by Aderyn Wood
“That’s wrong, Sargan,” Varashti said. “You’re a prince of Azzuri. You’re too valuable to muck about with swords in the sand.”
Sargan shrugged once again. “So is Danael. He’s a prince in Drakia.”
“It’s different,” Danael said. “What does your father-king have to say about it?”
Sargan slumped on a bench seat. “I know nothing of my father-king’s thoughts. It’s like you said. Since our return my father is more difficult to access. I used to help with the court sessions, but Heduanna has taken that role. So here I am, at my brother’s insistence. Oh, he wanted something else too.” Sargan lifted his chin to look at Danael. “He wants to see you, Danael. Immediately, if not sooner, he said.”
When Danael arrived at Hadanash’s office atop the barracks, the commanders, and a few captains were just leaving. Danael nodded to them but only Admiral Dannu caught his eye.
“Looking forward to the field drills, Danael?” the admiral asked.
“The exercise alone will be welcome.” Danael slanted a look at him. “And we must get the new recruits in order.”
Dannu tilted his chin and Danael could see the resemblence to his brother-king, and to his nephews in that slender jaw. Even Sargan had it. Now that he’d lost more weight, it had become more apparent.
“Any action would be better than this… stagnation,” Dannu uttered quietly before casting a glare toward his nephew’s office and stalking off.
Danael watched him go. Indeed, many were grumbling about the apparent lack of action on behalf of the superiors, but how far up the chain of command did the inertia begin? Danael didn’t miss the cruel methods of Mutat, but at least if he were in charge they’d have been training since the day after their arrival. It had been ten nights since their return from Drakia and this was to be the first day anything remotely akin to war preparation was to take place. Some of the Drakians were whispering they’d been brought to the desert to drink, eat and whore their way to Vulkar’s clutches rather than have to face a sword. And alarmingly, few of his brothers and sisters appeared to take issue with it.
He stepped into Hadanash’s office but immediately wished he could step back out again when the heir-prince picked up a clay tablet he’d been studying and threw it against the wall. It smashed into hundreds of fractured pieces. A servant hurried in to clean it up.
Danael looked at the prince.
“Danael,” Hadanash snarled.
“Heir-prince.” Danael bobbed his head.
Hadanash gave him a narrow look before gesturing to the chair opposite. “Sit.”
Danael did so. Hadanash looked different. He’d aged an aeon since Danael ’s return to Drakia. Sun lines creased the corners of his eyes and more battle scars lined his cheeks and arms. His hair had grown out in the Azzurian style, but a few grey streaks lined it now. He looked tired too. Fatigue wearied him, causing his shoulders to slouch.
“Have you spoken to my father today?”
“No, I’ve not had a word with your father since we disembarked.”
This seemed to please the prince and he gave a nod. Hadanash touched the finger where his ring should sit. He massaged it almost continuously, but the ring remained steadfastly absent. Danael narrowed his eyes. When was the king planning on giving the ring back? And why had he arranged for Alangar to take it in the first place?
“Well, barbarian,” Hadanash rubbed his jaw as though irritated. “It appears Father wishes to elevate you to a higher standing. No doubt a gesture to thank you for your efforts in acquiring our new army.”
Danael frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“No? Such things as reward, rank and respect seem beyond the barbarian mind.” Hadanash toyed with the absent ring once more. “Let me put it simply so that you understand. You are now a commander in the king’s army, in charge of the fourth division, made up entirely of your barbarian horde.” He leaned forward. “You’re in charge of them, now,” he hissed. “Get them in order.”
A half moon later, Danael found himself back in Hadanash’s office after being summoned once more. Only this time it was the evening and the barracks were a nest of dark, empty passages. The men had been given the night off. A reward for fifteen days of sobriety and hard field practice, instigated by Danael himself.
He pursed his lips as he ascended the steps to the prince’s rooms atop the building, thinking of all he’d achieved in barely a few days.
