A Novella: Curse of the Night Dragon, #1

by S. K. Alden

  He was answered with cheering from both the Snowmount Guard and the travelers, and as the Gates were opened, his own Guard drummers tapped out a fresh cadence as blue and silver streamers mingled with red and gold. The folk from Grauvale rode forward, crossing the moat and passing through.

  Gill smiled and waved, moving to the side overlook to watch them pass. At the back, he noted the tall figure of his brother in his fighting leathers, bringing up the rear with ravens swooping past.

  For a moment, the brothers' eyes met. Kirin was alert, stern, and nodded once.

  Gill returned the nod and understood his brother's unspoken message: remain watchful. Things are not what they seem.

  —-

  At the third bell past sunset, Gilleath, King of Snowmount, scanned the hundred visitors who’d just feasted themselves into sated happiness. Plates and trenchers clinked as people pitched in to clear tables, and fresh ale was passed around, followed by trays of sweets and roasted nuts, set in arm’s reach of every guest.

  At his nod, the senior chamberlain ordered the braziers dimmed and Gill made his way to the center of the hall. There, a ceremonial anvil sat on a rough stone plinth before a firepit full of freshly stacked wood. As the conversation in the hall quieted, Gill placed one hand on the smooth iron and considered what to say to the survivors of a dozen hard years of war. He decided there were no words to express the loss and sacrifice—they all knew what prices they’d paid for this new peace.

  He looked up to see more than a hundred expectant, sober faces, all well aware of that.

  So he said a silent thank you to those he missed tonight, and in his most serious voice, began with the words written on the great standing stone at Sea Cliff.

  “In the ice-cold time before the seven léns, the Oldfather watched over ship-warriors born and bred to fight in the eastern realms,” he began, his King’s voice resonating in the great hall, his face alight from braziers reflecting the veins of metal in the stone. Everyone in this hall knew the story but he could see them sitting back to hear it again.

  “But the storm-demon sent a terrible winter tempest that destroyed the great warfleet at sea.” He was warming up to the telling and stepped away from the plinth. “And the Oldfather was cast to the earth, his skin,” Gill touched his own face. “Darkened from the thunder and lightning of battle. He washed ashore on a wide beach...and alone, he made a bonfire on the sand.” He paused a moment, then went on. “One by one, seven others washed ashore, cold as death.”

  Gill let that image fill the silence before he continued. To his right, a group of Snowmount youngsters sat huddled together at their parents’ feet, eyes wide.

  “The Oldfather was filled with sorrow and hastened to them. One by one, he lifted them, breathed life into them, and brought them to his fire. He made them warm again...strong to endure and skilled to survive.

  “And these were the Oldfather’s companions at the first Wintermeet...” he paused, knowing his audience would say this part aloud with him. “Ceilte, Eathom, Uillen, and Dom.” The collective voices intoned. “Gredne, Lowl, and Myrdin.”

  At this there was a smattering of applause from lads and lasses alike. The lasses all knew of course that of the First Ones, Ceilte, Uillen, and Myrdin had been shieldmaidens.

  Gill smiled and put his hand on his heart in silent tribute to shieldmaidens as he went on. “Around the Oldfather’s great fire they honored the lives of the many lost, and then he gave to his First Ones the gifts of warrior, hunter, fisher, and farmer; forgeworker, horsemaster, and stonebuilder...that they might use their hands in honor to hold and protect new land of their own, free from the evils of the eastern wars.

  “And when the sun graced the blue sky once again, he showed to them the great Green Isle and blessed them, giving each leave to find and make léns of their own: Sea Cliff and Snowmount,” he paused as members of each contingent raised tankards and gave a shout. “Grauvale and Ryland,” another pause, raised tankards and shouts. “Albankeep, Hillhome, and Skyrange.” The very last lén gave the traditional prairie rider’s whoo-hah whoop.

  Gill grinned and the audience laughed and added light applause. But they quieted quickly, allowing, maybe even needing him to go on.

  “At the Second Wintermeet, the Oldfather brought lifemates for their great hearts, to match their fire and join their talents. Each lass who wanted to, made her choice—and for the pair, he gave them true and abiding love.”

