by Aderyn Wood
“Yes, I do.”
Petar nodded. “He’s picked up our tongue quick, though his accent is a strange one.”
Gregar shook his head. “It is a strange thing that happened. Who are your people, Sargan? And do you really believe they will return to claim you?”
Sargan cleared his throat. “I am from a faraway city called Azzuri, and yes, my father will return to claim me. He always does what he says he will.”
Gregar raised an eyebrow. “Well, he will be met with a grave surprise when he sees our warriors en masse.”
“Your people will have no chance against his advanced weaponry,” Sargan said, with some sadness. He did not want to see bloodshed among the Drakian people. And he hoped his father's capacity for reason would prevent that from happening.
“Rather overconfident, is he not?” Petar's brother said. “You have not seen the way we fight in battle. How can you be so sure he will overcome us? Especially when he faces the full force of the Drakian isles.”
Sargan glanced between them.
“Well?” Petar said. “How do you respond to my brother?”
Sargan blinked. “I do not wish to anger you. If it were up to me I would stay here. I like your people. I like your life.”
“That's saying a lot,” Yana said her nose in the air. “Sargan is a prince.”
“And, what does that mean, little warbler?” Gregar asked.
Yana raised her chin at her uncle. “It means he is very important. And his father would not give him up lightly. Sargan speaks the truth. Even if prince is a silly name to call someone who’s supposed to be important.”
Gregar gave her a smile. “Still, I find it difficult to believe that with all the might of the Drakian people, anyone could beat us in war.”
Sargan let out a slow breath. “My father will not try to beat you in war.”
“Oh, so your people are adept in magics? Do your gods fight your wars for you?”
“Our gods are very powerful. They work in mysterious ways and they are difficult to control or predict.”
“Our god’s share that in common, then,” Gregar said. “Sometimes they seem to work against us, then for us, then against us once more.” He shrugged. “Who can know their plans. We must simply follow their lead and don’t bother none about questioning it.”
Sargan nodded. “We do have powerful gods, and that is what has made us such a great city. But my father is also impossible to predict. You may think he will come here with his warriors in an effort to override you. But, he will have other goals in mind that you won’t foresee.”
Gregar wiped grease from his chin. “You share information readily. Yet you are undeniably our enemy. How can we trust you?”
“Gregar—” Ana began.
“It is a question I must ask, Ana. You know I work closely with Khanassa Gorjna. I need to help her protect our people. I agree we must aid Estr Varg in this matter, for I know you would do the same for us. But I want all knowledge laid bare.”
Everyone sitting at their table looked at Sargan. What could he say? That they were right to question? How could they trust him?
Yana spoke, “He is good. Grama trusts him. I trust him.”
Sargan turned to face Yana. She gave him another nod as though she had just made a royal command. Sargan felt a warm blush rise along his neck.
“Well then, that's that. If Yana trusts him, and if Ana’s moon-crazed ma trusts him, so do I,” Gregar said, and drained the rest of his ale.
Yana laughed.
“We need to ready for their return,” Thorag from a nearby table had stood and squeezed in to sit between the two brothers. “We must prepare for their potential attack.”
“I couldn't agree more, my friend,” Petar replied, gesturing toward the main table at the front of the hall. “And that is what I have proposed to our most wise khanassa, and I will continue to propose that we fight together in the spring to claim back Uthalia, then move swiftly on to Kania. That will win us many friends and they will all return the favour to help us with this foreign group of demons in the summer.”
Sargan glanced at the main table where the leaders of both Estr and Westr Varg now dined. Khanassa Ashrael looked grim. Even from his distance, Sargan could see the dark rings around her eyes that stood out on her pale face. She was sick. She’d fallen ill on the eve of the Dark Wynter and every day she seemed to grow worse. The khanax sat next to her, a picture of health. Perhaps too healthy. Like Sargan he carried too much weight – though Sargan's girth seemed to be shrinking with every swing of the axe. Unlike Sargan he wore a perpetual scowl on his face. His slanted mouth smiled now and then when he spoke with the man at his table, a warrior from Westr Varg. But most of the time it gave him a look of grim dissatisfaction with the world.
