by Aderyn Wood
Her father picked up a clay tablet from the table, bouncing it up and down in his hand. “I received word from your brother this morning.”
It was her turn to frown. Why was her father talking about Hadanash and her marriage in the same breath?
“He is eager to return. He has ideas to bring peace between Urul and Azzuri. He suggests if King Amar-Eshu acquired your hand in marriage, a lasting peace would follow. Did your visions notify you of such?”
The sickness converted to swirling bubbles. How dare Hadanash try to negotiate her marriage. Only her father-king had such a right. Anger flared, and she forced her clenched jaw to relax. Her brother would return too soon to admonish her and tell her what to do, and to torment Sargan.
The king looked at the clay tablet still clutched in his hand and then shifted his gaze back to her. “Well, daughter? Did the goddess reveal to you your future husband?”
Heduanna glanced at the priests, Belanum still wore a poorly disguised smugness. “No, she did not. I have no such knowledge. And I find it impertinent in the extreme that brother-prince Hadanash would take it upon himself to plan my marriage.” She shouldn’t have spoken out in front of the priests. Sometimes her anger got the better of her. She clamped her lips together.
“Nevertheless, such an alliance would benefit Azzuri, Exalted One.” Was that a smirk on the high priest’s face?
Heduanna’s heart raced with renewed anger. This dried up prune had no right to an opinion on such matters.
The king shifted on his chair and resumed playing with the knot beads. For once a glimmer of weariness cast a shadow over his eyes. Heduanna’s heart softened. Ruling the city was an exhausting and often thankless task, and it was one he had to bear alone. Heduanna stopped her mind from venturing toward a familiar path. One filled with dreams of how life could have been different if her mother-queen were still alive. “Father, I will leave this matter in your hands. But please know, the goddess remains silent on the subject of my marriage.” She shot the priests the briefest of glares.
The king nodded. “You may go.”
She bowed her head and turned her back, failing to give the requisite farewell to the priests. The anger had quelled to some degree but it would return. She would need some relief tonight, and I shall have it. How dare her brother try to rule her. She, a god’s hand and a princess of the royal palace of Azzuri
Part II
Uthalia Isht
Summer
Eleventh year of Khanassa Bera’s reign
5,847 years ago…
Danael
Danael’s breath came hard and fast, and far too loud as he followed Petar and the others up the mountain-goat trail in the deep of night. He resisted stealing another glance behind. Danael had committed to this wild notion of Petar’s, in full breach of his mother’s command that he should remain. There was no going back to the safety of their encampment until this reckless job was done… or all eight of them died in the process.
Petar had stopped; he also breathed hard. The pale features of his face, and the dark blur of his short-cropped beard were just visible in the starlight. “We’re at the peak,” Petar hissed. “It’s all downhill from here. Mind your footing.”
“Aye,” they whispered back.
Danael’s free hand went to the hilt of his sword, while the other gripped the unlit torch tight. “Let’s go.”
The vegetation was thicker on the north side of the range and branches swished in their faces as they ran. Danael held low tree limbs as he passed, to prevent them from slapping at Ilyag who followed close behind.
Danael’s nostrils flared as the image of the spearwife ‒ naked in her furs with Tornel by her side ‒ flashed in his mind. Ilyag’s laughter when she’d spotted him enter her tent cut him as deep as any sword. “Care to join us?” she’d asked, her golden braids hanging damp and limp over her breasts. Betrayal and hurt bit deep, and he felt every bit the young fool she must think him to be. The night before, it had been Danael in her furs. They’d fallen into each other’s arms, still bloodied from a hard day of battle, and both high on bloodlust.
Danael grimaced as he rushed down the mountain. He was daft to think he alone owned Ilyag’s affections. He’d wanted to flee from the humiliation of that scene, especially when Tornel turned to him with a sweaty face, his stupid grin inviting. But Danael swallowed his humiliation and remained to persuade Ilyag to accompany them on the secret mission. They needed a spear, and she was the best. She jumped at the chance. So had Tornel. The big Uthalian grabbed his battleaxe before he’d even dressed.
