Dragonshade

by Aderyn Wood

  “What is our next step?” Qisht asked the question again, and all eyes turned to Sargan.

  “It is obvious,” Amar-Nasir spoke. “I am the last remaining Amar, that we know of, I will go down in history as saying this: Prince Sargan is to be named the one true king of all Zraemia as chosen by the Great War that has been Gedjon-Brak.” He raised his cup of ale. “Let the ceremony be our next step. To Prince Sargan, the first king of all Zraemia.”

  One by one the others held their cups up and repeated the words, “To the first king of kings.”

  Sargan’s stomach swirled again and he wished he could run from the room to hurl his scant breakfast over the terrace. The one true king indeed. He wanted, more than anything, to escape to his poetry, if only for a few moments.

  “Well then,” Siduri edged forward on her seat. “We’re agreed. The only thing to do now is plan the ceremony and make it official.”

  Part XXX

  Praeta

  Winter

  Eighteenth year of Vizier Thasus’s Reign

  5,845 years ago…

  Danael

  Danael bent over the pale form of Heduanna. The embalmers had done their job and she looked as though she merely slept. She wore an Azzurian tunic dyed entirely blue and flecked with gold to mimic the beloved lapis lazuli of her city. Her long black hair rested in waves over her chest and grew more and more damp with the drizzle that fell from the grey Praetan sky.

  He longed to kiss her one last time. But her lips would be hard and cold, and not her lips at all. Still, he knelt by the boat and placed a single flower, a white lily, by her side.

  He choked on the words that he tried to force out and paused to regain composure. “In my lands, when a man takes a woman for his wife, he brings her flowers.” Danael lifted her cold hands and placed the flower on her chest. “You will always be with me. How could I ever forget the likes of you, Princess Heduanna.”

  Danael clenched his jaw tight as he fell back into line next to Sargan. Sargan no longer, he was King Omar now. Omar meant ‘the one’, and he was now the only leader called king in Zraemia. The other remaining kings were known simply as ‘Amar’, and the minor kings as ‘Viziers’. The whole structure of Zraemia was changing now Gedjon-Brak had been fought and won.

  Heduanna’s funeral raft was only one among many. Over a hundred of them lined the shore, waiting in the rain for their final journey. A journey Heduanna would make without her father and brother, whose ashes had melded with thousands of others, reduced to dust by dragon fire. The ash had floated on the surface of the Uryphat for days following the war. The priests said the natural current would take them all to the Sea of Death over time. Danael felt certain she would be reunited with her father in the Overworld. Though he held doubts as to Hadanash’s place in the afterlife. It seemed more likely Hadanash would enter the Underworld. A reward for all his treachery.

  Two score priests lined the sandy beach and took olive and sandalwood branches, which they withdrew from the burning braziers. Scented woodsmoke filled the salty moist air, and wafted over the crowd of mourners. The High Priest, Grand Blessed Rathaqar finished the rite, saying the words to send the dead over the Sea of Death to their inevitable end.

  Then the boats were run into the water, each with two priests who began rowing against the crashing waves to pull the funeral rafts out to sea.

  Danael took a shaky breath as he watched Heduanna go. It was unlikely they would meet in the afterlife. There would be no passage connecting their different worlds in death. It was the last time he would ever see her, and the tears in his eyes kept obscuring his damned vision. He blinked them away and watched her disappear over the waves, and into the drizzle and sea mist, until there was nothing left to see.

  The following day, the weather proved just as glum. Thick grey clouds sat heavy on the horizon, and the wind blew gusts of rain sideways.

  The last of the Drakians had boarded the ten giant ships, along with ten full contingents of Zraemian soldiers. It was time to go home and face the Halkans, and Sargan had not forgotten his father’s promise to help him in that endeavor.

  Danael stood on the jetty, the rain already making his tunic wet, and the waves crashing angrily on the rocks below.

  “I will send more Zraemians in another quarter-moon, once my summons have reached the other cities,” Sargan said. “You will overcome your enemy in Drakia.”

