral Storm Diamond sneaked away to play with the children. Something in him envied her that choice, but he was in the right place. Time to start stepping up. Show people – and himself most of all, he had to admit – that he had what it took to become a Dragon Guardian.

  All of the Elven families of Amarinthe Town had fled together, having made a communal decision. It was Keir’s warning, delivered by Alaxar the Blacksmith, which had been the deciding factor. While none of these families had come under direct attack – Kalar’s terse briefing horrified them – they all said that the atmosphere had changed. It was not King Daryan’s doing. He had come to each family separately to warn them, too, and he would have provided better provisions save that they left before he could do so. Too much aid given to the Elves might be misinterpreted. The act might tip the scales faster against him, and that was the last thing any of these loyal servants wanted.

  Yet Keir’s spirits had rarely been lower.

  All of these new people significantly increased the risk for their journey to Garrikar Town. They were not soldiers like Kalar, nor men and women of action. These were clothes-makers, the King’s vintner, valets and footmen, the Councillor and his family, and several were cooks; in addition, he noted the Royal Archivist, a falconer and a family of Weapons Masters. They at least were excellent with close and ranged weapons, but the youngest brother of three was sixty-two anna and the oldest, seventy-four. His father’s planning had been meticulous. These Elves barely owned five pairs of Ogre-hide boots between them.

  He listened closely to the conversation. At least father did not stint on describing the challenges that lay ahead. As was his way, he was plain-spoken and honest without seeking to scare anyone. As he answered their questions patiently, his eyes kept coming back to measure Keir, until he began to squirm on his seat and wonder what was wrong.

  Some Christmas this was turning out to be.

  A miracle arrived like a literal bolt from the mauve, and now a flight to an uncertain future.

  Santaclaws, he snorted privately. Oh, if only the real Santazathiar could show his face, and a real force of justice wing across these mountains to take the fight to the Certanshi! If only they had twenty Dragons to fly these people to safety. So easy. Much easier than crawling through the snows on foot –

  Keirthynal, his mother said, gripping his arm.

  Ah, sorry? I wasn’t list –

  No, you were not, Kalar snapped. Something else of importance on your mind, boy?

  Boy? His fists clenched beneath the table. Why did he enjoy respect in private, but disrespect amongst his peers and elders? No, I –

  “Ye’d propose a different strategy?” his father hissed.

  “I was just thinking, it’s going to be difficult –”

  “Dinnae ye care that these people are running for their lives, just like us?” Keir was certain his mother kicked him beneath the table, but Kalar had snapped into charging-Yak mode. He snarled, “What is the matter with ye? Ye think this, ye think that – what is it, lad? Just because ye have a Dragon now ye think yer better than everyone else and ye’d take decisions for us all?”

  Another Keir, in another anna, might have wilted. Instead, all within him ignited.

  He riposted, “Nay, that’s the last thing I would dare think – and when did ye start caring what I think anyways, Commander?”

  Ugly. His words hung over the table like a fulminous cloud, and his father’s accusations too, and he did not know what to do or say to make it right.

  How did one ever unsay a word, once spoken?

  “Freaking Wyverns!” he muttered.

  Slamming his feet down, Keir vaulted over the bench he had been sitting upon and stormed to the back door. He wanted to cry. Scream into a storm. Kick a Snow Ogre right in its stinking yellow fangs! Why choose to hurt his own father, whom he loved beyond words?

  Moron had nothing on this!

  In a moment he stood in the snow in his house socks, panting. Clouds of steam rose around his face as he doubled over, fighting to swallow back an urge to vomit. Stupid, stupid, stupid tongue – Dad had not deserved that, or maybe he had, but … Kalar was hugely stressed, wasn’t he? He was a military man. The one used to wearing the mantle of command. Now he had to lead a bunch of soft townies over the mountains to safety, and he doubted his abilities.

  Those Ogres must have beaten far more out of him than he had ever realised.

