A Novella: Curse of the Night Dragon, #1

by S. K. Alden

  "The last lad they brought in from the rockfall on the western terrace," he demanded.

  A pair of startled assistants pointed to an alcove.

  Gilleath inclined his head, hand on heart, and strode in that direction, schooling himself to a calmer demeanor more respectful of the sick and wounded. There, resting on his back with a splinted leg propped up was the archer lad, Skirfir.

  "Skirf...?" Gill tended to treat Kirin's foster-son like a young cousin. "Are you all right, lad?" he asked, pushing a privacy drape aside.

  Skirfir saw his King and his eyes went wide. Impulsively, Gill laid a comforting hand on his arm as Skirfir made a brave attempt to sit up.

  "No, no. Stay put," Gill said. "Can't have you messing up your bandages. I hear you have a message."

  The lad nodded.

  "Well, find your voice then and tell me."

  —-

  Gill slipped out of the infirmary, heading for the King's Chamber, a small room by Snowmount standards used for his most private meetings. Fact was, he had heard more in the young archer's message than the lad knew—and that, added to a few other pieces of information he had...

  And quick check with the physician on duty confirmed that indeed the most seriously wounded warrior in the rockfall had not made it.

  That meant murder with a side of treachery in the midst of hosting the most critical negotiations in years. Part of him wanted to turn the mountain upside down in a fit of rage, but the more sensible part of him told him to do it with deadly calm.

  And he wanted his brother brought back inside the mountain instead of left suffering out there in the cold with no one to defend him.

  He would do it himself, in fact.

  But not before he put a few other things in motion.

  He burst into the King's Chamber to find five of his most trusted advisors hastily dressed and standing at the ready.

  The only one missing was Kirin.

  "My Lord King." Old Garbhan inclined his head, using Gill’s most formal title. The group was silent, at attention, and ready.

  Gill laid out what he knew. A member of the guard dead, Kirin’s foster-lad injured, and Kirin himself stranded in the fiercest snow storm in a decade.

  Then he added Skirfir's very interesting observation about red powder on the hillside.

  "Gredne’s folk," Allon muttered. "From eastern Albankeep. There are verified accounts of them dealing too closely with the nàmhid in the years before the war." He looked around the room. "And we all know that while our foe is vanquished, much of his evil remains. It will take years to sweep things clean," he stated.

  Gill nodded. That was exactly why signing High King Niall's treaty was so critical.

  "Yet Gredne’s folk are one of the Seven Families," Gill pointed out. "We can't simply reduce the number to Six just because we don't like their trade partners. There would be revolt, for one thing." He shook his head and looked each councilor in the eye one by one as he spoke. "What I need is proof that the sabotage is connected to them, and whether the rot is in the entire contingent or just a few. If so, we will need to be surgical."

  "I don't understand," Garbhan asked. "Do they not have a marriage petition in the Council, seeking an alliance with the House of Eathom? Why antagonize us?"

  Gill nodded. "Because I was stalling it best I could. I want the treaty signed first...they want the petition first. But I begin to see their plan."

  "Plan?" Allon narrowed his eyes.

  "Think it through. It starts with a marriage to my brother...who is fifth in line to the throne of Snowmount and first in line as Regent."

  The councilors stared at him.

  "I suspect his life would last as long as it took for him to father a male child—an Albankeep-born heir who would be sixth in line to the throne of Snowmount. Then we would no doubt find Kirin dead in some plausible accident while they somehow contrive to kill me and all four of my under-age children," he clenched his jaw. "Leaving them conveniently placed with an Eathom-blooded heir to the throne, thereby making that child..."

  Garbhan stood in a fit of anger. "King of Snowmount," he snarled.

  Everyone in the room shifted in anger.

  "Not if my Dyfed claimed it first," Allon stated, fist clenched. Allon, too, could trace his line back to Eathom Firstfather. "Regardless whose right would take precedence, Dyfed would fight for Snowmount to the end."

  “Dyf’s befriended Niall and the druids," Garbhan grumbled, glancing sideways at Allon. "Grednians’ll want his blood for it too." Niall, like Gill, claimed his Great-Aunt’s lén indirectly.