  Danael nodded. “Thank you, my friend.” Sargan had changed in the short time he’d been named King Omar. His shoulders slouched ever so slightly as though bearing the heavy load of rule. He smiled less, and the look in his eyes was level, less excitable than what was normal for Sargan. But that was to be expected. King Omar was already doing a sound job of rule. There was peace, and peace would remain for years to come. It seemed likely, at least.

  “Please,” the new king took a step closer. “If you see Yana, tell her I said hello.”

  Danael smiled. “Of course.” Omar looked like his old self in that moment, like Sargan. “I will send word back. I’ll have a message from Yana set in a tablet so that you may read her words for yourself.”

  The king’s smile was warm. “That would be wonderful, Danael. Thank you.”

  “Farewell, King Omar.”

  The new king shook his head. “Will I ever get used to that name?”

  “You will.”

  He shrugged and embraced Danael warmly. “Farewell, my friend. Safe travels. I will visit your country again, though my stomach would prefer I didn’t. There is the question of payment to settle. We owe you gold and I shall deliver it myself once you have achieved peace for Drakia.”

  “You would be most welcome.” Danael gave one last nod before boarding the ship.

  In another hand they had set sail, and already the Zraemians onboard complained with the rolling motions of waves. Danael stood by the prow and watched the dark horizon ahead. Another battle awaited him, and he dreaded to think what his father had done to Estr Varg during his lengthy absence.

  Part XXXI

  Estr Varg

  Leaf-Fall

  Second year of Khanax Krasto’s reign

  5,846 years ago…

  Yana

  Yana watched the two men, both tall and wearing the horned helms the Halkans were fond of, as they forced a struggling young Drakian boy through the dark alley to the back of the rondhus. This rondhus, closest to the escarpment ramparts, had become something of a meeting place, reminiscent of the beer houses in Azzuri. Yana had stalked the streets three nights running, and the Halkans had met here every night to drink themselves stupid on the ale and mead they’d stolen from the hardworking villagers of Estr Varg. The same villagers who were now the Halkans’ thralls.

  “No, please no!” the struggling youth shouted as the two towering Halkans dragged him further into the darkness. Yana withdrew deeper into the shadows. The village lamps reflected on the moist, cold, muddy alleyway, and the rock walls of the rondhuses either side. It also reflected on her dragonscales – the vest and breeches made of black scales with swirls of blue. Her new attire fit snugly and had appeared when she’d come out of her trance, when she’d separated from Argath after their long flight over the seas. It had been a painful separation, and her paralysis had been long, but her connection to Argath was complete now. She could reach out easily with her shade-self and detect the dragon’s presence as he flew over the Drakian Sea on his hunt. She’d learned much all at once about her gift. About her power. And she’d seen the way of things in Drakia. They’d been taken completely by the Halkan horde. She’d flown over every isle in dragon form and seen for herself the large red flags that flew high over the longhuses. Her trance had shown her how it had happened. The sickening treachery. She’d had her rest, and tonight she’d begin setting things to right.

  The youth’s screams pierced the cold air. This was a distraction, her true target now awaited her in the longhus. But the boy was young. She had to help.

  “Shut it,” a gruff voi
ce said with a heavy Halkan accent. A thwack echoed through the alley and the boy fell limp over the wood heap. One of the men fumbled with the lad’s breeches. The other swigged on a wineskin.

  Yana’s steps were as silent as death, and she loosed a scale from her waist. It was triangular in shape, and slightly larger than her hand. She ran her thumb over its edge – sharp as any honed blade.

  The Halkan had the lad’s breeches down and the boy’s bare backside stood out as a pale contrast in the shadows.

  The boy screamed again as the Halkan’s hand reached for him.

  “Touch him, and die.” Yana stepped forward, and allowed her steps to make a sound for once.

  The two men turned with startled expressions which soon straightened when they saw her. “A little girl,” the one who held the lad said. “She’s yours, Orug. Prefer girls, don’t ye?” He turned back to the lad and reached again to fondle the boy’s backside.

