Havesskadi

by Ava Kelly

  A NineStar Press Publication

  www.ninestarpress.com

  Havesskadi

  ISBN: 978-1-951880-47-7

  Copyright © 2020 by Ava Kelly

  Cover Art by Natasha Snow Copyright © 2020

  Edited by Elizabetta McKay

  Published in February, 2020 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.

  Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-951880-48-4

  Havesskadi

  Dragon Souls, Book One

  Ava Kelly

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To you.

  Those who, among the pillars of my world, made this possible. Those who, tucked away at night, bring the universe in these pages to life.

  Chapter One

  A Long Way Down

  Full of rich autumn colors, the market square bustles with life, hooves, and shouts and clatter. In the middle near the fountain, an old man stands on a crate waving his cap at the gathering crowd. Orsie hides his face further behind his long hair, with only half a mind to listen to this unexpected storyteller. His voice is loud over the midmorning racket, though, drawing Orsie’s attention.

  “Hear me, hear me! In an age long ago, far beyond the Quiet Lands, there lived a dragon. He wasn’t a mighty dragon—”

  Laughter fills the square and covers the voices of the merchants for a while. Orsie frowns, eying the derision that sweeps over many of the onlookers. It’s unpleasant. Orsie remembers from past visits that it’s a rare occurrence for the village to be this animated, but he doesn’t recall its inhabitants being so malcontent. Haumir, sitting at the foot of the Ahrissals’ highest peak, is isolated for most of the year. No trade roads pass through, even though they used to back when the Seaborn were friendlier. Perhaps that’s the reason. Their lives aren’t easy this far up north, but it’s not something Orsie can change. Not really.

  “—or a mean dragon—”

  Someone hoots and Orsie stifles a grimace. So much for storytelling. He turns his attention back to the row of tables displaying his favorite autumn fruit. Apples, red and yellow and sometimes green, brought north by the caravans that begin their journeys in the hills of Uvalhort. They carry the excess of the plentiful orchards there, sure to be sold quickly in this barren land. Overpriced, too, by the look of it. Orsie only has a few amethyst shards with him, more than enough to pay for his indulgence, but not too polished and not too pure. He wouldn’t want to raise suspicion.

  “—but he liked the frost and the cold bite of the highest mountaintops!”

  Orsie shrugs as he sniffs at an apple. Some dragons do like the snow. He spares a glance at the storyteller. His hat now sits on the ground before him collecting donations, ineffectively. Orsie sighs. Dragons aren’t very loved in these ages.

  “And his name was Havesskadi, the shadow of the icy peaks. He has graced our village from his home above the clouds,” the old man continues, arms raised to point at the mountain standing tall to the north.

  “There’s no dragon up there, you old fool,” someone shouts, “or we’d be rich!”

  The old man waves a hand, annoyed. “Havesskadi lives, you’ll see. He’ll fly down from his castle and shower us with gems.”

  “Dragons don’t care about us,” the other yells back.

  “There’s a reason for that,” the old man says. “We hunted them and they hid.”

  “Don’t remember no hunting,” someone else says, but Orsie stops listening.

  Shaking his head, he slips out of the square. He can shop for apples later, after the ruckus has died down. Instead, he makes his way through the narrow streets, dropping some of the smaller amethyst shards on doorsteps or windowsills. Not enough to make the dwellers rich, but just what they’d need to push through winter. The cold season comes early, here, the icy winds of October around the corner, and Orsie can’t help himself. He’s been observing the villagers for the past few days, lodging at the inn; now he knows just where to plant these lucky finds.

  Of course, Orsie could do more. Bring them better gems, shinier, brighter. He could, if he wanted, keep them clothed and fed for lifetimes, but as the past showed, it’s never a good idea. If he gives too much, avarice takes root in people’s hearts, settling deep enough to darken even the kinder souls. Others, both younger and older than himself, have made this mistake before with dire consequences, and Orsie doesn’t need crowds gathering at his gates for undeserving charity.

  He’s finishing his meandering and rounding back to the square when he sees the old man from before. The storyteller is sitting at the edge of a narrow street outside the hustle and hurry, surrounded by children.

  “A gem,” the old man says, gesturing widely, “carved from the essence of magic, was given to the very first dragon at the beginning of time for safekeeping.”

  The children let out an “ah” in unison, and the old man’s smile grows. He’s enjoying his story, it seems, and Orsie leans against a wall, poised to listen.

  “After the dragon passed away, the gem divided among his sons and daughters, on and on, until each dragon held a small one right underneath their ribs, tied to them by the force of their heartbeats. Legends grew and spread, and the gems became known as anasketts. Do you know what that means? It’s dragonsoul in the old language of the north.”

  A collective blink follows the reveal, the kids mesmerized.

  “But the kings of other creatures hunted them!” the old man adds, causing various degrees of frowning.

  “Why?” a little girl asks.

  “Because, you see, the anasketts have such magic that they carry inside them the longevity of their dragon owners, their big castles, and all their treasures— unending flows of precious stones harvested through hundreds of centuries from the very core of time.”