His Drakian warriors had learned the various weapons, armours and strategy of Zraemian warfare, starting with the different formations of footsoldiers, spearmen, archers and swordsmen. It was all very organised and from a Drakian perspecitve, a rather strange way to fight one’s enemy. The notion that war should be fought with cool logic and planning was as foreign to a Drakian warrior as Zraemia itself. The Drakian warrior tapped raw emotions of fury and fear to bring down one’s enemies.
Much to the surprise of all the commanders, Hadanash in particular, the Drakians were learning. Danael had introduced the Zraemian notion of ranks to his Drakian division and divided them into contingents and warbands, each with captains and overseers. Though he’d wisely allowed the Drakians themselves to choose their leaders, and a kind of Choosing took place in which votes were cast, as would occur when a clan chose their Khanassa or Khanax. They wouldn’t tolerate a leader imposed on them by Danael, or anyone.
Danael had also found himself in charge of his old warband. He’d elevated them to his advisors and he met with them daily to plan the day’s training. Ru and Tizgar proved particularly good teachers.
This time, when Danael entered the office, Hadanash was calm. He stood facing the window that overlooked the barracks. A ray of moonlight hit the prince’s face and the two scars on his cheeks shone like silver. He didn’t move when Danael stepped closer.
“Prince Hadanash?” Danael asked. His voice sounded loud in the quiet room.
The prince turned to face him, his amber eyes burning with some indignation, even if the rest of his demeanor was outwardly calm. Danael knew hatred in someone’s gaze when he saw it.
“I understand your barbarians have shown improvement since last we spoke.”
“They have a strict routine now, modeled on the Zraemian regime. Every day I arrange for a contingent to spend a full bell’s turn with an experienced group of Zraemians. It’s paying off. They are learning much and more about your warring.”
Hadanash glanced at his ring finger once more. “Presumably they can understand?”
“I’ve been translating, but the Drakians spend another bell’s turn every day learning Zraemian. Some pick it up quicker than others. But with that they’re learning too.”
Hadanash smiled, but the way his eyes froze in place it looked more like a viper’s grin. “It’s been suggested to me the men could do with some recreation. The day after the morrow give your men leave to do as they please.”
Danael stared. “But, I’ve only just got them into shape, and they have leave this very night.”
“Gold and the flail, Commander.”
Danael frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“It is a common maxim. Give them both reward and punishment. The men have been working hard. They’ve shown results. It is time to give them reward.”
“If you insist.”
“In two days time we shall hold a ringside fixture.”
“What? I thought fixtures were banned in Azzuri.”
“I’ve convinced my father to hold one. Fixtures are very popular with the soldiers and citizens alike. Does it unsettle you?” Hadanash raised an eyebrow.
“No, it’s just that… People get hurt in the ring fights. Perfectly good soldiers might die from infection, or worse.”
“Poison perhaps?” Hadanash’s eyebrow was still raised.
“What is your meaning?” The reference to Danael’s own fight with Hadanash’s uncle-general was not a welcome one, and not for the first time, Danael wondered at the prince’s intent.
“Nevermind,”
Hadanash said with a wave of his hand before reaching for a tablet and holding it out to Danael. “Take it. It is the fixture list. Give it to a scribe to copy and hand one tablet to each of your captains.”
Danael took the tablet. He was about to reply that neither he nor his Drakian warriors could read the squiggles on the clay, but that would only invite ridicule from Hadanash. “Very well,” was all he said. “Will the king be attending?” Danael asked, putting as much nonchalance into his expression as he could muster.
Hadanash clenched his jaw. “I very much doubt it. My father has rarely found the time to attend ringside combat, let alone fixtures. I don’t see why he would start now.”
Danael bid the prince goodbye and flew down the steps intent on finding Ibbi or someone he trusted to read the tablet to him. But in the passageway, shadows caught his eye. A figure stood in the entrance, a woman. She spoke briefly to the two guards accompanying her who remained at the entrance when she walked on.
She drew closer and Danael’s heart pounded in his chest. Heduanna. She was cloaked and cowled in her winter garb, but he would recognise her walk anywhere. They were alone in the gloomy passage.