  Yana fed the scale with her essence, and now it buzzed in her hand. She flung it at the man. The swoosh barely made a sound but in the next heartbeat the man’s scream filled the night as he lumbered back, a bloody stump where his hand had been.

  “You little slut.” The Halkan named Orug groped for her, but Yana threw both hands toward the man and said one word in mountain speech: “fire.”

  A blue blaze streamed from her hands and the man screamed as he tumbled back, his hair and beard aflame.

  The pair of Halkans lay slumped over each other, The first one had fainted, and the second was dead, his head now nothing but a black round lump of smoking coal. The lad had stood, hoisting his breeches up. His eyes were wide, still full of fear as he focused on her. “Simple Yana?”

  She nodded. “Get inside, keep your head down and say naught of me.”

  The boy clutched his breeches as he ran to the front of the rondhus.

  Next, Yana kicked the Halkan who still lived. His eyes opened before the pain of his wound caused them to scrunch shut once more.

  “I told you not to touch him. Now you die.” She shoved a dragonscale into his throat and he choked on his own blood.

  The Halkans kept a strict night’s watch. Both on the ramparts and in the village alleys ‒ pairs of warriors patrolled as though expecting an enemy at any time. They wouldn’t find their two dead clansmen until the dawn at least. Yana moved like death once more and sticking to the shadows she easily avoided the brutish Halkans who patrolled loudly.

  She reached the longhus swiftly and in a heartbeat she had entered through the back. All was dark inside, but her eyes could see easily enough and she stalked through the passages until she came to the Khanax’s chamber.

  The room was black, but she detected shapes and shadows. The large wooden-framed bed stood in the centre, and her mind cast back to that night, so long ago when she’d come here with her mother to try and save the khanassa.

  There were two forms in the bed. One large, one slight. But something was wrong. Their breathing should have been more regular, deeper. They weren’t asleep. Yana’s blood fired with a sense of panic but her feet drove her forward, and she pulled back the bedcovers to reveal only pillows.

  “Yana, it’s a trap. Run!” The familiar voice of her mother hissed in the darkness as someone, or something forced her hands back behind her and a cold metal clasp was clapped around her wrists.

  From the corner, strange words were whispered, and in front of her, laughter came as a candle flared to light.

  Sidmon appeared before her, with one hand clasped on Ma’s shoulder.

  Yana’s mouth fell open when she looked at her mother. She’d aged and sad lines now marked her face – a pale face with hollows in her cheeks and dark eyes that stared at Yana in fear. She wore an under tunic that left her arms exposed. Bruises, scars and cuts marked her mother’s skin.

  Yana clenched her teeth and struggled with the thing that remained steadfast and cold around her wrists. She tried to summon her gift, but she couldn’t, as though something blocked it. She was powerless.

  Rasping laughter rung through the chamber. Sidmon’s laughter. “I was told you would return to rescue your slut of a mother.”

  Yana spat in Sidmon’s face, wishing she was in dragon form and she could spit fire.

  Sidmon ignored her and his voice seemed to morph as though it were not his own. “The mountain-folk think they’re so very clever, sending dragon spawn to ruin us. But our gods are strong too. Our gift has power your mountain friends have underestimated.”

  Yana blinked as her vision swirled. “The Ravnak speaks through you, Sidmon. You’re a true pet aren’t you?” Yana whispered, as she tried once again to summon her power.

  Sidmon’s lips peeled back to reveal red stained teeth. “You can try to access your magics, but it won’t work. The manacles that bind you have spells that not even the most masterful magi can break.”

  Yana let her nostrils flare. “What of my mother? Why must she be held prisoner?”

  Sidmon leered closer. “She gives us her life blood, through her we could scry for you, Yana ilt Corva.” He reached out and cupped her mother’s chin. “Yes, she’d been most useful.” He pushed her chin away with force. “Not any longer though. Guards!”

  Two men, both Halkans stomped into the room. “Take them down to the cellar.”