  Couples everywhere clasped hands with shy smiles. Lasses, of course, always had the say in the matter. Unwed lads in the hall looked about, silently wondering is this the year a lass chooses me?

  Gill softened his voice. “And on the Third Wintermeet, the First Ones and their lifemates brought their children,” he smiled at the group of little ones sitting together to his right. “To nurture and teach, and to love like the Oldfather in return.”

  One small child, understanding that this was about him, made a happy cry and raised his hands in his excitement. There were more than a few chuckles in the hall.

  Gill smiled. “And the Oldfather was pleased. ‘You will keep this tradition sacred,’ he said to them. ‘To meet again every fifth winter and remember me, who gave you kin and kith; and to remember your fealty to each other and to the Seven Léns on this great Green Isle.’”

  Genuine applause broke out now. This was the re-affirming thing they’d all come to hear, after all.

  Then Gilleath, King of Snowmount, spread his strong arms wide and turned to encompass everyone in the hall.

  "Welcome, kith and kin, to the Wintermeet," he announced. “The People of Snowmount give thanks for your safe arrival in this first year of our new peace.” Everyone stood and applause filled the Hall.

  After several minutes, a deep bell rang once, its sound echoing in the hall as the people quieted and Gill spoke again, his expression turned somber.

  “And...on this night, we call our lost ones home...so we may honor the blood they have given and show them that our respect for their bravery is strong.” People bowed heads for a minute of standing silence to honor the fallen. Many made gestures of blessing according to their separate traditions.

  “It is time,” Gill called into the silence when the minute was up. “To light the Fire...” At this, the crowd pulled in their chairs and benches, clearing the aisles.

  At the back of the hall, a trio of Mountain drummers took up a solemn beat on great drums as the gathered folk whispered in anticipation, shifting positions for a good view of The Lighting.

  From the crowd, a well-muscled leather-clad Mountain forgemaster strode forward, his great hammer in one hand. He knelt on one knee, hand on heart, to his King, and then stood tall beside the anvil, great arms crossed.

  The drumming stopped.

  The forgemaster paused a moment, seemed to collect himself, and then raised his hammer.

  “Seven warriors,” the forgemaster began in a deep, resonating voice. “Were the Oldfather’s companions at the first Wintermeet.” He raised the hammer and struck the anvil—giving the mighty clang time to resound.

  “I call now the kin of the Seven Warriors to Spark the Fire,” he intoned as the drummers began a low rolling beat.

  From around the hall, representatives from each Lén stood to come forward, their chamberlains calling out their names in the traditional order. Strictly speaking, each should have been a descendant in the gender of their founding warrior, but with the léns struggling in the aftermath of war, any representative was welcome.

  And as they stepped forward, each was handed a ceremonial flint—each carved in motifs of their honored First One.

  “Lord Commander Avenal...For High King Niall and Ceilte’s Lén of Sea Cliff.” A tall, dark-haired noble stepped forward, polite, since he was neither Niall nor representing, for the first time ever, a High Queen. He took his place near the firepit while the hammer clanged again.

  “King Gilleath...of Snowmount and Eathom’s Folk.” Clang. Gill, with his brassy hair and
freshly tied warrior’s tail, knew he was an imposing figure as he moved to stand at Avenal’s right.

  “Lord Brunsder...Envoy of Uillen’s People and the Queen of Grauvale.” Clang. Brunsder, hardy northerner, stood beside Gill as the line curved around the firepit. Grauvale had been ruled by a Queen since the days of Uillen herself...but Grauvale’s warrior Princess had been the nàmhid’s first target, followed by her brother, and then his wife, the brave daughter of Snowmount’s former King—Gill and Kirin’s mother.

  “Queen Hette,” the forgemaster continued. “Daughter of Dom, for Ryland.” Clang. The old warrior came forward with her walking stick and wooden boot, having lost one foot in battle many years back. Her solemn and slender grand-daughter stood with her—her dark black hair in warrior’s braids. Gill inclined his head to them, knowing well Hette’s legendary skill with a sword. It was also her grand-daughter’s very first Wintermeet, and there were many lads who hoped to catch that one’s eye—cautiously.

