by Aderyn Wood
Yana’s father clenched his jaw and took a slow breath. “Because I wish to stand. If I can become Estr Varg’s next khanax we will avoid having to succumb to Krasto’s inept leadership, and we can claim justice for all Drakia. We can win Uthalia back. Then Kania. Then face this new threat from the east.” He nodded toward Sargan who hovered beside Yana near the cook fire. “Together.”
Yana returned to the bench to ladle more stew for herself and Sargan, all the while keeping a keen ear on the heated discussion around their table.
“Yana, please I must tell you,” Sargan hissed in mountain speech.
She glanced at him.
“You’d have the numbers, Petar,” Keta said. “There’d be no doubt of that.”
“Aye, you’d win the Choosing,” Fegarj agreed. “But it is folly to bring it forward now. Sidmon would never agree to it. Not in high wynter. It’s just not done.”
“To Hador with Sidmon,” Da thumped the table making half their guests jump. “If we allow Krasto to lead us we are doomed. We may as well roll over for the Halkans now and let them tup us in the arse. They will come for us, believe me, and who knows what Sargan's people will do. We will be as vulnerable as Yana's ducks. We don’t know what will become of Danael and we can’t afford to wait to find out. We need a leader who’ll protect us by acting. Now!”
Several of their guests glanced at Sargan.
“Pet—Petar,” Sargan stumbled.
Yana looked at him. Sargan always stumbled when he was nervous. She frowned. What was it he wanted to say so urgently?
But her father ignored him and continued talking. “We must act.”
“Perhaps Petar is right,” Keta said.
“It won’t happen in wynter,” Fegarj repeated, shaking his head.
“Petar – there's something—” Sargan stumbled again.
Yana narrowed her eyes at him. His face was dark with a blush that crept along his neck and cheeks, and a light sweat now beaded upon his forehead. His eyes were as wide and bright as a frightened duck’s.
“Da,” Yana said loud enough to cut through their talking.
Everyone looked Yana’s way. “Sargan has something to say.”
Sargan glanced at her with a strange mix of gratitude and fear, before turning his attention to Petar. “I heard something, on the Finger. This morning. I woke early to watch the sunrise. It is a custom in our land, to watch it rise after the long darkness—”
“On the Finger?” Fegarj shook his head. “A sorry choice.”
Yana’s father nodded at Sargan. “Go on, you overheard something?”
“The khanax and the seer, they met with someone. Someone from Westr Varg, I think.”
Uncle Gregar frowned. “From my clan. Who?”
Sargan shook his head. “I do not know. It was difficult to hear, but I heard some words clearly.” He told them what he’d heard.
“An attack?” Thorag said, his eyes sparkling. “Perhaps the khanax’s thinking is not dissimilar to yours, Petar.”
Peter shook his head. “I doubt it. What else did you hear, Sargan?”
“One name was repeated often and I heard it clearly.”
“What name?”
Sargan licked his lips. “Your name. Petar.”
A violent shiver gripped Yana’s spine and the image from the visioning came to her, of her father’s bloodied back.
“Ana, I love you, but you are a frustrating woman at times.” Yana’s father rubbed his hand along his jaw. “This has naught to do with my pride.” He thumped the table with a fist and Yana jolted with the noise.
Her mother remained calm, as always. “I do not want you to become the next khanax, Petar. I do not want to be khanassa. You might have consulted with me before announcing it to everyone.”
Yana's throat tightened and she forced back tears. Tears would only make her father angry. Her parents rarely fought, but when they did it could be thunderous. Usually, she would run to the forest, or tend to her ducks. But in the middle of wynter her choices were limited. Sargan sat beside her at the table, his eyes wide and restless. He was just as uncomfortable as she was.
“Well, it seems you’ll have your wish anyway, for now. The others have made me promise not to push for a Choosing until the summer.”
Yes, they had agreed that it would be better for Yana's father to continue to win support from his own clan and all clans. They would go ahead with the campaigns, and then when the battles had been fought and won few would vote against her father as their next leader.