Another branch slapped Danael’s face and he let this one go rather than hold it.
“Ow,” Ilyag uttered behind him.
“Be quiet,” he whispered back, allowing himself a satisfying smirk, but soon regretting his jealousy. Their parents had not yet formally arranged their marriage. Ilyag was free to tup with whoever she chose. Even if she bedded a dense oaf like Tornel, it was no concern of his.
He had other worries. Survival for one. And outright defiance another. His mother, khanassa of their clan, had forbidden him to partake in this quest. Danael had gone warring every summer since he could walk. He’d been permitted to kill stragglers ever since he could wield a sword. But this summer’s warring marked his first as a man, and a warrior proper – his maiden battle. His mother didn’t want to risk her only child, but Danael convinced Petar to take him anyway, behind his mother’s back. The fear of missing the battle glory if they succeeded without him was too much to bear. After all, it was Danael who’d spied the enemy camp. He had every right to join them. If he survived, Danael would face his mother’s wrath, but then, if they survived they would have driven the Halkan’s out. His mother wouldn’t be angry for long.
The terrain grew less steep, the trail broadened and they increased their pace. Petar led them. The two swords strapped on his back glinted now and then. Danael followed Petar, while Ilyag, Tornel, Jimroh, Darnag, Krastan and Oryn brought up the rear. Eight warriors. Eight was a fortunate number, and Danael hoped they’d be enough.
After a time, the sound of crashing waves came to them, and a flickering light. Petar called a halt.
“Danael,” Petar whispered, as they huddled in a tight circle. “Tell us again.”
Danael stepped forward and spoke as quietly as possible. “There’s well less than a hundred of them, by my count, possibly no more than fifty. Two-score tents. In the middle stands one large white tent with the Halkan red flag flying from its peak.” The Halkan’s habit of flying their flag usually made a Drakian’s blood hot with anger. The Halkan horde had taken Kania Isht, Drakia’s northern most isle three summer’s past, and now a big red flag with a black eye in the centre flew from the Kane’s longhus – an ugly mark of Halkan dominance. “That tent’s where their chieftain sleeps. I saw him at dusk.”
“I will deal with the leader,” Petar said, his voice hard as rock. “When I’m done I’ll light the whole tent aflame. Then you lot act quickly, kill as many in the other tents as you dare, light them, and fall back. If things go amiss, flee without me. Understood?”
“Aye,” they whispered in response.
“Ilyag,” Petar said next. “You’re to watch our approach and pick off any guards with your spears.”
“Understood,” Ilyag said.
“Let’s go. Stay low,” Petar gave his final instructions and they made their way to the camp.
The tents had been pitched in a circular formation. The middle tent being the chieftain’s, the one Petar headed for. Danael wondered again why this group of Halkans had camped here at all. There were too few of them to pose a threat to the large Drakian force who’d driven the Halkan horde from Uthalia’s village four days past. Only one war-boat had been beached, and sat beyond by the water. What were they here for?
Danael had first spied the camp that afternoon when he’d walked up to Uthalia’s old beacon. The tower had crumbled in too many places, as had most of the beacons on Drakia’s other
isles. He circled the ancient structure and that was when he’d spotted the smoke from the west. A thin trail of it, almost invisible, strung in the sky like a strand of hair, but his sharp eyes recognised it for what it was. A quick trek over the mountain pass and he spotted their camp. That red flag, an unmistakeable symbol of the enemy.
Petar was in Danael’s mother’s tent when Danael returned and told them the news. It was Petar’s idea to pay a visit in the middle of the night. Danael’s mother didn’t like it, and she knew Khanassa Bera would never accept such a plan, but she was swayed by Petar’s argument. They could avoid more bloodshed on the Drakian side, and perhaps the strange witchery that had troubled them in battle could also be avoided. A witchery that had upturned boats, and paralysed experienced warriors in the midst of battle. And so, she didn’t tell Khanassa Bera, or the other clan leaders, but gave Petar her assent to go ahead with the quest.
