by Aderyn Wood
Yana flared her nostrils and folded her arms across her chest. “No duck!”
Una pursed her thin lips and took a deep breath shaking her head before turning and marching back toward the village.
Yana watched Una stomp off before resuming her duties. The two mother hens finished their preening and the other ducks began to emerge from the stream to do the same.
Yana frowned. No one but Yana knew when her ducks were ready for slaughter. Her mother had explained that to the khanax many times. The Khanax is nothing but an oaf. He was the one who'd exiled Grama all those summer's past, and for no good reason. Yana didn’t care if he was the khanax or the clan drunk, she simply didn’t have any ducks ready for slaughter.
The mother ducks finished preening and started waddling back to the duckyard. They would forego the afternoon grazing along the bank. They had their eggs to attend. One of the drakes followed in pursuit. He was always on guard while they sat, ensuring no one disturbed their vigil.
“Goodbye, you three. We’ll see you soon. Everyone else needs their feed of grass,” Yana said in her secret language. She returned her attention to Patch who’d already started cutting through the grass on the bank.
Patch, and the other ducks, had grown fatter since summer began. The hens all laid large delicious eggs that Yana and her mother traded at the village market.
“Patchy. Patchy. Come here, girl.”
Patch stopped her grazing and tilted her head before waddling over to Yana. She smiled and picked the duck up, cuddling her and enjoying the touch of warm, soft feathers. “Would you like a song?” Yana had hand-reared Patch last summer after she’d been rejected by her mother as a day-old duckling. Such rejection was rare, and the hens were, on the whole, excellent mothers. But when Yana found Patch that frosty morning, just newly hatched, delicate down feathers still wet, something touched her heart, and she knew she had to look after the duckling.
It had driven her parents mad, as the duckling would deposit her ‘nuggets’ all over their small rondhus. Yana’s father would swear whenever he trod on one. “That bloody duck!”
“T'was nary a star in the Dark Wynter sky…” Yana started singing a ditty, one of the many her father had taught her. Her da was an able warrior, but he was also a fine singer. Though many of his songs were not appreciated by some of the more dour clan members. Old Jorva told them his songs were too bawdy. But Yana liked them.
Patch squirmed, more interested in eating grass than remaining in Yana's warm embrace.
“All right. Off you go, then.” Yana brushed off her tunic and looked to the sky. The afternoon was wearing on, and she was yet to help her mother with the storage of herbs they'd collected that morning. If it were true the Khanassa and the other warriors were returning to them, she’d best not linger for too long. She smiled at the thought of seeing her da. A full moon had come and gone since he’d left.
“Time to move now, ducks.” She grabbed her herding stick. They ignored her and continued foraging and Yana had to use her firm voice. “Move it please. That's it, keep going now.”
The ducks waddled slowly back along the narrow trail. It was high afternoon by the time she returned them safely to the duckyard near her family’s home – a simple stone rondhus that Yana’s father had built before she was born. Her father had also erected the duckyard many summers past. It was made of strong oakwood posts, with flexible willow wood to form a kind of lattice fence. Yana attended to the yard every morning, adding fresh leaves and pine needles from the forest floor, and collecting the eggs. It was a place of refuge and safety where the ducks were protected from predators. Sometimes a bird of prey like the red hawk or mountain eagle would find the ducks unattended in the yard and swoop. Mostly, Yana’s gift meant she could detect predators lingering nearby, but if she wasn’t concentrating, or if she wandered deep in the forest collecting herbs with her mother, or honey with her father, she would sometimes miss the warning. Yana had made a scare-man of sorts with straw and an old tunic. So far, she’d not had any more tragedies from a bird of prey.
As they approached the yard, the ducks paused their waddling and quacking. Their heads turned in unison, looking, listening. Tension drifted from them in sharp vibrations. Yana paused too, her eyes surveying the entrance to the duckyard. Something was wrong. It wasn't the same feeling she sensed with a predator, but it was a warning, that much she knew.
“Stay here,” she told the ducks, and she stepped forward.