“Heduanna!” he whispered and stepped out of the shadows.
Her eyes widened and he could see the whites of her eyes clearly in the dim light. “Danael? Is it really you? What are you doing here?” Her voice hitched, and Danael had to blink the burn from his eyes.
“Come here.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the shadows along the wall where he thread his arms under her cloak and around her waist and bent to kiss her full lips. She let out a gentle moan and he nuzzled her neck and breathed in her scent. “It’s so good to hold you,” he whispered.
“I miss you too,” she replied. “Were you speaking with my brother?”
“Yes.” Danael kissed her neck once again. “He wants to hold a fixture.”
Heduanna tensed. “Why?”
“Nevermind that. When can we meet again? I can barely live without you.”
Heduanna pressed her hands on his chest and gently pushed him back. “I’m working on it, you can rest assured. But I best be going now. I have business with my brother.”
Danael frowned. “With Hadanash? Whatever for?”
She gave him a sly smile. “We’re hunting weasels. That’s all I can tell you.” She reached up and kissed his lips once more, then she ducked under his arm and was gone, like mist in the sun.
The crowd roared as Ushtan circled the ring, pumping his sword arm and inciting the spectators to further euphoria as he pointed at Danlag. Danael hardly knew Danlag. He was a young Drakian warrior who was still a boy when his family had fled from Kania after the Halkan invasion. But he’d shown his potential in the ring, even though he was losing.
Danlag smiled and pointed at the two cuts along his arm that proved Ushtan would be the likely victor. Danlag appeared to understand what the ring was all about, and he seemed to enjoy the performance.
In another moment, the young Drakian was on his feet and the two combatants were at it again. From the platform, Danael had a good vantage of the moves of both men. Much clearer than when sitting in the stalls and he understood the general’s preference for it as a venue for sword practice.
“You’ve taught your barbarians well, Danael.” Commander Rigut spoke as he lifted a cup of wine from a passing servant holding a tray. Rigut was the king’s youngest brother, but his loyalties were difficult to pin down, and Danael could never be sure whether he was a staunch supporter of the king or his brother-general. “They know the tricks of the khopesh. He is putting up a fine defence.”
Danael nodded. “A little more training and every one of my barbarians would slice three cuts on any Zraemian opponent before they could utter Phadite’s name.”
“A bold statement, let’s see if it rings true.” Rigut smiled. “I’m sure there’ll be more fixtures to come, now that Hadanash is general. He has more of this grandfather-king in his veins than any one of us.”
Danael narrowed his eyes at the prince. Hadanash was only acting as general while Mutat was at the Sisters, so Danael didn’t share Rigut’s certainty that such fixtures would become more commonplace. And the king’s aversion to their brutality, and the addictive gambling it wrought, was well known. The king’s chair remained empty. He wasn’t going to show. A thread of irritation made Danael chew his lip as Ushtan pounced forward and got his third cut on Danlag’s leg. This was a waste of time.
Below, Danael could make Ibbi out through the haze, busy with a bustling crowd of wager-makers around him, his stylus scratching furiously on his tablet.
Hadanash glanced at his own tablet and called out the next combatants.
Three of them entered the ring – a short but wily Zraemian called Oshtar with scars everywhere, and two Drakian spearwives. Danael didn’t know the names of the two women. They both had hair as gold as the sun and were tall, like all spearwives. Catcalls and lurid shouts filled the ring, and anger flared in Danael’s chest.
He was only too keenly aware of the Zraemian’s fascination for the Drakian women of war, but it was not a fascination he cared for. Drakian spearwives were warriors who’d seen more blood in battle than any of the pampered nobles and merchantmen who filled the stalls of the ring. They’d no right to call them such names, or leer at them so lustily.
“Your Zraemian she-soldiers are quite a sight,” Commander Sirut said. Just like Danael, he was newly appointed to his position by Hadanash. “I wonder how they fight in the bedchamber.”
The others laughed, including Hadanash, and Danael bristled again. “We tend to leave our spearwives well alone, Commander,” Danael responded. “Lest you get a dagger in your back, or some place worse.”
