Dragonshade (The Secret Chronicles of Lost Magic Book 2)

by Aderyn Wood

  Danael licked his lips. Now wasn’t the time for this bitterness.

  “I’ve been up to the gangplank.” His father shook his head, slowly. “I’ve seen them with my own eyes. They’re young warriors, whoever they are. Have you seen their swords? So polished, and every one of them wears one. We’ve no chance.”

  Danael let go a quick breath. Why was his father being so impossible now? Now, when their people needed him most. He glanced around the hall. “Is everyone present?”

  Sidmon answered, “Most are. Adag and her babe have not yet shown.”

  “And that blasted Rayna,” the khanax spat. “She showed up, sounded the alarm then disappeared.” He scowled. “Ana and her daughter are also missing.”

  Danael turned to survey the hall. Jathor stood with old Thomon by the fire now. Danael had warred with Jathor against the Halkans, but the seasoned warrior had lost toes to an arrow infection. He still had two good arms though and his balance had returned somewhat. Thomon was an old warrior. He wouldn’t forget how to wield a sword. Same with Gavol, Helgda, Byrta and Fransk. All old, but still able. He turned back. “Father, we have twenty warriors here at the least. And some of the young ones have been training all the summer long. We can stand if we organise our defence.”

  His father tilted his head. “Who are these imaginary warriors you have conjured up?”

  Danael pointed as he relayed the names.

  His father scoffed. “Old men, women, and babes.”

  “They know how to use a sword. They know how to throw a dagger or a rock, and from the gangway it would be a short distance. Put them to use. There’s Kateja and Marla too. Both seasoned warriors.”

  His father chortled. “And both fresh from their birthing beds. Would you have them fight with their babes on the teat?”

  Danael took a long breath and forced his fists to relax, and his voice to remain quiet. He didn’t want to upset the others. “My point is we are not as weak as you might think. We can defend ourselves, and buy time. Mother may be on her way home.”

  His father stood and leveled a stare at his son. Under his beard his jaw worked, slanting his mouth from side to side. “And I say no. Your little performance yesterday with Rayna was interesting to say the least, but you are not khanax. Not yet. I am ruler here. We will not fight them. Our only chance of survival is to flee into the tunnels and hide in the mountains, and hope they seek their fortune elsewhere. They can raid all the rondhuses of the village, and perhaps that will sate their hunger for riches.”

  “And what will you give?” Danael’s nostrils flared. “Are you willing to give ought of your riches?”

  His father's eyes widened and his mouth slanted further into a scowl, but before he could say anything a loud bang pounded the entrance, and both men turned to face the double doors.

  A hush descended in the hall as the heavy doors jolted.

  “Danael!” Jarlg appeared from a side entrance. “They’re ramming the doors.”

  A renewed panic rushed through the villagers and some of the babes began to scream. Another bang hit the doors and dust fell inwards.

  Danael strode to the entrance. The bar was thick, but old, and the nails that held the brackets shook too violently. He glanced around. The fearful eyes of the villagers seemed to follow his every move. He smoothed his brow, and squared his shoulders.

  “Jarlg, Kateja, Marla, Gavol…” Danael barked orders for all the warriors present, old or injured alike, to hurry to the weapons room and don whatever armour and weaponry they could find. Then he did the same for the young ones who he’d helped train over the summer. The ramming continued, growing louder with each thump, and Danael ordered all of the villagers to go to the cellar below and begin their journey to the mountains.

  He found Hiljda looking at him with wide eyes. He squeezed her hand. “Take a group of the fittest women and children you can find and fill their satchels and baskets with provisions from the kitchen and stores. Take them through the tunnels to one of the caves on the northern side of the mountains.”

  Hiljda’s eyes filled with tears but she nodded and turned to follow his order.

  Danael went to his own chamber then and donned his leather warring vest and his sword, freshly polished and honed only the day before. He returned swiftly to the hall, which now looked almost empty of people. He ordered a barricade of tables to be overturned and placed near two columns, forming a narrow opening in the middle.

