Dragonshade (The Secret Chronicles of Lost Magic Book 2)

by Aderyn Wood

  “Warbler, are you ready?” Her father stood.

  “Aye, Da.”

  “Let's go eat and drink of the khanassa's stock and store.”

  Danael

  Raucous cheering filled every crevice in the hall as the war song came to an end. Danael pounded his tankard with as much gusto as the seasoned warriors around him.

  The clan had gathered in the longhus hall to celebrate their victory, Danael's first. Every man and woman clutched a tankard of ale or a cup of mead. Rosy cheeks and sweaty foreheads swayed above the benches. Many were already drunk, including Petar who now stood to begin another bawdy song.

  Danael took a breath preparing to sing along when Hiljda appeared, weaving through the crowded hall, a fresh jug of ale in her hands. “More ale, Khanal?”

  “Still blushing, Hiljda?” He held up his tankard and watched Hiljda turn a shade darker as she filled it. His cock stirred in his breeches. “Meet me after,” he said with a wink.

  Hiljda bowed her head, a sly smile on her face as she moved on. Danael gave her a pat on her round backside.

  “Did you like the duck?” a gruff voice asked.

  Danael's father stood on the other side of the bench. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the song and some of the others cast a questioning look the khanax’s way. Danael’s father had kept his mouth firmly shut during the songs, and was probably the only man still sober. Danael glanced down at his trencher. The duck had been served to him as a sign of respect, a reward for his rite of passage – first-blood. It sat in its gravy, untouched. “Not yet, Father.”

  His father’s mouth, perpetually at a slant, slanted further. “Try it.”

  Danael cut a tidbit, stabbed it with the point of his dagger, and popped the morsel into his mouth. It was good. Succulent. One thing about Simple Yana, no matter how moon-crazed she often seemed, she reared delectable meat. Danael nodded to his father and swallowed. “Delicious.” But was it worth upsetting the lass so?

  His father raised his tankard and gave Danael a long look before moving back to his seat.

  Danael peeked at Yana through the hazy hall. She also refused to take part in the songs, something she normally enjoyed. In a strange twist of fate the gods had given Yana all sorts of trouble with her speech, yet she could sing with ease. It was the reason Petar called her warbler. “She sings like a bird,” he’d told Danael. She sat hunched at the end of a bench table looking miserable. Danael’s heart softened at her sorry expression, her eyes were filled with darkness.

  The song ended with Petar and the sagast bringing the final verse to a roaring close. Danael sculled his ale and raised his tankard with the rest of them before banging it on the table and shouting “Scullza!”

  More cheering and laughter followed as Hiljda, Una, and the other hus-thralls refilled cups and tankards.

  The sagast, an old wanderer they'd picked up in Westr Varg took a breath to begin speaking, but a deep gong resonated throughout the hall, interrupting him. A murmured hush descended, and the sagast returned to his seat. It was midnight, and the seer, Sidmon, stood with his hand raised, still holding the blackened bone used to sound the ceremonial gong. Sidmon, like all male seers, was an augur of Vulkar, and like the death god he wore a perpetually sombre expression. His drawn face was elongated and frightening, with black tar lining his eyes, lips, and the hollows of his cheeks. He wore a black woollen cloak, even in summer. His very presence reminded all of Death’s grim reach, and by the time the gong's chime had ceased the entire hall was silent. Sidmon returned to his seat by the khanax’s side, and all eyes went to the khanassa

  Danael's mother stood, her hands planted on the table before her. “It is time for us to acknowledge our victory and give thanks to the gods.” Her voice was deep for a woman, and quiet, yet every ear heard her words. “Let us give thanks to the goddesses Raemona and Aresja for giving us the strength and voracity needed to instill terror in our enemy.”

  “Aye, Aye.” A drunken mumble of agreement murmured throughout the hall as the clan drank to the divine.

  “Our greatest thanks are reserved for Vishtna, and her hunger for vengeance and victory.” The khanassa lifted her face to the roof and extended her hands upwards. “Vishtna, may you feast on our victory all summer long.”