And here they were, crouched a stone’s throw from the camp. The central campfire was nothing but coals, but a score of braziers still held flames and would provide the spark they needed to light each of the torches they’d brought with them. If the Halkans had set a watch, their guards weren’t active. Loud snoring, typical of too much ale, filled the space. The camp slept soundly. Danael held his breath as he withdrew his sword and tested the blade with a finger. They had to be quick. Everything rested on that.
His mouth went utterly dry as Petar picked his way through the camp to the middle tent. The slight warrior looked around, and in the next breath he disappeared under the flap.
Danael licked dry lips and counted every heartbeat that thrummed in his ears, waiting for Petar to reappear and set the tent alight.
Someone lurched forward, perhaps Tornel, and Ilyag hissed at him to get back and wait.
Finally Petar reemerged. His swords were sheathed on his back and he held the torch to a nearby brazier. It flared to life and he put it to the tent as Danael and the others moved swiftly forward.
The chieftain’s tent caught in an instant. The fat used to waterproof it ignited with a soft woosh. Danael climbed into a nearby tent. Two bodies snored. He moved silently to the nearest Halkan, placing one hand on the enemy’s mouth and slicing his neck with the sword in his other hand. Hot blood made his grip slick, but he held the enemy tight as he thrashed in his furs. Then Danael crawled to the other man, still snoring loudly, and repeated the act. Outside, more tents were alight, and a yellowy glow filtered through the tent’s wall. The two Halkans he’d just killed had red hair, just like Danael’s. Their braids turned redder with the flow of blood.
A shout pierced the air, and Danael moved to leave the tent and set it alight with the others, but something caught his eye, causing him to stall. Between the two now dead bodies sat a wooden chest. It was opened and filled with silver and bronze trinkets. One of them a silver chalice and the distinct design of an oak leaf decorated it’s side. The oak was a Drakian symbol, entirely out of place in a Halkan camp. A chill stabbed through Danael’s spine. He had a mind to take the chalice with him but more shouts filled the night. He had to move.
He crawled out and, grabbing his torch, lit it and ignited the tent. Nearly every tent was aflame now and smoke mingled with an acrid stench. A group of Halkans ran for the shore, shouting.
Danael rushed forward but a hand grabbed his arm and spun him round. Ilyag’s golden braids swung before him. “What are you doing? It is done, we must flee,” she hissed.
Danael snatched his arm back. “There’s so few.” He turned and sprinted toward the retreating Halkans who fled for their longboat. He could take them all if he approached right. He was young, but he’d been swinging the sword for years, and many said he was the best among them. If anyone could take them all, it was Danael. He picked up speed and shouted a warcry to Raemona, goddess of terror.
The Halkans made it to the boat and began pushing it out. Two of them were in it now. But one turned and faced Danael. He was taller than the others, impossibly tall and wore some kind of helm on his head with two horns that thrust upwards. The others had pushed the boat out fully and yelled something at the tall man.
Danael moved forward, his sword at the ready, but the giant warrior threw an arm forward and uttered something foreign, his voice harsh and gravelly, and Danael fell back onto the wet pebbles as though pushed.
Danael gasped as he lifted his head. The tall man stared at him and it seemed as though his eyes glowed red. Perhaps it was a trick of the flaming camp. But in the next breath the man was gone, and in the longboat that moved out to sea.
Part III
Estr Varg
Summer
Fifth year of Khanassa Ashrael’s reign
5,847 years ago…
Yana
Yana lay on the grassy bank next to the stream that bubbled and gargled at the back of her family’s rondhus. She stretched her arms, palms up, and relished the heat of the sun's rays. The big blue summer sky remained void of clouds and its brightness made her blink. She closed her eyes, delighting in the warmth. This was the beginning of the Long Summer, and the days would grow even hotter yet.
Drops of water splashed on her face and dampened her light goat-wool smock, making her eyes open in cool surprise. She sat up. Her ducks were enjoying themselves on the stream, bathing and playing and diving for frogs and tadpoles.