But Da was still furious about it, claiming Krasto wouldn’t allow them to campaign until the summer, when they needed to act sooner. Her father was also angry with Sargan for keeping his information to himself for so long. “Why didn’t you tell me immediately?” he’d shouted, and Sargan had quivered in the corner. But everything had happened so quickly after the khanassa’s death. Yana couldn’t blame Sargan for not telling them straight away.
Father stood and reached for his cloak by the door. “Let’s go,” he said, and he strode through the door, slamming it behind him.
Ma sighed but reached for her own cloak and followed Da out.
Yana squeezed Sargan’s hand, and stood to follow her parents. It was time to say goodbye to Khanassa Ashrael once and for all.
Part XIV
Azzuri
Sommer
Ninth year of King Amar-Sin’s reign
5,846 years ago…
Danael
“Hold!” General Mutat roared the command, and the lines of the first contingent obeyed.
Danael squinted into the distance, but all he could see was dust and shadows. The sounds of the battle came to him though, clear as day. The ring of swords. The hysterical screams of grown men. The stench of blood and shit. He scowled at Alangar. “This is folly. Why does he not release us?”
Alangar bared his teeth in response. “You will obey, soldier. We await our command.”
Danael shook his head and glanced back to the frontline. The Zraemians may well pride themselves on their superior technology, their discipline, their standing armies, but this waiting around played on a warrior’s nerves. Danael preferred the Drakian way in battle, get in and get the job done.
“First contingent,” the general growled. “Forward!”
“Forward!” the overseers shouted and the soldiers finally surged ahead.
Danael roared a war cry to Prijna and sprinted, gripping his sword, hungry for his first kill. The frontline came to them all at once and the dust thickened like soup. Danael hesitated, not knowing for sure who was friend and who was foe. The enemy were a group of soldiers from Zyrria, the easternmost city in Zraemia and leal to Urul. They’d taken Sakaad of the Five Sisters a quarter-moon past. It was the beginning of Gedjon-Brak many claimed, and King Amar-Sin had sent his son and ten contingents to deal with them.
A Khopesh thrust at Danael and he dodged back just in time to parry, he stepped forward plunging his sword into the enemy soldier who met his death as he stared straight into Danael’s eyes. The enemy wore a red stretch of leather round his torso, the Zyrrian military uniform. Danael swung his sword clean and swooped in on another enemy soldier, swiftly cutting his neck and sending another Zraemian to their Underworld.
The battle was incessant. Another two enemy soldiers seemed to spring out of the dust for every one that found Danael’s blade. Blood covered every part of him now. More blood then Danael had ever seen, and he’d seen a lot of battles. This was a slaughter.
“Fall back! Back!” Someone was yelling and for a moment the Azzurians cheered. But it was their own captains and overseers calling the retreat. They were losing.
“Retreat! Azzurians, get back to the river.”
Danael plunged his sword one more time, causing an enemy solder to fall to his death. He glanced around. His fellow soldiers were running back like cowards.
Danael turned to face the city. More Zyrrians ran for them, coming out of the dust like red maggots turned to fli
es.
“Danael! Let’s go!” Alangar grabbed his shoulder and pushed him into a jog.
An enemy soldier screaming like a berserker came for them thrusting his sword in the air, high on his imminent victory.
“Let me,” Danael shouted, as he stopped to face the soldier.
“No. You must follow my orders,” Alangar shouted.
But following orders in battle wasn’t the Drakian way. If he wanted to attack an enemy, he had every right to do so. Danael ignored Alangar and ran toward the crazed enemy soldier. With a stillness of mind Danael could see his path. He ducked a clumsy swing from the enemy, and came up swiftly on the other side, he raised his sword to strike, but the beserker hadn’t stopped. He was sprinting with legs of fire gaining, closer and closer to Alangar.
“No!” Danael yelled and he forced his legs to action.
The enemy soldier powered on and was nearly on Alangar, his sword held high then he brought his weapon down.
“No!” Danael shouted.