  “Aye!” Cheering and clapping filled the hall once more and Danael joined in, thumping his fist on the table before sculling a mouthful of ale in her honour. Vishtna’s thirst for vengeance was insatiable and only appeased with victory. And they'd given her much of it by driving the Halkans from Uthalia and chasing them back north. She should reward her people over the summer to come, perhaps in good weather for the crops, or good hunting, whatever it was, they’d earned it.

  “Our final thoughts we shall send to Vulkar. May the sacrifices of our fallen appease him.” A renewed silence descended at the mention of the death god’s name, and many glanced toward Sidmon. Vulkar was the only male in the hall of the gods and he was rarely addressed directly. Most avoided communion with the Father, for he had the power to quash life and restore it to the soil with a mere blink of his eye. Danael held his breath as he noted nervous glances around the hall. Some bowed their heads and crossed arms over laps in an attempt to appear submissive. The death god was always watching, hungry for more souls.

  “Let us drink to the gods!” Danael’s mother shouted, and a roar went up as everyone followed their khanassa’s order and lifted tankards to their lips.

  Cheering followed, but Danael's mother held her hand up for silence once more.

  The clan settled again.

  “I would also like to offer my own personal thanks to the gods for protecting my son in his maiden battle, and for giving him a strong sword arm.”

  The applause boomed like a summer storm, and Danael couldn't hide a grin as clansmen and women slapped him on the back.

  He nodded to his mother who returned his smile and said, “I hope the Gods also guide him in the ways of cleanliness. May they show him that bathing after a battle is the surest way to form strong bonds with one’s clansmen, especially those who must share a longboat with him on the voyage home.”

  More laughter, and old Karl, the boatswain of the khanassa’s longboat chuckled so hard he fell backward over his bench seat, causing more guffawing.

  “I’d like to offer a thanks.” A new voice spoke, and heads turned to see who.

  Petar strode to the centre of the hall and stood near the low fire. He'd shaved, and the firelight highlighted his angled jaw and seemed to reflect in his eyes. He wore his brown hair shorn either side of his head with a single braid running right down the middle that came to a long tail at his lower back. Petar considered himself half warrior half sagast. He always led the clan in song, and the drunker he got the more bawdy the ditties became.

  Danael glanced at his father who sat as still as death between Danael’s mother and the seer, a look of stone on his face.

  “I'd like to thank the gods for gifting us with such a leader.” Petar gestured to Danael's mother. “Our dear khanassa is the wisest strategist I've ever warred with.” Tankards banged the table once more. Danael’s mother bowed her head but her face wore her typical neutral expression.

  “Mayhap the gods smile on us for a reason,” Petar continued. “We ought to take advantage of their favour to ensure a peaceful future for our children.”

  “Petar, I've heard this tune before,” the khanassa said, her voice level. “And, as I’ve told you, many times, your proposal to seek out the Halkans and drive them from Kania Isht, to fortify our defences with Drakians, these are worthy and wise.”

  Petar raised his tankard, the gesture making him wobble. “You are eternally clever, Khanassa Ashrael.”

  Danael's mother smiled. “Nevertheless, as I have said at least a score of times before, we shall discuss this matter further, but, my friend, this summer is not the summer for more fighting—”

  “But—”

  “And,” the khanassa continued, “t
onight is not the night to discuss such matters.”

  “Come now, Petar. How ‘bout another song?” Fegarj, the boat-builder, yelled out with a laugh.

  Petar's hand rubbed the shaven skin along his jaw. He moved from foot to foot. Danael's mother had mentioned on the journey home that Petar could be like a wolf with a bone when he had something on his mind.

  “Hear me out, can we not—”

  “For Prijna’s sake!” Danael's father was on his feet, his mouth slack, his voice booming. Murmurings and hushed conversations fell silent. “Listen to your khanassa!” he roared. His face had turned red, almost the colour of his hair, and his mouth slanted in its familiar anger. He glared at Petar, then turned his glower to the entire clan. “We are the leaders! Your khanassa and khanax. You elected us at the Choosing. When your leader gives you an answer, or an order, you do not question!”

  The hall grew so silent the crackles from the two fireplaces suddenly seemed loud and echoing. Danael glanced between his father, and the more slender form of Petar, who grinned in a way that would do nothing to quash the khanax’s temper.