  Everything within him longed to hear the back door creak upon its faulty hinge and his father’s heavy footsteps to crackle upon the ice, but it did not. Alright. Thought he had courage, did he? How’s about walking back in there …

  He jerked the door open. Thirty-odd heads turned.

  “Dad,” he croaked. “Ahem. Family consult, please? Outside.”

  Following his own thumb hooked over his shoulder, he fled without looking at anyone. Brave as the mountains were high. Aye, a true Dragon Master in the offing.

  After a moment, his father’s tread shook the floorboards. Over three hundred pounds of axe man would do that to a building. Light spilled onto the trampled snow by his feet. Keir turned. Kalar pulled the door to behind him, running his hand over his short-cropped greying hair in a gesture he recognised very well from someone who regularly greeted him in the mirror of a morn. That was his own nervous gesture. Before his father could turn or rational concerns snarled him into immobility, he stepped forward and threw his arms around that burly frame.

  “Dad. I’m sorry.”

  His father grunted as Keir squeezed his ribs. “Ye – yer sorry? Och nae, lad, I’m the thumping hothead around here. Dinnae ken what grabbed my tongue –”

  “Same thing as grabbed mine?”

  Kalar heaved a sigh so huge, it made his ribs creak. “Sorry. Ye ken, it’s now’t the dragonet I’m so jealous of – and I am jealous! Aye! I’m filled with a … a raging torrent of jealousy, son. Just figured it out inside while yer mother was staring daggers through my skull. But it’s now’t about yer dragonet at all. She’s a miracle, and I’m daily amazed ye handle it with such – maturity, I suppose, is the right word – but what I’m trying to say is, I wanted it to be me who brought home a miracle for yer mother. Now’t someone else, now’t even my own son. Me alone! And I could nae make it. I was nae man fit and able. It’s nigh eaten me alive these past months.”

  His spiky hair came in for a good roughing-up. “I – wow, Dad.” Totally not the reaction or the honesty he had expected.

  “Nonsensical, right? Tell me how broken, how stupid I am –”

  “Och nae! It’s only that ye care too much – I dinnae ken if there’s such a thing – but I have learned these last months of Winterfall, Dad, that the greatest love makes us vulnerable, so … aye, and so defenceless –”

 
; Turning, Kalar hugged him hard. “Ye! Stop trying to make yer old man cry, alright? I haven’t been able to, since … freaking Ogres … oh! There it goes.”

  A teardrop glistened upon the tip of his great, blunt thumb.

  As Keir watched, further tears welled from those deep-set, beloved eyes, and tracked down into the thicket of his beard. His father laughed gruffly, then laughed again at the sky, and roared, “Santazathiar’s oath! That feels good.”

  Crying felt good?

  Then, he pulled away slightly, but did not relinquish his grip. “Son, whatever made ye imagine I dinnae care what ye think? I – nay! It’s a nonsense and I cannae say it plainer. Had we now’t listened to what ye think, we’d all have had empty bellies this Winterfall. So, where exactly did that come from?”

  He had to think upon it for a long time. Then, Keir said slowly, “Ye were away a lot, Dad. And it happened that when ye did come home from the war, ye struggled to be back home with us. Ye were still stuck in those battles, in what ye had seen and done, sometimes for weeks. Shouting in yer dreams. Stomping around the house like a man caged up. Ye used to chop our entire winter’s store of wood in a few days. I remember seeing ye there, just chopping and chopping and chopping, like all the trees in the mountains could never be enough to erase what ye had seen.”

  Kalar inhaled sharply. “Aye, ’tis a truth well spoken, lad.”

  “Then, there was that one time … remember?”

  “Aye! Ye were five, maybe six,” his father said slowly. “Ye were playing in the yard. Talking to yerself as ye always did, so happy and carefree, and I couldn’t bear it. Could now’t stand the chatter. Then I cut a piece wrongly and it shot off the block and struck ye in the head. I shouted – I dinnae even remember what …”