  In the cellar beneath the longhus, a flame torch on the rock wall lit the space. A gate made of old bones was slid open by one of the guards and Yana and her mother were pushed forward.

  Sidmon uttered strange words and Yana gasped as she felt the cold metal on her wrists move, like a pair of snakes, they slithered apart, disconnecting and releasing their bind before forming perfect circles around each wrist. She raised her wrists in front of her. The metal looked like two black bracelets, smooth and cold on her skin.

  “You may have the use of your arms, dragon spawn, for the moment,” Sidmon said. “But the manacles will continue to block your gift.”

  Yana looked up into his red eyes that seemed to glow in the dimness of the cell. “Why not kill me?’

  The seer’s black mouth gave a gruesome smile. “Because you will help us, whether you like it or no, to win back the desert lands you so cruelly took from us.”

  “Zraemia,” Yana whispered.

  “The very place. Guards.” Sidmon left them and the guards slid a bar over the cell door, locking them in, before they too exited the cellar.

  They’d left the torch flaring though, and Yana saw they were not alone in the cell. A man lay in a bundle of dirty furs and straw. His red hair was a knotted mess. She gave her mother a questioning look.

  “Krasto,” Ma said. “He’s their prisoner too now.”

  Yana’s fury sparked within her. She had no magical power, but she had her dragonscale and in the next heartbeat she sat astride Krasto’s sleeping form, she’d plucked a scale from her waist once more, and held its sharp edge to Krasto’s quivering chin.

  “You cunt,” she said with gritted teeth. “This all happened because of you.”

  “Yana!” her mother half sobbed her name.

  Krasto’s mouth slanted, as it always did, but his eyes held a glint of fear. Good. Yana pushed the dragonscale hard into the khanax’s throat. “I once warned you you’d meet your gaeshna. This has all happened because of your greed. Your ambition. You killed your wife so that you could rule. You killed my father so that you could take my mother. And you gave the enemy all they wanted. Tell me their plan.”

  Krasto licked his lips. “What would you know? You were nothing but a halfwit—Ah!”

  Yana pushed the blade and a line of scarlet now appeared on Krasto’s neck. “Call me that again, traitor, and I’ll cut your throat.”

  “Yana, please—”

  “Be quiet, Mother,” Yana said. “This is between Krasto and me. She leaned closer as she looked into the traitor’s eyes. They were green, just like Danael’s. “What is their plan, traitor?” she asked again.

  Krasto licked his lips. “Let me sit up, and
I will tell you all.”

  Yana sunk the scale into his fatty neck and the blood welled again, then she hoisted herself up onto her feet and clicked the scale back into the space along her waist. “Talk.”

  Krasto sat and brought a hand to his throat and stared at the blood on his fingers. He gave her a scowl, but started talking. “I made a deal with the Halkans four summer’s past. I would aid their conquer of Drakia, in return they’d make me leader here in Estr Varg. Then the Zraemians turned up and Sidmon devised a plan to make their demands work for us. The seer influenced the others to agree to send their warriors to Zraemia, making it easy for the Halkans to descend and take every last Drakian isle under their control.”

  Yana squinted. “But you’re their prisoner now.”

  Krasto grimaced, his mouth slanting down into a sorry scowl. “They haven’t killed me yet, but they will. They’re waiting for the return of the Drakians and the Zraemian king. They’ll use me then if they need to spin a tale of order, before they kill me, and every last Drakian warrior.”

  Yana shook her head. “Look at where your greed has got you. And you’ve allowed these monsters to enslave your people. I will happily kill you myself!” she lunged forward, and grasped for her dragonscale once more, but her mother came between them.

  “Yana, no!” Her mother wrapped her arms around her and Yana felt the love, the relief in her embrace. “Please, no more killing. There’s been too much. No more.”

  Yana shifted her hand from her waist and wrapped her arm around her mother. “I’m sorry for what they did to you, Mother,” she whispered.

  Her mother was crying. “I’m sorry too, but killing Krasto will not take it all back.” She gently took Yana’s hand and led her to the other wall and they sat together in the straw.