  Then Petar shrugged as though it were a minor matter. “I'm sorry if I've offended you, Khanax. I was caught up in the moment. Attaining true peace for our clan has been as close to my heart as my own dear wife.”

  The khanax’s mouth worked into a grimace, his anger racking up a notch more. Danael sat forward. Petar had managed to elevate his father’s temper to its uppermost limit. What had done it exactly? Petar’s general impertinence? Or something else? There existed an old grievance between them, Danael was growing sure of it.

  His father placed balled fists on the bench table and leaning over he said, “The matter is closed.”

  Petar shrugged once again before bowing low. Then he turned with a jump. “Another song then, Fegarj, my friend. What about The Coward of Old Isht Hara?”

  Laughter emanated once again, and the tension lowered tangibly. Petar had a knack for that too.

  Danael watched his father who swallowed a long mouthful of ale before wiping his mouth with his forearm and throwing his tankard. It clanged heavily on the stone floor, then he marched out of the hall, the Death Seer, Sidmon, followed. His black cloak curling out after him.

  Danael looked to his mother. The khanassa wore her mask of neutrality and sipped from a fresh cup of mead.

  Yes, there was tension between his father and Petar. Tension born of some past event. Perhaps it was time Danael found out what.

  Danael dreamt of the silver chalice. The more he looked upon its oak leaf engraving the more familiar it seemed. He tried to touch it, but something spoke in a gruff and gravelly voice, and then his vision filled with glowing red eyes.

  Danael woke with a gasp and a thumping headache. He kept his eyes closed and punched the fat pillow down. He tried to get back to sleep, but the throbbing at his temples grew stronger. Then his stomach clenched. He flung back the furs and sat up. Hildja had long gone. She’d come to his bed willingly enough, Danael recalled that much, but as to what happened after he had no memory. With a grunt he dressed in breeches and a plain shirt. His stomach moved again and bile rose in his throat. He clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes a moment waiting for the nausea to pass. A renewed wave of it convulsed in his stomach and he ran out of his chamber, past the hearth where his mother and father sat drinking their morning broth, and out to the wash area to heave the contents of his stomach in one loud retch.

  “Got the flux, then?”

  Danael glanced up. One of the hus-thralls, Una, sat by a trough washing dishes. She wore her usual dour expression, only it was accompanied by a touch of smugness too.

  Danael winced; he’d never liked Una. “I’ll be right.”

  “I’d be careful were I you.” She squinted and her smugness seemed to spread with an irritating satisfaction over her narrow face.

  “Careful of what exactly?” Danael asked with reluctance. He wished Una would disappear so he could immerse his whole body in that water trough. Perhaps he should go for a swim. The icy Drakian Sea was renowned for its healing powers, mayhap it worked for hangovers as well.

  “Careful of where yer put it.”

  Danael blinked. “What?”

  Una gave him a knowing look. “I’ve seen the way you watch her. Hiljda. She goes about like the comeliest maid in the village. But she bain’t keeping a flame just for you. Not that I care. Just thought I’d mention it. It might be where you caught that flux.” Self-satisfaction spread along her lop-sided smirk ‒ she was enjoying this.

  Danael straightened into a stretch. Una was trying to bait him. She always had for some reason, ever since she’d been forced to serve as hus-thrall for the khanassa, a slave for the term of her natural life, and a punishment for her husband’s debts. Una, and her husband, Joryll were from Westr Varg. When Joryll disappeared with a longboat full of trade goods several summers past, Khanassa Gorjna of Westr Varg delivered a harsh punishment to Joryll’s wife, and Una paid it with every day.

  In truth, Danael couldn’t help feeling sorry for Una. It must have been hard to swallow her pride, not to mention her luxurious life back in Westr Varg, and serve his family. She wasn’t too old, twenty-five summers Danael guessed. If his mother released her she could marry again, have a family of her own, but that was unlikely. Danael’s mother respected Khanassa Gorjna and wouldn’t insult her judgement in such a way.