  Gill looked at his hands. "Garbhan's right. They'll be after Dyfed as well."

  The room was silent. Allon's expression was both affronted and worried.

  "But we are not sitting here ignoring the signs,” Gill said. “And their plan is goat dung, and I want justice for our dead," Gill snarled, his expression like stone. "And I will protect my kin and kith with everything I have," he swore.

  "As will we," Allon growled.

  Gill was silent a moment. "I am a son of Eathom," he said, crossing his arms. "Midwinter’s Day is upon us, and I am King in Snowmount. We have strength they don’t understand.”

  Old Garbhan leaned on his staff like a druid. "Ah," he said. "I understand you now."

  And his old eyes twinkled with a wickedness Gill had not seen for years. The two nodded at each other, and then Gill quickly spelled out his tasks for the others.

  "And you?" Garbhan asked his King, as gruff as his cousin King Aubin ever was.

  "I'm off to the western terrace for two things. My brother," he said. "And once this storm clears—a word with the ravens." He rested one hand on Garbhan's shoulder and lowered his voice. "I'm counting on you to have the Guard ready."

  Garbhan nodded. "Call Drustan and Ohbar out of the mine," he advised. "With their best crew. You'll need their skills to manage that rockface in a storm."

  And Gilleath agreed.

  Chapter Ten

  It took longer to get things rolling on the western terrace than Gilleath would have liked, but he couldn't fault how hard the mining crew worked at it.

  Drustan and his brother Ohbar had brought their best engineers who took one look at the snowy slope and started sketching plans for an ore cart on an iron track powered by counter weight inside the mountain. The wind could gust all it wanted and the cart and track would remain steady. They would even assemble the track on runners inside and slide the whole apparatus out, somewhat like launching a raft. Gill approved and miners swarmed over the construction like busy ants.

  Meanwhile, the storm raged on and the darkness of night turned to the dull gray of a stormy Midwinter’s Eve day morning full of gusting wind and blowing snow. The wind would have to quiet before the ravens would be seen again, so Gill remained focused on task one: finding his brother.

  Two hours later, Gill was all too eager to hop inside the mine cart and ride down the hillside, though he had conceded that two others could go first for safety. He forbade them to look for Kirin, however, on the premise that they might disturb any tracking signs not entirely obliterated by the blowing snow.

  "Might be a bit of a jolt at the bottom," Drustan said, tossing a heavy coil of rope over the lap of his King and friend. "But good luck."

  Gill gripped the old miner's hand in thanks, then double checked the contents of the bag strapped to his side. A bottle of minerals, a miner's pan, rations, and clean rags. On the other side, a canvas bag packed with fresh sticks of oil-soaked kindling.

  He nodded to Drustan that he was ready.

  With a clang, the brake released and the cart rolled heavily down the steep track, slowly picking up speed as it went, and indeed there was a jolt at the end which threw Gill a few inches forward as it jerked to a stop. Two burly warriors helped him out at the bottom.

  "Where to, my Lord?" one of them shouted. Gill handed him one end of the heavy rope to anchor firmly to the cart and raised a hand to say they should stay put. He
tied the other end to his own belt.

  Gill was a master at tracking—he'd been doing it all his life to find game, thieves, úkenn, and of course, his little brother. It took only minutes for him to make his first circuit of the immediate area and discover an odd snow pile in the center of what should have been a narrow road.

  This was Kirin's marker—set the way he always did. Gill played out his safety rope and moved parallel to the mountainside until he found a second marker about ten steps away.

  After that, it didn't take long for the stacks to lead him straight to the old guard house.

  "Kirin!" he shouted, hoping he could be heard over the howling wind. He stomped his way through an open foyer, tying the end of his safety rope to a horse ring. He would need that to guide him back to the cart.

  Once through the dooe, he could see an inner chamber lit by the dim orange light of embers and he stepped toward it, pulling the snow hood off his face.

  He did not expect to hear the ring of steel or see a half-dressed cneasaí lass pointing his brother's sword at him.

  But he admired her instinct.

  "Hey," he said, holding up his hands. "I'm just here to help my brother."