  “Davbak, what’s longevity?” A boy elbows another while the old man chuckles.

  “It means dragons have long, long lives.”

  “Like you?”

  “Longer!”

  One of the bickering boys speaks up then, arms crossed. “King Ag never hunted a dragon.”

  “No,” Davbak tells him, “but his great-grandfather did. It’s why our lands are left barren. See, many many years ago, King Ag the Fourth stole a dragonsoul. He lived for centuries before Red Mist, the dragon warrior, came and took back what belonged to her kin.”

  “The anaskett?”

  “Yes, indeed. Red Mist,” Davbak continues, lifting both hands in a semblance of claws, “came and laid waste to the land, cursing it to be forever arid.”

  “Would you cut it with that drivel,” a woman scolds Davbak before she grabs two of the kids by their elbows.

  She shoos the other children to their homes and leaves with her own, but not without glaring as much as possible at Davbak. Ors
ie finally moves toward the square, slipping a small piece of onyx in the old man’s pocket as he goes. At least someone is trying to remember the dragons.

  *

  Orsie hefts his apple-filled backpack higher on his shoulders as he follows the path out of the village. This one travels southwest for a while before making a sharp turn that ultimately leads up the slopes of the highest peak. He enjoys this detour that takes him through the stone hills and the cascades of fresh mountain waters covering the Kingdom of Hriss. To his right, the Ahrissals stand tall, already half coated in ice and snow. To the left, the view stretches in slow slopes and deep ravines, the gray landscape only sparsely painted by yellowing trees.

  Though he does not love it as much as the mountains, Hriss still calls to him with its long winters and cool summers. The old storyteller was wrong. Unlike in his tale, Hriss has never been teeming with life, but mortals like to find reasons for their misfortunes.

  Orsie listens closely, making sure no other travelers are on the road, before removing his gloves. He flexes his fingers, nails glinting black in the afternoon light, before he runs them over a boulder. They aren’t as big as his claws, but they’re sharp enough to leave fine grooves in the stone. It’s been four years since Orsie descended from the mountains, and he leaves behind four markings. Perhaps he should visit more often.

  *

  He pauses again, a little farther away, right before the path turns north. He isn’t far enough from his home to feel weakness in his bones yet, not really, just the expected uneasiness that comes with distance. This shape reminds him how breakable he would be if he were to be separated from his magic.

  He basks in the night air, watching the stars. The sky is clear, moonlight covering the ground in a silvery blanket that makes him giddy to get back to the eternal frost up high. He takes his time removing his clothes, then packs them in his bag. He sighs at the boots; he’d rather not wear them, but it’s all for the sake of blending in. He makes sure there’s nothing left behind before he fastens the buckles tightly. He wouldn’t want to lose his apples before getting home.

  It’s time, under the cover of night, to spread his wings wide.

  Huffing, Orsie breathes frost over the stony path before he picks up the backpack with his front claws as he lifts himself in the air. He’s not worried about being seen; Haumir is already far behind. Besides, Orsie blends into the dark sky perfectly, a rare black dragon, with an even more precious black anaskett tied to his heart. His eyes are the only things that might seem eerie to the mortals, their purple irises like vines of amethyst streaking through black onyx. While in his two-legged form, he always finds himself having to let his long hair fall on his face. It keeps him hidden, shielded from the malice of men and dragons alike.

  Actually, not dragons, but one dragon specifically.

  He’d rather not dwell on that tonight, so he turns his attention to the sharp peaks he’s passing over in his flight. His wings, wide and strong, take him up along the jagged slopes at a steady pace, much faster than on foot. The flight is mere hours instead of days. It’s a long way up, unsurvivable by frail mortals, thus fitting for a dragon.

  His love for frosty lands had driven him all the way into the peaks of Hriss’s wild mountains. He found the perfect place between sharp edges of tall rocks and deep ravines—a plateau right beneath the clouds on which he built his castle of obsidian and dark basalt. The structure is not yet visible as he passes through the wider canyon surrounding his peak, hidden behind sheets of rock and tufts of clouds. The closer Orsie flies, the more his home emerges out of the foggy air, filling him with a surge of belonging every time he lays eyes on it.

  Dragon castles are unlike other castles, magic or not. They are born of the inner cores of their anasketts, those parts of the ethereal most in tune to the dragon’s minds. An anaskett's essence and experiences shape the castles to echo its owner, to sing along with their wants and needs.

  Like the rest of his kin, Orsie spent much of his hatchling years learning to conjure his home from inside his soul, as if it were but a mere speck of the anaskett. Mother taught him how the magic of dragon fortresses and mansions and citadels can provide enough shelter and supplies for their dwellers, how, sometimes, dragons might create one of these homes as a gift for another. Two centuries ago, Orsie built one for a witch in the Quiet Lands far across the frozen waters of the Sal. It is, however, a great feat of strength to part with such a thing. When he locked the black stones in place, away from himself, he felt it, a rip akin to losing a limb. Of course, the feeling faded over time, but it’s something Orsie will never forget. It’s why dragons aren’t very keen on building homes for others.