  “You’ve your mother’s mind for battle,” Jathor said as he puffed from moving the heavy tables.

  “Let’s just hope we can hold them. Will you check the back for me, friend. One more time?” Danael said.

  “Gladly.”

  Jathor limped away and Danael ordered the warriors to form lines of four across the newly narrow entrance. “We fight in line until my call. Danag, Krysta and Jorad,” he called to the youngest children who looked up at him blinking. “You’re our best throwers.” He forced a smile and the children rewarded him with their prideful grins. “Take the chest of throwing daggers go to the gangway on the northern side and do your best.” The three children sprinted off.

  “Madness,” his father’s gruff voice came from behind.

  Danael turned to face him. At least he’d had the wisdom to don his own leather vest. Reinn and Alf, two capable warriors, ever loyal to Danael’s father, stood glumly beside him.

  “Do we have your arm, my Khanax?” Danael couldn’t hide the challenge in his stare.

  His father’s mouth slackened as he pushed past and disappeared out the back, Reinn and Alf following.

  A loud crack forced Danael’s attention back to the double doors. A beam of morning light brightened the hall a notch. The pounding came again and a splinter of wood fell to the ground. Danael closed his eyes and sent a prayer to Kita, asking for her protection.

  Twenty warriors against a hundred, or more. It had been done before according to the sagas, but how much of that was truth, and how much a sagast’s fancy?

  “Drakians!” Danael shouted. “Praise be to Prijna!”

  “To Prijna!” The others shouted, and thumped their shields in time.

  “Stand with me,” Danael responded.

  Their small band crouched in readiness at the battle to come.

  Sargan

  Sargan grimaced as the battering ram slammed its target. He jolted with every strike. The men had a swaying rhythm now, and Uncle-general chanted the beat. “Back. Heave! Back. Ho.”

  Sargan eyed his brother-prince. Hadanash watched on with eagerness. He’d ordered the others to stand to attention in a semi-circle beyond the ram. Most soldiers kept a grip on their sword hilts. Sargan moved his hand to his own sword, the hilt was cold and he snatch his hand back into the soft folds of his linen.

  A shuddering crack rang out and Sargan snapped his attention to the doors. Another shard of the door panel had ripped off. He looked at the other soldiers once more. Kalumun cracked his neck by moving his head quickly one way, then the other, just like he did in the combat ring. They all wore fierce gazes, ready for battle.

  A louder crack followed and an entire panel came crashing off the large doors.

  “Down ram!” The general ordered and the men dropped the heavy beam. The vibration shook the very ground.

  “Kalumun, Nepada, the door,” the general commanded.

  The two soldiers, clutching their axes, ran forward and ripped off another panel.

  Sargan peered through the hole. It was gloomy inside, but a fire cast a low light and he saw distinctly beyond the flames a row of soldiers, armed and awaiting them. It was difficult to see, but those soldiers looked tall.

  “Hold.” His brother-prince stepped closer. “Sargan! Come.”

  Sargan gulped the icy air, but forced his shaking knees to move to his brother.

  Hadanash peered through the opening then jumped back, gripping Sargan’s arm to force him along the remaining door, still standing.

  Something whizzed past and landed in
the dirt. A dagger?

  Sargan gulped again.

  “They’re armed. And ready for battle,” Uncle-general said.

  Something splashed above. Sargan looked up in time to glimpse water before he was pushed sideways. But the water got his arm and he cried out in pain. “It’s burning!”

  His brother loomed above him. “Get up,” he hissed. “And keep your wits about you for once.”

  Sargan rolled on his back and blinked up into the grey sky. The black bird circled above and cawed a mournful cry. The burning on his arm intensified and he bit back tears of pain. He sat up and then stood with a grunt, dizziness making him unsteady on his feet. He glanced up once more. Directly above the large double doors were round cutouts in the rock wall. That’s where they’d poured the hot water. What other dangers lingered up there? The building was a nest of angry wasps. Mutat had been wrong, these people would not surrender so easily. Sargan only hoped bloodshed could still be avoided.

  Hadanash scowled at him. “To me,” he ordered, and Sargan fell into line.