  The lassie's eyes went wide as she realized she had just drawn steel on her King.

  But Gilleath didn't have time for apologies. There, twisting in the mussed blankets in front of a dying fire lay his very sick brother. One look and he could see Kirin was in the throes of the poison, dangerously fevered and shivering in unspeakable pain.

  He dumped the sack of firewood in front of the lass, who had dropped the sword and crouched before him, bowed in horror.

  "I take it you're the cneasaí, Nÿr..."

  She nodded quickly, not daring to look up. "Yes, my lord."

  "Build up the fire for me," he said, ignoring her shock. "Quickly, now." He stripped off the supply bag at his side, then threw off his snow jacket and gloves, already caked in ice.

  "Good," he said, spotting the little kettle. "You've got hot water."

  —-

  Nÿr's cold hands fumbled with the bundle of firewood, breaking it apart and turning to quickly add two, then three of the treated wood to their guttering fire. It flared quickly, bringing immediate warmth to the little room.

  Next to her, Snowmount's King (she could barely believe it was really him) was bending down to kiss his brother's forehead.

  "Kirin," she heard him murmur. “Brother?"

  Her patient (friend?) had been unresponsive for the last hour and said nothing now, either.

  But instead of cursing her for her poor care of his brother, her King was quietly rummaging through his bag for a small glass bottle with a wax seal.

  "The hot water, please," he said, gesturing for her to hand him the kettle.

  Nÿr hastened to help. The King had said please to her.

  And what he was doing now was not something she'd ever learned from the Cneasaí. She watched, fascinated, hardly daring to hope.

  The King pulled a small, flat miner's pan from his pack, poured the hot water in, and then broke the seal on the little bottle and poured something coarsely ground into the palm of his hand.

  As she watched, he closed his eyes and started a low throated chant in ceilte, almost like the first part of an ancient song. She even had a sense of something...as if something inside her could sense some druidic thing that the King tapped...

  Then he cast the rough grains into the water and gently rocked the pan, and as she watched, the substance dissolved. With a few more murmured words, he waved a hand through the steam, dispersing the scent of something wholly unfamiliar to her—yet surprisingly heady.

  To Nÿr, it brought to mind the scent of spring rain on the clean stone of Grauvale...along with an astonishing clarity of mind and subtle energy that wiped away the weariness of what had been a very long day and night of constant demands.

  As if catching the scent, Kirin's head turned slightly toward the steam and his shivering slowly stopped, his body relaxing. After a moment, his eyes slitted open and his brows furrowed in puzzlement as he looked at his brother's face with an expression at once sweet and confused.

  "Gillth...?" he slurred his brother's name, his voice husky from the fever. A momentary shiver returned, then stopped. He moved a hand, and Gill grabbed it, clutching it as if he could make his brother strong again through sheer force of will.

  "Yes. I'm taking you home. Just hang on."

  Kirin's head moved a little in what Nÿr took as a nod. "Gill..." he whispered.

  And Gilleath went to work in earnest, grabbing clean rags from his bag and dipping them in the strongly scented water. He bathed his brother's face, then motioned for Nÿr to uncover his hip and expose the angry scar. He wet another cloth and pressed it to the old wound, nodding for Nÿr to take up the task.

  They kept at it until Kirin's breathing evened out. He looked spent, but a little of his color had returned and the scar, oddly enough, was looking less angry and more like an ordinary old wound.

  "I think he's asleep, my Lord," Nÿr whispered. "You've done it."

  Gilleath looked at her, his handsome face showing worry and strain. "The seos did it," he gestured toward the little bottle and snorted. "I was just the pack horse." He glanced at her, then seemed to take in the nest-like tumble of things in the little room. He said nothing but reached out, drawing her into a warm embrace. "Thank you for staying with him."

  She felt like breaking into tears or dying of shame—but she banished both thoughts. "I tried to help him, but this is not a simple fever...or the usual kind of infection. He was fine..." she shook her head, suddenly at a loss for words.

  "Right up until the moment that he wasn't fine? Believe me, I know." Gilleath sighed and let her go, squeezing her hand in silent reassurance.