“The khanax won't like it. They won’t risk losing Danael,” Thorag said.
Petar grimaced before swallowing his mouthful. “Aye, and he has too much influence over our khanassa. If it were up to Krasto we would sit here like ducks on their nests and allow the wolves to come get us.”
“How do we convince him?”
Petar shook his head. “We must convince the khanassa. It is only through her we can make it happen.”
Yana
Yana stood in a vast red land. Everywhere she looked, nothing but red rock and sand stretched before her to the horizon. A shadow, impossibly large, flew overhead and an almighty wind swept up her hair. She tried to scream but her voice stalled in her throat.
Yana. She heard her name, though it could just as likely be a bird. A raven, cawing.
Yana tried to respond but when she opened her mouth no words would come.
“Yana!”
Yana’s eyes flung open and she sat up. A candle floated before her and she blinked into its brightness.
“Yana?” her mother asked.
“I was dreaming—”
“No time for dreams now. Dress, and be quick about it, we must go at once.” Her mother left through the nook’s curtains before Yana could ask where they must go.
Yana flung on her woollen tunic and strode to the table where Ma was putting bundles of herbs and potions into a basket.
“It’s the middle of the night. Where must we go at such an hour?”
“The longhus. Put your cloak and hood on,” her mother replied without looking up from her basket. “The khanassa is sick.”
Yana blinked away sleep. She wanted to ask more questions, but thought better of it. She drew her cloak from its hook and threw it on before donning her rabbit-fur hood and tying it tight under her chin. Nerves bounced in her stomach. Ashrael must be very sick if her mother was called in the middle of the night. This night would not end well. Somehow, Yana knew that to be true.
Once outside, Yana followed her mother closely, taking long strides to keep up. It was snowing. It was freezing. Even Yana sensed the cold. The village fires had burned so low that now only a dark red coal was all the light that came from them. Today, the sun would finally return to them, and Yana yearned to see its golden rays.
In the longhus, Una met them and escorted them to the khanassa’s bedroom, where Ashrael lay, thin and sweating, in the middle of a huge bed. It was bigger than any bed Yana had ever seen, with a wooden frame engraved with firebeasts, moons and suns.
Beneath the layers of furs, Ashrael’s skin shone as pale as the moon.
Hiljda stood by the bed. The thrall had been sponging the khanassa’s forehead and limbs, but when they approached she stopped and looked at Yana’s mother with unconcealed worry in her pretty blue eyes. “Ana,” she said with a shaking voice. “What would you have me do?”
Ana put her basket down on the little table and sat on the edge of the bed where she placed her palm on Ashrael’s forehead. “She's burning up. Get me some snow in a pot, and tell Una to boil some sea water.”
Hiljda rushed from the room. The Khanassa opened her eyes a fraction and whispered something, but the words failed to form.
“Shh
h. Do not be concerned, Ashrael,” Ma soothed. “I will brew a potion for you and you’ll be on your feet again in no time.”
The khanassa shook her head and opened her mouth to speak again and this time Yana could hear her words. “Danael, tell him…” She reached out, and looked at Yana.
Yana stepped forward and took the khanassa’s cold clammy hand in her own.
“Tell him,” the khanassa wheezed.
Yana didn’t flinch and leaned closer to hear the khanassa’s words.
Yana squeezed her hand. “I will, Khanassa. I will tell him.”
Sargan
Sargan woke early. In truth, he’d hardly slept. Again. The Reaping always had this effect on him. Restless nights, filled with dreams. Nightmares mostly. It seemed no different whether he was in the luxuries of his suite in the palace, or here in this goat-hus a world away.
But the darkness was about to end.
He flung back the furs, dressed, fumbling as always with the woollen breeches and vest, then he flicked his cloak about his shoulders and stepped past Tilda, the new goat, to face the icy air outside.
A fresh fall of snow had covered everything. Tracks formed dark lines revealing their back and forth daily travels from the village to the rondhus and the duckyard.