  “Now, Uncle-general,” Hadanash said.

  Mutat nodded then bellowed. “Draw.”

  The ring of swords pulled from belts sounded as the soldiers took up their battle stance.

  “No,” Sargan said, wincing with the throbbing burn on his arm. There’s not to be bloodshed.

  His brother glanced at him once more, teeth gritted. “That is the last time you speak against my order, brother. Do not question my rule.”

  Sargan swallowed his concerns with his pain and nodded.

  “Hold,” Hadanash yelled. “Sargan.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Try to parley.”

  “Parley?” Sargan frowned. How was he to do that?

  Hadanash gave him an impatient stare. “Go closer and talk to them in any gibberish you care to employ. It is Father’s wish, remember?”

  Sargan’s lips quivered with the fear and the pain. “But, they might think I’m going to attack them.”

  Hadanash looked him over. “I doubt it.” He grabbed Sargan’s sword and flung it on the ground. “Now go.”

  Sargan’s eyes went wide. “But now I’m unarmed!”

  “And no threat. Not that you ever were. Go.”

  Sargan tripped forward when Hadanash gave him a nudge. He gained his footing and edged closer to the smashed opening in the door, glancing up to ensure no more boiling water came for him.

  “We don’t have all day, Hog,” Uncle-general hissed.

  Sargan’s heart was in his throat. He leaned closer to peer through the hole.

  A squawk sounded from above and Sargan jolted, snapping his gaze to the sky. No more water spilled, but the black bird still circled. It opened its beak and let lose another squark.

  “Sargan, say something for Phadite’s sake!” Uncle-admiral prompted.

  Sargan peered back into the gloom and spread his hands wide to show he had no weapon. He licked his lips and considered which speech he should try first. “Friends.” He settled on Praetaan, a dialect so far removed from common Zraemian it was truly its own language spoken only in Praeta, the most western city in Zraemia, and the one closest to this strange place. Sargan held little hope they’d understand him, but he had to try. He attempted to ignore the pain in his arm and forced a friendly smile on his face. “Friends, do you understand me? We come in peace.” Sargan’s voice squeaked and he cleared his throat.

  There was no response from inside. Though no attack either. Sargan took a breath. Perhaps they would know the desert speech. “Friends, do you understand me now?”

  Voices sounded within and Sargan stepped back.

  “What’s happening?” Hadanash asked.

  “I don’t know, maybe they understood?”

  A loud groan, like wood on wood, sounded, and Sargan jumped back in line beside his brother. The doors began to open.

  “Be ready,” Uncle-general ordered the men.

  Slowly the doors opened fully. Two men withdrew inside, while a group of armed men, and even women, came forward. They were the strangest looking people Sargan had ever seen with pale skin the colour of milk, and golden hair. They were taller than the average Zraemian by a full head and shoulders. One of the men, broad and tall with hair the hue of a desert sunset spoke with rapid beats. Sargan listened carefully, but failed to understand his words.

  The man gestured to the line of strangely dressed soldiers behind him and seemed to address one of them. A young man, also with dusk-coloured hair. He wore an angry face, full of unmasked hostility at both the Zraemian soldiers and the older man. His father? Then the younger man barked strange words at the others, and all threw down their weapons. Bronze swords mostly, clanged on the ground between the two groups.

  Two more men stepped forward. They carried a chest which they dumped near the weapons and opened.

  The older man continued to speak in their strange language. His hands were in front of him, his sword in one which he also dropped to the ground.

  “So much for them being the warriors we seek,” Uncle-general said. “They barely put up a fight.”

  “Let’s tread carefully, it could be a trap,” Hadanash replied.

  Sargan took a breath as he pointed to the chest. “They are trying to pay tribute. To buy peace with us.”

  “With those lackluster trinkets?” The general laughed along with some of the soldiers.

  Sargan eyed the chest. It was filled with rustic-looking treasures, much bronze and tin, though some silver poked through in places. Far removed from the gold, lapis lazuli and gems they were accustomed to in Azzuri.