Her flock stood still as stone as she moved toward the gate and opened it. A splotch of red on the litter caught her attention. Blood? She stepped closer to get a better view. Her hands gripped her hair. “No!”
There on the bedding lay three bloodied heads – the two mother hens and the brave drake that guarded them.
She spun to the left. The khanax stood before her, clutching the three headless ducks in his broad hand. The bloodied axe lay at his feet. He had murdered her ducks in their sanctuary.
Khanax Krasto’s green eyes narrowed on Yana. “When your khanax demands a contribution to the clan's feast, I suggest you obey.” A red streak stained the khanax’s cheek almost matching the colour of his beard. He was breathing hard. The blood was fresh. Yana had been too late by a matter of heartbeats.
Yana's mouth curled into a snarl and she spread her feet into a battle stance, just as her father had taught her. Anger awakened deep within causing her heart to thump and her stomach to clench. “You! No right!”
“I am your khanax. I take what I need for the clan. Move aside, halfwit.”
“Ducks. Mothers. Eggs!” Yana stood her ground, her hands balled into fists. Frustration bit deep from her limited command of Drakian. Her stutterings made little sense. She ground her teeth together. If only they could understand her language, then she could tell him off with the fluency of a high sagast.
“I don't have time to listen to the ramblings of a stupid little girl.” He pushed past, shoving her sideways, the ducks still in his grasp. The blood had stained their beautiful white feathers. Their feet dangled like limp leaves.
Yana grimaced and spun, and with a deep breath yelled, “My grandmother will hear of this, and you will get your gaeshna!” It was full and proper Drakian. She allowed herself a small smile at the feat.
The khanax paused his march. His braid hung long and still down his broad back. A temptation flashed in Yana's mind to wind the braid about his neck and pull. But she chased the thought away. She'd never reach his neck. Not even if she jumped.
Without turning around, the khanax said, “Tell your fool grandmother what you please, I’ve no time for her either.” He marched on.
Yana surveyed the duckyard. Blood had sprayed in different directions over the bedding and fencing. She crouched into one of the bays and spied a nest of eggs. She crawled toward it and picked up one of the pearly treasures. Still warm, but not for much longer.
Danael
Danael stepped off the longboat and on to the jetty. The familiar scent of home wafted over him like a welcome blanket in wynter – a heady combination of salt, smoked fish, and cook fires. He lifted his shield onto his shoulder and handled the hilt of his sword resting in his belt. Faint splashes of red still stained his arm, though they were more brown then red now. The stains from his first-blood, from his maiden battles. An event that had felt too long in its coming. He’d borne the marks proudly, though his reluctance to bathe had provoked jeers from the others on the voyage home, and earned him the nickname Smelly-Naelly. Now he'd returned, a hot tub infused with lavender was an attractive prospect indeed. Perhaps Hiljda would join him. Danael scanned the many faces on the shore, but the hus-thrall's blond head wasn’t among them.
“Your first battle, and we were victorious.” Petar came up behind and clapped a hand on his shoulder, a genuine smile spread on his upturned face. His sea-blue eyes were afire, as though he could break out into song.
Danael grinned back. “Aye, the gods favoured us. Not one Halkan remains on Uthalia
Isht.”
“Your mother is a fine strategist, Danael. There's much to be learnt from our Khanassa. I'm sure you’ve observed as much.”
Danael nodded as he eyed the man who’d become a fast friend. Petar had proved a fine strategist himself, albeit a risk-taker, especially with that midnight raid on the small camp of Halkans. Danael’s thoughts returned to that night often, and the risks involved. His mother had berated them all for taking him along. But it had been worth it.
Petar was a good teacher in the ways of warring, and Danael wondered not for the first time why he'd never befriended the fellow clansman before. Danael stepped to one side of the jetty, allowing fellow warriors past, and lowered his voice. “I hope to convince mother to return to battle soon, this very summer. If we can help the Kanes take back their isle, we could bring about a longer peace.” Peace. Drakians yearned for it more than silver, but in truth, war-lust called to Danael. To experience once more the rush and the glory of battle. After years of following his mother to war every summer, to do nothing more but watch, learn and finish off the odd straggler, first blood, it seemed, was sweet. “In any case, Kania Isht belongs to all Drakians.”