  "But what is it? This is not an illness I've seen."

  Gilleath looked sad. "Nor will you again, Stone willing. You’ve heard that we killed the Night Dragon that took our mother...” He looked away. “My sword and his arrows. It wasn’t easy, and Kirin was just nine years old. That dragontail lashed around and the barb got him before we knew it. We got away by leaping into the fjord...the dragon followed. It perished, we didn’t. Garbhan fished us out, but we almost lost my brother...until a druid arrived and used a handful of this," he nodded at the bottle, "to bring him back."

  And then she guessed who must have done the healing. “Owain did it...” she breathed.

  He nodded. "We were so relieved...my brother was alive. Back to himself in less than a day, in fact. But what we didn't know then was that the dragontail wound would never really heal. The poison hides in the blood and comes back, same time every year, for the rest of your days. It's a curse, really. Short of killing you, it makes your life hell."

  "This happens to him...every year?" Nÿr could hardly fathom such a thing.

  Gilleath nodded, then frowned. "Well, not this exactly. Some years are worse than others." He touched his brother's forehead again. "When the nàmhid fell, we thought the poison of his magicked dragon would lose its power. That Kirin would be free." Gilleath's expression was faraway. "But here it is again..."

  They were quiet, listening to Kirin's now even breathing. "I must swear you to secrecy on this," Gilleath said, turning to lock eyes with her. "There are very few of us who know about the recurring curse. Had the nàmhid ever realized it, he would have used Kirin against us, turned him into a demon...or worse." He looked immensely sad then, and Nÿr could see the toll these years had taken on him. "For this reason we've kept Kirin close to Snowmount. He's hated it sometimes, but the mountain protects him." The King's eyes were moist with sorrow. "And now the seven families have prevailed over the nàmhid, and yet my brother is not healed."

  Nÿr felt her King's pain like an arrow to the heart, and she realized that no one—none of the Green Isle peoples—really understood the price paid by the Sons of Eathom to keep the nàmhid’s invader úkenn from crossing into the western léns.

&nb
sp; And something about that hardened her resolve at the tragic unfairness of it all.

  "You have my discretion, my lord," she said. "And my oath as cneasaí to keep confidence. I will help all I can." She looked at Gilleath and saw him nod, his eyes cast down. A King, brought to humility by this horrible thing.

  "How can I help now?" she asked quietly.

  Gilleath, surprisingly, found a touch of humor in her question and when he looked at her, his eyes sparkled with a touch of mirth.

  "Well, first of all," he said lightly. "You can find the rest of your gear and get properly dressed in the presence of your King."

  Nÿr's hands covered her eyes a moment, and she thought she'd sink into the ground with sheer embarrassment.

  But when their eyes met again, his smile was gentle and she felt a touch of very fond approval in the way he raised an amused eyebrow at her.

  Chapter Eleven

  The King of Snowmount kept his back discreetly turned while Nÿr fumbled through the cast-off clothing for all the pieces of her snow gear and quick as a mountain hare dressed herself.

  "I'll need your help getting this one bundled up again," he said when she was done.

  "Not a problem." She forced herself to sound cheery, hoping it covered her chagrin and started sorting Kirin's coat and leathers.

  Gill knelt beside his brother and slid an arm under his shoulders, lifting him a little. "Kirin? wake up."

  She had his shirt ready as Kirin managed to push himself into a sitting position mostly on his own, looking bleary eyed and confused.

  "Sorry," Gill said to him as he popped the loose shirt over Kirin's head. "But we have to go outside if we're going to get you home." He managed Kirin's arms through the sleeves, yanked the hem of his shirt down, and went for the leather coat. Kirin made a groan and shifted as if he would lie down again, but Gill caught him.

  "No you don't, mister. I swear," he said, getting one of Kirin's arms into the coat, "That you're as bad as Hannik in the morning." Gill smiled at Nÿr. "That's my youngest lad. He can stay up all night," he wrangled Kirin's other arm into the sleeve. "But he's never happy the next morning. Problem is," Gilleath pulled the coat closed to button it and looked his groggy brother in the eye. "You're a few stoneweights heavier than an eight-year-old."