The enemy’s sword cut deep into Alangar’s unprotected back and the tall Zraemian toppled to the ground like a rag doll.
Danael powered his legs until they burned and imitated the beserker’s sword swing, bringing his own sword down to meet his foe with a frenzied shout. “May Vulkar take you!” he screamed in his mother tongue as his sword buried deep.
The Zyrrian toppled to the ground.
Danael ran to the crumpled form of his friend and overseer. He clutched Alangar’s head to his lap. “Alangar. Forgive me.”
The overseer groaned, but his eyes opened to narrow slits. “Danael,” he managed.
Tears streaked Danael’s cheeks. “Alangar. I’m sorry.”
Alangar’s hand clutched at Danael’s wrist. “One last order. Follow it.”
“Anything,” Danael said.
“Take this.” Alangar withdrew a pouch from a chain about his neck, in a clumsy motion he dislodged it and thrust the pouch into Danael’s open palm. “Get it to the king. Tell no one you have it. No one. Now, leave me, soldier. Retreat.” Alangar’s head fell to the side, and his eyes lost focus.
His friend was dead.
The journey back to Azzuri had been largely silent, aside from the captains calling the beat for the rowers. Danael had grabbed an oar, as had every other soldier. But it wasn’t Alangar’s head he stared at now, as he had on the journey out. The short cropped hair, that Alangar had always worn out of respect for his father the slave, was now replaced by a long tail of some other soldier. Danael wasn’t sure who, and he didn’t bother to learn his name.
He’d said little to the others in their band. But their furtive glances and even their tears told him they felt just as saddened as he did. Verashti looked completely confounded. He’d had himself convinced that out of all of them, he’d be the one to die, and if Danael was honest, he’d agreed. No one expected it to be Alangar. Not a soldier of his strength, his judgement.
Danael blamed himself. He should have fled when Alangar ordered him. He was not good at obeying orders. And now he’d caused the death of his best friend here in Zraemia.
This whole campaign was a stupid waste of life. And all for nothing. For kings who used men like pieces on a game of cenat.
The day wore on and the steaming heat and dust gave way to twilight, then night. A chill rolled in from the desert and still they rowed. Exhaustion turned his arms to stone, and Danael wondered if a man could sleep while pulling an oar.
They banked at dusk. But when soldiers began arranging a camp, they were stopped by the general. All soldiers were ordered to line up along the bank in contingent formation. Danael stood at the very back with the rest of his band. They left a space where Alangar was supposed to stand.
Oil torches were lit and cast a light on Prince Hadanash who stood on a large boulder where all the men could see. The right side of the prince’s face was bruised, and two red lines shone with raw skin and blood. Like every soldier, Hadanash had risked his life in the sorry battle at Sakaad.
“The gods are not happy,” the prince proclaimed. “I am not happy. Today’s defeat is a heavy blow for Azzuri. But more than this, it seems someone within our own ranks moves against us.”
“What is he talking about?” Danael whispered to Ru.
“I don’t know.”
The prince held up his hand, his fingers splayed apart. “Someone has stolen my heir-ring.” He pointed to the first finger on his right hand.
Danael froze. His hand went to the leather pouch he’d attached to his belt, and his stomach turned to stone with a sudden realization – he knew it was the prince’s ring. Alangar had stolen it, but why?
“We’ve a traitor amongst us,” Hadanash continued. “It was taken from me during my sleep, before we set foot on enemy territory. I have little doubt it was stolen by someone who stands before me now. A soldier loyal not to Azzuri, but to the enemy.”
Danael remained silent while hushed whisperings wavered through the lines of soldiers as they asked each other about the ring, but the prince continued, and the murmurs quieted. “Captains, I want every man and his belongings searched.”
Danael swallowed a thick lump as he snatched the pouch from his waist and began digging a hole in the sand with his heel. He was grateful he stood at the very back of his band, but was sure to keep his movements to a minimum. He glanced around as he dropped the pouch into the little hole and covered it over with his foot.