  “Try talking to them again, Sargan. Ask who their leader is.”

  Sargan shook his head. “They do not understand, and their language is utterly foreign to me. Anyway, it is clear the big man with the reddish hair is their King. Though I’m not sure how we can treat with him, brother.”

  Hadanash tilted his head. “When I need your advice, Hoglet, I will ask for it.” He glared at Sargan. “Try another language.”

  Sargan sighed, but turned to face the group of foreigners. Perhaps they would recognise some of the mountain speech. Sargan’s knowledge of it was only basic. He’d been taught by Zamug since he was a child. The mountain tribes were more elusive than a mirage, and Zamug said he hadn’t met with any of them for more than twenty sommers, though he valued their language and constantly nagged Sargan into practicing it.

  Sargan drew the words up from a deep well of memory. “Friends,” he said again, in the mountain speech. “Greetings. Understand? Do you speak?”

  Uncle-general laughed. “You sound like a monkey, nephew.”

  Sargan’s cheeks warmed, and the foreigners all frowned now, clearly not understanding one word Sargan had said. Perhaps it was simply a matter of working on his accent. He took another breath and tried again. “Friends, my name, Sargan, you understand this speak?”

  “I understand.”

  The voice, a woman’s, had come from behind and every one of them turned to see an elderly woman. She had long hair, black and silver. She wore a black cloak about her shoulders that fell to the very ground. When Sargan looked again he realised the cloak was made entirely from feathers. She was short, and though old, she seemed to stand tall. She strode toward them with an uncanny calmness, fearless, her black eyes focused on Sargan.

  “mountain speech?” Sargan uttered.

  “That is what I just told you, is it not?” The woman replied, stepping closer still.

  “What does she say, brother? Who is she? Their queen?” Hadanash asked. “Tell her I need to speak to the king.”

  Sargan licked his lips. “I will try, though my mountain tongue is rudimentary to say the least, and her accent is difficult to understand.”

  “I do not care for how she says it. Tell her.”

  Sargan nodded and stepping toward the old woman, he bowed his head, a sign of respect. “Grandmother, we want speak to the—the—” Sargan stalled, not knowing the righ
t word to use, he stretched his hands out with a shrug and said, “king?” in Zraemian.

  The woman frowned. “King? I do not know this word.”

  “What is she saying, Sargan?” Hadanash hissed.

  Sargan turned back to the woman, he needed to try again. He wracked his memory for the right words. “Your… chieftain?”

  Still she frowned.

  No, chieftain was the tribal term used an aeon ago in Zraemia.

  “Your… leader.”

  Her eyes widened. “Our khanax?”

  “Khanax?” A voice came from the doors, it was the big man with the ruddy hair. His mouth slackened in an angry slant. Then he spoke what seemed like harsh words to the woman.

  Sargan pointed at him, interrupting his spiel, then looked back at the woman. “Khanax? Leader? Him?”

  She nodded. “Yes, though he is not a good one.”

  “Well? Is he their king?” Hadanash asked, impatience heightening his voice.

  “Yes,” Sargan replied. “Though they know him as khanax.” Sargan rounded the vowels on his tongue, trying to mimic the woman’s pronunciation as closely as possible.

  Hadanash threw his sword down and stepped near the big man. “Tell the old woman to stand with me. It’s time to parley.”

  Sargan turned his gaze to the woman once more. “Elder-woman,” he said, and he pointed at his brother-prince. “He, our khanax.” The fact that Hadanash was only, in truth, the heir-prince was too complicated to explain. “Please, to stand, speak for him to your khanax.”

  She seemed to understand and stood between the two leaders. Sargan fell in line beside her and noted he was taller. Not all their people were towering giants.

  Hadanash stood a full head shorter than the khanax, but if he felt any intimidation he didn’t show it. He looked the khanax in the eye. “Where are your soldiers?”

  Sargan translated his brother’s question to the woman as best he could, “Your fighting men? Where?”

  The elder-woman then translated the message to the khanax.

  The man seemed quick to anger and his cheeks flushed the colour of his hair as he shook his head and pointed to the north.