  “Lord Rathsvith...Steward of Albankeep and the people of Gredne.” Clang. Old Rathsvith, an elderly unwed scholar indirectly of Gredne’s line, was the last known descendant. He was assisted by a young lass who stayed beside him to lend her arm.

  “King Jothro...of Hillhome and the Lowls.” Clang. Jothro, brother to the fallen King Seissyl, came forward and took his place, his expression stern.

  And then the last. “Captain Bruilan...envoy for Queen Halrynia of Skyrange and Myrdin’s folk.” Clang. Bruilan, tall horseman, completed the circle.

  Silence reigned in the hall again. The kindling for the fire was now ringed by the Seven Families of the Isle, and the Forgemaster nodded once. “My Lords and Ladies,” he prompted.

  As one, the representatives took one step forward and with flint and steel in their hands, each made a gesture of blessing according to their folk—Gill held the flint to his heart, then raised it over his head to the Oldfather.

  And then each of them (old Rathsvith needing help) struck their flints and showered the kindling with sprays of bright sparks.

  The Forgemaster clanged his hammer one last time and as the first flames leapt, applause broke out in the Hall.

  It was a good, strong firing, and it boded well for the Wintermeet. The Seven slapped arms, bumped fists, and nodded, and in a few cases, bowed hands-on-hearts to one another.

  This was the happy signal for cheering and for more ale to make the rounds. The hall, lit with friendly firelight, resounded with happy well-wishes as everyone drank to the memory of the First Ones and raised their voices in unabashed celebration.

  Tonight they honored Green Isle as one.

  Chapter Two

  Two days later, Gill, tense with pent-up stress, cornered his brother during the Royal Council’s mid-morning break. They stood just inside the King's study while his councilors mingled in the chamber beyond. The Great Hall outside held a milling crowd—Snowmount was decidedly packed.

  "We haven't even completed the opening statements," Gilleath murmured through clenched teeth. "No one's staying on track. Albankeep is pushing to resolve several side issues before they'll agree to even start talks on Sea Cliff's treaty..." He shook his head. "And I've had six different private warnings about intentions to disrupt the proceedings." He glowered, then pinned Kirin with a keen eye. "Anything from the ravens?"

  Kirin frowned. "I have them flying wide circuits...but the only interesting news is an increase in druid sightings on the edge of the Fernwoods. The River Bend troops are alert, but they're only watching."

  Gill let his breath out.

  "I've had warnings as well," Kirin lowered his voice. "From several of the Hillhome lads and a bit more from the group in from Grauvale," Kirin said to his brother.

  "Anything specific?"

  "Just that factions against the treaty are planning to stop it."

  Gill muttered a short curse in ceilte.

  Kirin went on. "Drustan spent last night drinking ale with the Grauvale guard. He says, look for ploys to disrupt the voting."

  Gill narrowed his eyes. "Not hard to accomplish. All they have to do is prevent one of us from attending," he said. "All seven must be present for a vote to go forward." He frowned. "One of the Albankeep lords keeps making ridiculous demands. If I wanted a suspect, I'd start there."

  "Yngvi," Kirin went on, naming an Albankeep merchant known for trading ore to the nàmhid’s úkenn in times past. "He showed up with their contingent. Brought his daughters..."

  Gill snorted. "Looking to arrange a marriage? Who'd be foolish enough to take that bait...?" He looked away. "Not even Maeg can stand them, and we all know she has more patience than any of us."

  "Well, thank the Oldfather for that."

  Gill nodded, ignoring his brother’s lopsided grin. He knew what a political marriage was about, having been Chosen by a lass from Hillhome some sixteen years ago. Lucky for him, Old Uncle Connal had looked out for their interests and engineered the arrangements, but both brothers understood the pressures and the complications. Gilleath and Maeg’s first years had been more than a bit rocky, yet Gill had come to deeply love his Lady Wife for herself, not to mention her deft ability to manage both the court social matters and four active children while never losing her cool. During the last war, she had managed the Mountain under siege like a seasoned warrior.

  If four children weren't proof enough, it was apparent any time Gill looked at her that she had come to love him with a fierce pride.