In the ring, Oshtar danced forward and easily cut one woman’s top in three places, causing it to fall off, her breasts released for all to see, and a lascivious roar filled the ring. The spearwife dropped her sword and held her arms over her chest, a look of horror on her face.
“Three cuts, Oshtar!” Hadanash yelled and the crowd laughed and jeered.
“Show us your tits!” someone yelled.
“Show us your tits!” another responded, and the call turned into a chant.
Danael was on his feet, fury ran through his veins. This was an insult to every Drakian man and woman alike.
The woman had retrieved what remained of her top and placing it over her chest, climbed out of the ring.
Good, Danael thought, as he watched her descend the steps to the armoury beneath. Oryn was one of the Drakian captains now, and Danael had ordered him to wait down in the armoury. He’d help her.
Thankfully the second spearwife didn’t suffer the same fate, and she even managed to get a cut in on Oshtar’s thigh, much to Danael’s surprise. The spearwives were second to none when it came to the accuracy of throwing their spears, but they weren’t so handy with a sword. Her brave stand was short-lived when Oshtar finished the duel with a quick cut to her arm.
The fight was gratefully over, but not before a chant started again, “Show us your tits!” as the second spearwife left the ring, but it died down as quickly as it had started.
Danael glanced at Hadanash’s tablet, but the squiggles remained as mysterious to him as the pattern of spilled blood on the altar read by Sidmon. When the servant walked passed carrying another tray of cups, brimming with wine, Danael considered sending the slave to fetch Ibbi. Perhaps he could sit on the platform for a time under the pretext of being Danael’s advisor, but with the real purpose of reading that fixture list on Hadanash’s tablet, so Danael could ensure there were no surprises.
The next battle exhibited the Zraemian’s fondness for the blazing sword. A Zraemian soldier called Tutah, an experienced soldier, and captain, almost in his fortieth year, brandished the flaming sword and each and every Drakian in the crowd had their mouth wide open. His opponent was a young warrior from Uthalia, called Erael. Danael had fought his maiden battle with this man and knew they
were of the same age. Erael, stupefied by the blazing sword lasted less time in the ring than any other opponent, and once again the crowd roared with approval.
Danael grimaced. This was fast showing the Drakians to be nothing but mere novices when it came to battle craft. He squinted at Hadanash’s profile. From this angle he looked even more like his father. But he was nothing like Amar-Sin. Danael glanced at the king’s chair, still empty.
Still, there was one thing Danael could be glad of. Sargan was meant to fight in the ring. It almost sent Danael into a fury more suited to Hadanash when Ibbi had read the fixtures list, and he’d wanted to rip the tablet from Ibbi’s hand and throw it against the wall. Sargan was as suited to battles as a cat was suited to the water, and Danael had lived in Azzuri long enough to know the cats that stalked the city every night avoided the river waters at all costs.
But Danael had outsmarted the prince. While Danael was commander of the Drakian division of soldiers, he’d been allocated one contingent of Zraemians. It had been Danael’s own request so that the men could interact and help each other learn their language, customs and battle strategy. Danael’s own warband had been included in that contingent, therefore, strictly speaking Sargan was under Danael’s command, and when Hadanash asked for volunteers to escort an emissary to Urtuk, Danael accepted the brief.
He sipped his wine to hide his smile. He’d sent Sargan with an Azzurian warband and a group of Drakians. It would be an opportunity for them to learn more about each other. They had left for Urtuk that morning. By now, Sargan would be far from the dishonor of the ring.
When the fight between the last fixture was over – won once again by the Zraemian challenger, Danael took part in the applause and breathed a relaxing sigh. The Drakians had been shamed, there was no doubt about it, but at least Sargan had avoided such embarrassment.
When Hadanash got to his feet, and the crowd hushed, Danael thought the prince was readying to dismiss them, to bid them goodbye and end this farce. But he was wrong.
Hadanash gave Danael a glance filled with guile and Danael tensed every muscle in his back.