  The magic, at least, can be masked until it doesn’t taste or smell of dragon. It makes hiding so much easier. Orsie’s only heard of one dragon who chose to live among mortals, and he doesn’t understand the appeal, but it just proves nothing is impossible. Most beings enter dragon castles unaware of their origin. The magic itself, when caring for its master, does so gently. Unnoticed. It’s there, forever, clinging to its owner’s life force, twining with it. A symbiosis of sorts. They grow together, learn from each other, until the bond is so strong nothing can tear it apart. Traveling too far away without the castle folded inside their anaskett weakens dragons, until the magic pulls them back. Some might find it cumbersome, but not dragons, or the friends of dragons bestowed with their gifts.

  With the black anaskett cradled between his palms on a cold winter morning, Orsie’s castle drew out of his soul and pierced its minarets high toward the sky. To indulge his love of flying, the black walls of Orsie’s home surround a large courtyard, open wide under long balconies. The structure’s form has a symmetry reflecting the spread of his wings, as the main building stretches in a curve along the steep rock behind it. Underneath, inside the caverns grown from magic, dark corridors wind through the mountain in such shapes that draw air from narrow windows, pushing and pulling until a low breeze shuffles through every room, piling snow inside, keeping it frosted. Over the years, the castle changed subtly. It grew bolder, thicker, taller as Orsie matured. Mother would be proud of him.

  In the course of a dragon’s lifespan, Orsie would be at that point in his youth when the call for adventures quells, to be replaced by the quest for gentle solace. Orsie, however, has faced the world too soon. Roaming the lands lost its appeal quicker than for most, and he returned north, content to travel no farther than around the seas on the other side of the Ahrissals. He earned his worldly name, Havesskadi, all on his own after befriending the Thjudinn.

  For most of his years, Orsie has been content here, in this cold place that resonates with his soul. Some days, though, he wonders if he might ever find someone to share in his solitude. But he shakes the thoughts away as he lands in the large courtyard. Nobody else would travel this far away from the world just for him.

  *

  Orsie stands on the highest terrace of his home, enjoying the cold air. Up here, snowflakes drift down with gentle ease, a natural occurrence for September. At the bottom of the mountains, autumn has hold over the hills for a little bit longer before cold winds start sweeping from the west. Farther up, toward the north, Vaiknela is covered in an almost permanent frost, but Orsie likes it better here, where he can see the seasons change, with a winter that stretches from October until early May. Even longer up here on the peaks. With a grin, he extends his hand to catch a few of the ice crystals on his palm. They’re always beautiful to him, each one different, just like the souls of dragons. None the same, and all so marvelous.

  He looks almost human, like this, with two legs, two arms, no tail nor wings. But he has his sharp teeth and black nails and, more obvious, the scales adorning his arms. They’re just as dark as in his dragon form, only smaller. Two dozen of them sit in two rows of twelve, from his wrists to his shoulders. They’re a seed of the soul, remnants from the transformation, something to hold on to while he walks the lands. Dragons have great memories, but their
bodies need to remember how to be dragons again. He presses fingertips over the scales, feels their ridges and shapes.

  Among the many stories surrounding his kin—mostly fantasies concocted by the minds of the bored—there is one tale that holds truth. Stealing a dragon’s anaskett bestows longevity on the thief, so stretched that it might seem like immortality to some. What storytellers don’t know, however, is what happens to the soulless dragons. Orsie shudders, reminded of the threat looming over all their heads. It’s one of the reasons dragons live in secrecy. It’s what happened to his mother. He’s still haunted, some days, by the memory of her white hair and frail body, right at the end.

  Shaking his head, Orsie looks at the sky. He’s safe here; he’s been keeping himself hidden for the past two centuries, only flying down to Haumir once or twice a decade. He’s even been avoiding the northern shores because of rumors that Red Mist has been hunting in these parts, and he misses both the Thjudinn and his friends dwelling in the frozen lands, high above the cold waters of the Sal. Perhaps he can dare a trip in fifty years.

  Perhaps…

  Orsie lets his palms rest on the stone parapet surrounding the terrace, imagines cold arms around him.

  Perhaps, someday, someone.

  *

  With a scratch to his forehead, Orsie eyes the backpack. He thought he had more apples, but it looks like he’s been indulging. September is merely at halfpoint, and he wants them to last longer than last time. They’re a small pleasure, for taste instead of nourishment. The crunch of the fruit feels the same way amethysts crumble between his jaws when he’s famished. It’s their taste that’s different, not sweet or sour, just…apple. That’s right, apple taste.

  He needs these to last, so he places the backpack in a makeshift cellar under a boulder. A farmer once showed him how to store them, and Orsie figures if they’re not within easy reach, he’ll have an opportunity to think twice before rushing to the stash.

  He’s walking back into the courtyard when the sky darkens.