The prince ordered a search on the belongings still stowed on the galley, while the captains assessed each soldier on the bank. They were ordered to strip naked, legs apart while the captains walked the line asking them to put their hands up and stick their tongues out.
Danael shared the impatient look of his friends and easily read their thoughts. This was ridiculous. Farcical. Men died in the hundreds today and the prince only cared for his trinket. But Danael’s heart raced as he wondered what in Phadite’s name Alangar was doing with the damned ring in the first place. Get it to the king, Alangar had told him.
Sigur, the captain of their contingent inspected them and circled close to the mound of sand that suddenly looked all too conspicuous. “That’s it, barbarian. Spread ‘em.” Danael averted his eyes as he spread his legs and grimaced as the captain went to work, frisking and poking. Satisfied their contingent was innocent, the captain focused on the ground around them, a frown of concentration on his wizened face as his foot kicked a lump of sand dangerously close to the hiding spot.
“Can we dress now, Captain?” Danael asked in an attempt to distract him from his search.
Sigur grunted an assent and moved on, and Danael’s breath expelled in steady relief. He dressed, and swiftly retrieved the sandy pouch and fixed it to his belt before standing to attention once more.
The prince returned to the boulder, a scowl on his face. “There will be no rest for wicked men,” he yelled. “We row on to Azzuri this very night. Any man who slackens at the oar will face the whip. We stop only once we reach our home city, or when I learn the whereabouts of my ring. And not before.”
Danael stepped out of the pool and tied a stretch of linen around his waist before laying on the tiles beneath the shade of a palm tree. Swimming was such a pleasure in the Zraemian summer. The heat was dry and endless, and so different to the summers of his homeland. In Azzuri, everyone enjoyed swimming as a pastime, from the farmers and peasants to the king himself. Here in the palace, Danael had access to the large pool on the lower terrace. Its waters filled from the healing waters of the Uryphat.
Alangar had enjoyed swimming too.
Danael let go a slow breath. It had been over a quarter-moon since they’d returned from the failed battle at Sakaad. But it may as well have been yesterday. Danael still expected to see his friend in the beer house, or spar with him in the ring. But Alangar had died because of Danael’s battle lust and now he’d never see his friend again.
His thoughts returned, as always to the prince’s ring. He’d concealed it in a crev
ice in the stone wall of his chamber. The opportunity to return it to the king, Alangar’s last orders, had not presented itself as yet. But Danael wanted simply to observe before he rushed into such a thing. If Hadanash found out, or if it were a trap of some kind, it could be too dangerous to simply hand over. But he was now sure of one thing, no one knew he had it.
“Best not let the princess see you like that, or you might be next.”
Danael opened his eyes. One of the royal cousins was removing her linen, about to submerge into the pool’s crystal waters. Sithat, Ilbrit’s younger sister.
Danael averted his eyes. “What do you mean I might be next?”
Sithat shrugged. “Are you really so blind?” She dived into the pool, water droplets splashing and forming a pattern of brown stars on the tiles.
Danael watched her glide under the water like a fish.
“Prince Danael, the king requires your presence immediately.” Ri, one of the palace slave boys, stood looking down his nose at Danael. He wore heavy makeup but his eyes seemed to droop regardless.
“What business does he have with me?” Danael sat up. It was the first time he’d been summoned directly by the king since his arrival to Azzuri.
Ri shrugged. “You best hurry, the king expects you now.” The slave turned and jogged away.
“He's one of them.”
Danael glanced back at Sithat. Her arms folded on the edge of the pool, hair slicked back, shining in the midday sun. Like all the palace residents, male and female, she had no issue with being naked here in the royal courtyard.
“One of who?” Danael said.
“One of Heduanna’s playthings.”
Danael frowned. “The princess? I thought she was not supposed to have lovers.”
“She's not,” Sithat said with a smile before diving back under the water.
Danael had made an effort in his quarters. He’d wrapped his brightest linen around him and applied a thin line of kohl under each eye. It was a clumsy attempt, far from the elegant lines worn so easily by Zraemians. But it would have to do.