Petar pursed his lips and brushed a hand over his short beard. “Aye, though it be the silver we miss rather than the prancing Kanes.”
“Nevertheless, Kania is Drakian. We should take it back from the Halkans and restore it to its rightful place at the head of our isles.”
Petar gave a firm nod. “I agree, but is it your mother who needs convincing, or your father?”
Petar walked ahead, and Danael chewed on the shorter man's words. Father. Danael had learned more about his father over the last two moons than all his sixteen summers combined. Danael's father, it seemed, was regarded with wariness. It was difficult to discover exactly why. During their encampments, conversations had muted or stopped altogether when Danael ventured too close. He'd asked Oryn, his closest friend, about why his father was so unpopular. But Oryn went quiet as he always did when he felt uncomfortable, and said only he didn't know. Danael didn't believe him, but he'd garnered enough whisperings to understand Estr Varg Clan held mixed views about the khanax. Certainly, there were those who remained loyal to his father. A number of experienced warriors in particular, and for their part they whispered the khanax ought to have been with them in battle. But that was not the Drakian way. One leader had to remain behind in the homeland, either the khanax or the khanassa. And in this battle, as in all major decisions, the choice was the khanassa’s to make.
Danael lengthened his step, his stomach tensing with the thought of greeting his father again. He was too exhausted for father’s moods. He scanned the shore. It seemed the whole clan was descending the narrow escarpment steps from the village above to greet the returning warriors, and no doubt the khanax would be among them. Danael considered sneaking away from the milling crowd, and escaping up the gloomy tunnels to the longhus and that hot bath. His father could wait.
A moment later both Danael and Petar stepped off the jetty and on to the pebbly beach of Varg Isht – the most southern island in Drakia, so large it provided enough space for two clans to coexist on the one isle – Estr Varg and Westr Varg. There was much interaction between the two clans, intermarriage especially. Many men Danael had battled with were of Westr Varg origin, Petar among them, but once wedded their loyalty to Estr Varg took prominence. A lofty mountain range right in the middle of the isle, as wide as it was tall, separated the two proud clans. It took a day of sailing, or three days of hiking over the range, to greet their Western brethren.
The gathering crowd milled about and laughter filled the shoreline as husbands and wives embraced, and children ran to greet their warrior parents.
“Da! Da!” Simple Yana broke through the crowd, running straight for them.
Petar swooped her into a fatherly embrace. “Hello, my little warbler. Where’s your mother?”
“Herbs,” Yana managed to get out, as she squirmed away.
“That woman works too hard. Well, warbler, have you missed your old da? What news? Here, make yourself useful.” Petar handed his daughter a heavy satchel.
Yana took it with a dramatic sigh.
“Why the face?”
The lass frowned, glancing at Danael. She was an odd looking thing. She’d been born with a deformed mouth and her grandmother, Rayna, had performed a strange surgerie when Yana was not a day old, cutting and stitching her upper lip to make it more functional. The scars had faded, but remained noticeable. Her fine bones and dark hair and eyes always made Danael think of a little black bird. Perhaps that was why her father called her 'warbler'. Danael made sure to avoid staring. Some clansfolk wondered if her deformity had been the cause of her queer speech, others thought it the result of something more sinister.
“Hello, Yana,” Danael said, giving her a smile. His smile was known for its charm. That's what Hiljda had told him. It could melt the coldest of hearts and with it he could compel virtually any woman to his furs. It’d worked with Ilyag and a dozen other women aside. Not that he wanted to compel Simple Yana in that way. He only wanted to be friendly.
But Yana turned a shoulder at him and lifted her chin in the air. “Hurry, Da.” She wrestled with Petar's satchel, gripping it with one hand and grasping her father's arm with the other, pulling him along.
“Yana,” Petar said. “Return the khanal's greeting.”
“Why?”
Danael blinked and gave Petar a sidelong look before saying, “Has there been some grievance, Yana?”