Sargan squinted at the rondhus in the predawn gloom. It stood dark and squat before the backdrop of forest that rose up on the mountain beyond. No one was up yet.
Sargan hurried down the path and through the laneways as best he could in the darkness. The coals of the night fires were now completely vanquished thanks to the falling snow. In Zraemia, the city lamps and fires would remain ablaze all night during Aktu, to help scare off the demons. But here in Drakia, they didn’t bother with that, leaving it to the gods to determine their fate. To Sargan’s delight, the eastern horizon now glowed a dark shade of red. The colour of blood.
Sargan shivered violently with the icy air. At the village circle, he turned at the narrow steps that led down the escarpment to the jetties, past the large oak, and took the path along the cliff called the Finger, toward the easternmost peak of the island. He walked to the Finger’s tip and sat upon a rock near the ancient altar to wait for the sunrise.
He avoided looking at the altar. It was used for sacrifice, like the one performed a quarter-moon ago on the first eve of Dark Wynter. An old nanny goat was slaughtered and her blood spilled over the deep engravings on the altar’s surface and flowed in various circles and coils into similar engravings on the ground where it eventually streamed over the rocks, and down to the sea.
Sidmon had performed the ritual, and Sargan had trouble keeping the contents of his stomach down when the seer had filled a goblet with hot blood and drunk the whole thing down. It was a strange, barbaric practice, and not for the first time Sargan was glad he was born Zraemian. He shivered when he recalled the dull glow in the seer’s eyes, but no doubt it’d been nothing but a figment of his imagination.
A few stars poked through the clouded night sky. Sargan shivered again, and was about to utter a curse at the cold when the hushed sound of voices made him jump up and turn. The early morning light was still gloomy, but through the trees he could just make out two shadowy figures approaching the altar.
He held his breath as he listened, one of the voices was low and hoarse and he recognised it instantly. The khanax.
Sargan glanced around in a panic. The day was growing lighter, he couldn’t stand here if he didn’t want to be seen. He scrambled behind a tall boulder where a stream bubbled and fell down the cliff face to the sea below. He crouched low, but there wasn’t much room and the ice water lapped at his moccasins making him gasp. He gripped his hands together, and bit his lips hard. This little expedition wasn’t the best idea he’d had, and he wished now that he’d stayed in bed.
The voices came closer. Two of them. Sargan also recognised the whispery voice of Sidmon the seer.
“—Won't be long now,” Sidmon was saying.
“It’s been too long as it is,” the khanax replied.
Sargan frowned as a cramp stabbed his leg. He held it at an awkward angle, trying to keep his foot out of the ice-cold water. He gritted his teeth as he relaxed his leg, but gasped as the cold numbed his now saturated foot.
“Tonight we begin our new path,” Sidmon said.
“I hope you’re right. Hush, he comes.”
Sargan shifted again, trying to find comfort on the sharp edges of rock was impossible. His ears twinged as footsteps approached.
“You’re sure this is safe?” The voice was unfamiliar. A man from the other clan perhaps.
“It is,” the khanax replied.
“No one will come here,” Sidmon said. “No one will risk the omen.”
Sargan frowned, wondering what was so ominous.
“Very well, I am all ears,” the stranger said.
The khanax had lowered his voice and spoke rapidly. Sargan had difficulty picking up any meaning. But some words came to him. ‘Next summer. Attack. Kill. Petar.’ Words that made Sargan frown, especially when Petar’s name was repeated more than once.
“It will be a great relief to remove that thorn from my side,” the khanax said.
“I am happy to do it,” the other man said. “His recklessness caused the death of my son.”
“Then we’re agreed. Let's put things in motion,” the seer added.
“Perhaps we should wait until – your wife —”
“That wait will be a short one,” the khanax said. “Come let's return. The sun rises.”