Patch, Yana’s pet duck, swam very close to the shore and rustled her feathers sending water spraying everywhere.
Yana giggled. “Patch! Begone!” She spoke in her secret language to the ducks, just as she did whenever she was alone. She also spoke it when her grandmother, Rayna visited. Grama understood her, and could even speak the secret tongue herself, though she preferred Drakian.
Patch scratched her head with a webbed foot before paddling further upstream to quack at the others.
Yana smiled. Her small flock proved a strange sight for visitors to the isle – the only ducks of their kind in all Drakia. They were white, mostly, though patches of brown splotched along their heads, breasts and wings. And when the sun caught their feathers hues of green and violet shimmered. Yana had taken the role of duck herder ever since her grandmother left the village when Yana was not five summers old.
Two hens were nesting, and soon there would be ducklings. Both ducks had laid a good clutch of ten eggs each. Yana carefully held a candle to the eggs not two nights past and was excited to see little shadows moving within. She’d given thanks to the Goddess Haether, and quickly settled the eggs back before the hens even knew their nests had been disturbed.
The ducklings would grow and provide meat for the clan. After the Long Summer festival there was to be a wedding between Oryn and Tora. If everything went to plan Yana would provide six ducks for the wedding feast. During the wynter, she’d lost two hens and three drakes to a silver fox. She’d have to keep a number of the new ducklings for breeding. Hopefully, more hens would set a nest before summer’s end.
One of the mother ducks waddled out of the stream to begin preening on the grassy bank. Her broad breast was well defined in the afternoon sunshine. These ducks were different from the wild fowl that arrived in spring and flew off with the first wynter frosts. Yana’s ducks had been bred over a number of generations and their meat was far superior to wild duck. They were known all over Drakia – a fine delicacy. Khanassa Ashrael had even used them as part of her bartering negotiations with other clans.
It wasn't long before the second mother duck also left the stream. The pair would return to their nests soon. They never left their eggs for long. Yana would allow them to follow their own instincts while she remained to supervise the flock until it was time to lead them back to the duckyard.
She closed her eyes and reached out with her inner essence – that secret force within. Tendrils of her shade-self searched for signs of predators, detecting all that lived. Wild animals lingered in the canopy and the shadows of the forest floor. Their essence touched her own in vibrating patterns as she drew the tendrils back. Yana
opened her eyes. The forest was safe. No fox, wolf, or mountain eagle lurked. Yana’s gift for sensing other animals was a boon to herding. The mother ducks would be safe without her. She shook her hands. Using her essence sometimes made her limbs go to sleep and she had to wake them and overcome the buzzing pins.
Suddenly the two mother ducks stopped their preening, and tilted their heads to look beyond the bank, toward the rondhus. Yana glanced at the stream. All the other ducks stopped their splashing and sat motionless on the water staring in the one direction. Someone was approaching.
With a grunt, Yana stood and turned to see Una, the khanax’s hus-thrall striding toward her. Yana bit down on her lip wondering what it could mean. The khanax would have sent her. She clasped her hands together in an effort to stay calm. Yana didn’t like Una. She was bossy.
Una came to a halt with hands on hips, an already prominent jaw thrust forward. The ties from her thrall's bonnet dangled with strands of her golden hair. There was a permanent crease in the centre of Una’s forehead from all her scowling, only now it seemed deeper than usual. “We need some ducks.”
Yana frowned.
Una squinted. “Don't be dense. You know what I mean. The khanax, he requires two ducks, at least.” She lifted her chin. “There’s to be a feast. The khanassa has been sighted in the bay.”
Yana smiled despite her irritation. Her father would be among the khanassa’s fleet. Yana tried to calm her stomach that suddenly jumped about. “No duck.” The Drakian tongue remained a challenge for Yana. At fourteen summers she proved to be a slow learner, and most people considered her simple because of her awkward speech. But she could speak like the sagasts in her own secret tongue.
“You’ll displease the khanax again.” Una scowled. “He’s no patience for you anymore. You'd best give me what I ask for. I’ve little time and I need to prepare the meat.”