  Then he remembered the way Una had teased his little sister. Little Frijda had been the light of his family, adored by their parents, and indeed himself. She would have been the next khanassa, most like. But she'd died of wynter fever before she reached five summers and it had brought a dark cloud on all of them. Now, he was destined to be the clan’s next leader. The hus-thralls had loved Frijda too. Except for Una who’d treated her the way a mean and jealous step-sister would in the sagas.

  Danael clenched his jaw. The nausea had abated somewhat. He moved toward Una with a heavy step.

  She winced, and shrank back from him, suddenly appearing more like a quivering mouse than a sly vixen.

  “Go to Hador, Una.” He plunged his head into the trough, and heard Una yelp. The cool well water cleared his head. He flicked his braid back and noted with satisfaction that droplets sprayed all over Una’s smock and washed the smugness right off her haughty face.

  He returned to the longhus, his long hair dripping. He interrupted his parent's conversation for the second time as he served himself a bowl of broth.

  His mother raised an eyebrow at him. “Unwell, son?” The shadow of a smirk played on her lips.

  Danael felt a little better now, though his head still throbbed and the nausea ebbed and flowed like an indecisive tide. “I’ve felt better.”

  The broth, while watery and salty, seemed to nourish him immediately. Between mouthfuls he closed his eyes and rested his head on a hand wishing away the dizziness.

  His father chuckled. “If you feel that bad go to Ana, she might have some remedy to aid your convalescence.”

  “He's got naught but a hangover, husband. He needs a day of hard work. I hear Brutjad is inundated with work in the bay. A day of shucking oysters could be just the trick.”

  Danael winced. Ordinarily he loved oysters, but the thought of handling the slimy shellfish just now made his stomach roil.

  “And a night without a lass in his bed would do him good too,” his mother added.

  Danael ignored her, the last thing he needed was another conversation about sex. He wondered instead about his father’s comment. His father seemed to hold the utmost respect for Ana and her healing arts, but only unmasked disdain for her husband. Last night the tension between him and Petar was tactile, Danael recalled that at least.

  “I think I'll follow your advice, Father. Perhaps Ana can help.”

  The village slept. Only a few rondhuses had smoke spiralling from their thatched roofs. Most clansfolk, like Danael, would be nursing aching heads and queasy stomachs.

  Ana an
d Petar lived on the very outskirts of the village, right at the top of the meandering path that led to the forest and the mountains beyond. Their rondhus was a little bigger than most of the village homes, and had a number of wooden animal stalls attached. The ascent made his blood pump through his throbbing head and he had to rest a half score of times before their rondhus finally came into view.

  As Danael drew closer the quacking of ducks broke the morning's quiet. A stab of guilt pierced through him. He’d watched Yana last night, sitting with a glum look on her face and refusing to eat anything at all. Danael shook his head. If only his father could have let Yana's impertinence lie. She was only a young girl after all, still a summer or two from entering womanhood he would guess. She had such a simple nature. A fact that seemed to make people treat her more unkindly. Danael was still young himself, only one summer ago he was not yet considered a man, but the older he got, the more people baffled him with their innate cruelty.

  Danael spotted Ana and Yana coming out of their rondhus. They had baskets in hand and both wore simple goat-wool summer smocks. He was struck by the similarity between mother and daughter. Whereas most women of the clan were tall, voluptuous and had gold, brown or red hair, Ana and her daughter both had hair as black as ravens. Both were small and slender with fine facial features. Almost as though they were not of the clan, but made from a different thread entirely.

  “Khanal.” Ana had spotted him. “Petar is still sleeping. Is there somewhat I can do for you?”

  Yana gave him a frown before sticking her nose up in the air, the scars on her upper lip just visible.

  Danael realised he must have been staring and he shook his head. “Good morrow, Ana. Yana. I, ah, I was wondering if you had some somewhat, some potion for headaches?”

  Ana smiled and when she did so her face lit up, and Danael suddenly understood why Petar had fallen in love with her. It was clear Petar considered his wife more precious than anything, for the way he spoke about her during the campaign made it obvious. The other men, and even the women, would speak of their wives or husbands in a very different way. Petar never disparaged Ana, or complained about her. He spoke of her with respect always. And there was something else. A light in his eyes seemed to lift his spirits whenever he mentioned her.