Footsteps brushed over the rock. Sargan edged around the boulder to see three figures picking their way back through the trees. The first touches of rosy light illuminated their wolf fur cloaks and Sargan could clearly make out the large frame belonging to the khanax, and the tall stooped figure of Sidmon the seer. Sargan squinted hard to glean some assessment of the third figure. A lengthy braid hung along his the wolfskin coat along his back. But he could have been any member of either clan.
Sargan took a deep breath and shook his legs. He looked back out over the sea. The sun crept up over the horizon. He did not know exactly what had just happened, but a grim sensation shot through his bones. Petar was involved somehow, and Sargan couldn’t shake the feeling Yana’s father was in danger.
Yana
Yana poured a good helping of stew into as many bowls as she could find while her father and Uncle Gregar held a noisy meeting with a mix of clansfolk from both Estr and Westr Varg.
Sargan rushed in and stooped down to whisper mountain speech in her ear. “I need to tell you something, Yana. About the khanax.”
Yana frowned as she filled the final bowl. “You’ll have to tell me later. Here, take this to mother, would you? She’s exhausted and won't be joining us.”
Sargan nodded and did as he was bid, heading to the loft.
Yana finished serving the other bowls.
“Thank you, little warbler.” Her father took his bowl. “Eat up. Thanks be to Prijna.”
“Thanks be,” their guests murmured back, before digging in.
“Yana, fetch another flagon of ale, would you?” her father asked.
“Yes, Da.” Yana stepped outside not bothering with her cloak. She wanted to hurry back so that she didn’t miss a word of their conversation.
Khanassa Ashrael was dead.
Dark Wynter was over. The sun had risen, and light now filled the sky, chasing the shadows away and making the snow a brilliant white. But a dark mood had filled Yana’s heart since the Khanassa’s death that morning, and the whole village mourned the loss of their leader. The sun may as well fold itself away again for all that anyone cared.
Yana stepped to the back of the rondhus and opened the trapdoor to their cellar, carved in rock deep beneath. She climbed down the ladder and found the flagons of ale on the shelf. She took two flagons. They’d drink them both no question. If not today then tomorrow, after the khanassa’s funerary rites.
Yana climbed back up an
d plonked the two flagons on the ground one at a time, before hoisting herself out of the cellar and closing the trapdoor. She bent to pick up her load and nearly ran into Sargan who stood with a wide-eyed look of panic on his face.
“Yana, I need to tell you something about the—”
“I said, later,” Yana snapped.
“But—”
“Here take this.” She pushed a flagon into his chest and Sargan clutched it. “I want to get back to hear what they’re saying.” Yana quickly returned to the warmth of the rondhus, Sargan puffed close behind her.
“I say we leave before wynter’s last moon,” Da’s voice rang clear, like a sagast’s.
Uncle Gregar gave him a questioning look. “You’re not suggesting what I think you are, brother?”
“We have to get Uthalia back. They have two of our isles now, how many will they hold by summer’s end?”
“Petar,” Thorag was shaking his head and his long grey beard kept sweeping back and forth into his bowl of stew. “You are like a relentless sea bull. Tomorrow we bury our khanassa. Can this not wait?”
“No,” Da’s eyes burned with fury. “We must plan now. Do you not see? We have to be smarter than them. We have to plan what they’ll least expect. Just as she would have counseled.”
Yana placed a bowl of stew in front of Keta who looked up with tired eyes. “Thank you, Yana.”
“And there's another thing we should push for,” her father said. Ignoring his stew but filling their cups with ale.
“And what might that be?” Fegarj the boat-builder asked. “An attack on the mainland, or something equally as moon-crazed?”
“Something more so.” Her father glanced to each of them. “We need to bring forward the Choosing.”
“Vulkar’s balls!” Jorg, usually a quiet man, yelled out. “You must be out of your mind.”
“Aye,” Thorag agreed, swigging his ale.
“I have to agree, brother,” Uncle Gregar spoke. “Your clan cannot see beyond tomorrow and the funeral to come. To talk of war is one thing, but to suggest you bring forward a Choosing, in wynter—” he shook his head. “It will bring bad gaeshna. Why would you even consider it?”