  "You are very lucky to have her," Kirin murmured.

  "Yes," Gill's voice was firm. "And maybe someday you'll be lucky too." Gill's love for his four children was well known. "Look, it’s the second of the big banquets tonight," Gill said, hand on his brother's shoulder. "Go mingle. You'll hear more news. Add enough food and drink and people will be talking...especially the maidens. They'll be keen to catch your eye...they'll tell you anything."

  Kirin said nothing. He had absolutely no desire to spend time with choice-minded lasses. When he looked up, he saw his brother's eyes, full of concern.

  "How's that hip?" Gilleath asked.

  "It's fine," Kirin waved a hand. "Hasn't bothered me at all so far."

  Gilleath's face was still. Kirin still bore a terrible wound from a long ago encounter with a night dragon.

  "Things have changed,” Gilleath said. “The nàmhid is gone. Maybe this year you'll be fine."

  Kirin stayed quiet.

  Gilleath pulled him into a quick embrace, held him briefly in a tight hug. "Get your mind off it. Go have some fun at the banquet. Dance, flirt...spend a little time dancing." He stepped back. "Tell me you will try." He said it as a direct order from the King, not just a request from a brother.

  Kirin took a deep breath. Pointless to argue. "All right. Yes. I will try."

  "Thank you." And then Gilleath turned back to the open Hall, intercepted by two pages and the assistant clerk who seemed to follow him everywhere these days.

  Kirin sighed. Count on a brother to know exactly how to punch a guy in the gut. Fact was, he could admit to himself that he was lonely. Gilleath was more and more tied to the schedule of the Court, and the security of Snowmount took his own time and attention to its fullest.

  It was true that things were quieter now.

  And because of it, Kirin could feel his loneliness. It was like an aching war wound in the early morning hours when he woke in the dark. It was hollow regret late at night when he returned from long patrols to his empty chamber alone.

  But choice-minded lasses...? The gossip held no interest for him. In his heart, he was just a Mountain lad, happier hunting out on the western slope than mingling with the social crowd. And he just couldn't believe that any lass would really understand what happened to him every year...

  What would happen in just a few days, in fact.

  Because it had happened every midwinter for the last eighteen years: the recurring fever from his Night Dragon wound. Nightmares, voices in his head, visions of wreck and ruin...

&n
bsp; It was a curse and the curse drew demons. Only the Mountain protected him. He was tied to Snowmount and remained safe as long as he never left its lands. It was a family secret they'd kept closely guarded over the years for fear of what the nàmhid could do if he'd known. It was a curse that not even the archdruid had been able to break.

  What lass would put up with all that? What family would accept him if the truth were known?

  The only two who might have understood were both gone. Lalo...a druid girl who had saved his life more than once and then perished in that horrible battle. And Jo...rough and tumble archer he'd met some four years ago...first-rate fletcher and a merry soul. She was no one to the highborns, but if times had been different, she might have Chosen him, might have stayed when she learned of his curse.

  But times had not been different and Jo had fallen in battle against an incursion of úkenn. He'd not even known until two days later. She'd been under Garbhan's command, and his venerable senior cousin had brought him the news with great sadness.

  He could see Jo’s sparkling eyes in his mind. Their friendship had been passionate and fun, but what had started so impulsively in the spring was done before autumn. She had been a warrior, and she had lived and died a warrior without ever learning that he bore a dragon curse. He blessed her memory, and then he forced himself back to the here and now. Honestly, he'd rather fight a dozen úkenn than dance with ladies tonight.

  But he understood why he needed to.

  He would go. But he did not square his shoulders when he turned and strode for the guard quarters, finding solace the way he always did: in his duty to Snowmount’s people. That, at least, he could understand.

  —-

  Even after promising his King, Kirin managed to avoid the evening's celebration by immersing himself in the work of guarding Snowmount—even the least favorite parts. On his desk waited a pile of requisitions from his duty captains and if Kirin knew one thing about being a commander, it was to make sure his warriors had the tools and equipment they needed—and those things required funds, which required his approval. Couldn't give away the treasury, after all. So he sat, turned up the flame in his oil lamp, and read the first request.