Yana looked to the ground, her feet drawing circles in the pebbles.
“Yana,” Petar prompted. “Out with it.”
Danael waited, though he didn’t expect Simple Yana to be able to tell them much. She’d babbled her own strange language since she could make a sound. Her Drakian was nothing but a sequence of clumsy stutters and fragments.
“Khanax—he—”
Danael froze. What had his father done? And what would Danael’s mother have to smooth over now? He cleared his throat to speak softly. “Go on, Yana.”
“My ducks—” Yana seemed about to burst into tears. She spun and ran in a lumbering fashion through the crowd, as fast as her heavy load allowed.
“Oh,” Danael uttered.
Petar's hard gaze remained fixed on the path his daughter took. A sudden awkwardness bloomed between them. Before they’d left for the summer warring, Danael had very little to do with Petar and his wife, the clan's herb-woman and healer, and much less to do with their funny little daughter.
When he was younger, Danael witnessed the cruel teasing Yana had tolerated nearly every day. The clan’s children would mimick Yana’s strange tongue. They’d called her names – Yarner Yana, Cuckoo Yana – and even threw stones at her in an effort to get her to talk. But Yana had possessed a strange gift, or a curse, and ever since that incident in the forest, the children had stopped teasing her. Most just avoided her now. Some were even a little frightened of the girl.
Danael shivered with the memory and shook it off. “Well, I must find Mother,” he said in a fickle attempt to ease the awkwardness between him and Petar.
Petar nodded. “Aye, and I best find Yana, then my woman before she works her fingers to the very bone.” Petar gave him a wink. “Darak, Danael.”
“Good fortune to you too,” Danael replied. He turned to join the long line of people ascending the steep narrow steps to the village. He paused, and changing his mind walked along the pebbly shore heading east to the small cavern ahead. With all those people, the tunnels would prove quicker and he'd be less likely to see his father.
Danael's eyes adjusted to the gloom of the longhus’s hall. A fire burned at the hearth in the very centre and Hiljda was bent over attending it. Her long blond hair escaped the confines of her thrall's bonnet, and fell over her shoulders. Danael’s cock hardened in a heartbeat.
He'd had some fun with Ilyag on campaign. Their parents had spoke of joining them in marriage. A f
itting match. Ilyag was a khanalla, the youngest daughter of Khanassa Verag of Kania Isht, and a fine spearwife. It was only expected they test their compatibility in the furs. They were energetic lovers, but the khanalla's body was that of a proven warrior – muscled like rock, battle-hardened and scarred. Hiljda was soft and plump, and she smelled so homely, he wanted to sink his head between her breasts and stay there forever.
He stepped closer, silently, and caressed her round rump.
Hiljda yelped and stood as quick as a startled doe and spun to face him. “Khanal!” She glanced about, her head swinging one side then the other, a rosiness blooming along her milky throat and up to her dimpled cheeks.
Danael smirked. “Hiljda, come now, we've had plenty of tumbles in the hay. You should no longer blush like a maiden whenever you see me.” Danael stepped closer and wrapped two arms around her waist bending his knees to grasp her bottom once again.
A small groan escaped her lips as he leaned in and kissed her neck. She smelt of goat's milk and honey and he sunk his face onto her warm flesh. Yes, it was good to be back. “How about a bath?”
Hiljda stepped back, waving an arm in front of her and scrunching her nose. “Aye, you need one.”
Danael pulled her close again. “Together.”
“There'll be time for that anon, Danael,” a familiar voice said from behind.
Hiljda pushed Danael away with such a force he stumbled backwards. A firm hand grasped his arm and spun him around.
“Mother.”
“Hiljda’s right. You stink.” His mother turned to the serving girl. “Hiljda, pour Danael a bath.” Her blond eyebrow arched. “And don't linger. My son can scrub his own back.”
Hiljda nodded. Her blush had spread fully over her face, neck and shoulders. “Yes, Khanassa.” She bobbed her head. “Welcome home,” she said quickly, before exiting through the side door.
