A Novella: Curse of the Night Dragon, #1 Read online

  Curse of the Night Dragon: A Novella

  Curse of the Night Dragon, Volume 1

  S.K. Alden

  Published by Grauvale Press, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  CURSE OF THE NIGHT DRAGON: A NOVELLA

  First edition. April 3, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 S.K. Alden.

  ISBN: 978-1393958642

  Written by S.K. Alden.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Curse of the Night Dragon: A Novella

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

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  Further Reading: Fate of the Raven Guard: A Novella

  Also By S.K. Alden

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  To my readers, teachers, friends. Special thanks to Jessie, Caryn, and especially to my beloved Tim. Hand on heart to all of you.

  Far away on the Green Isle, the outline of a falling beast wreathed in fire is carved onto the face of a tall cliff above a long fjord. It marks the spot three ten-leagues from her home where the brave Lady Breitte, returning home to the Lén of Snowmount, made her last stand and slayed a Night Dragon.

  Most who see the stone only see the dragon—blinded, wing-broken and falling headlong into the deep water below.

  Yet Lady Breitte’s true legacy is shown in the smaller, more subtle carvings on the cliff face.

  Two small boys and one hundred ravens.

  For the nàmhid’s Night Dragon had cursed her younger son, and she had answered with the Morrigan’s oldest spell.

  Chapter One

  Kirin, brother to the King of Snowmount, ducked a volley of úkenn-arrows coming from the trees south of Snowmount’s western outpost.

  His own arrow zinged away and quickly hit its mark. Moments later, a scrawny figure in a ragged cloak fell from a short-trunked evergreen. Three other Mountain warriors fired, and several more rogues toppled out of trees with garbled cries.

  "Shields up!" Kirin yelled to his troops, sending another arrow to the source of enemy fire. On the road ahead, a contingent of travelers took heed of the fight and pressed together, swords out.

  Two more rogues moved in the trees, shooting some kind of laden arrows that whumped into a leafless trunk above the heads of several Snowmount warriors, releasing a chalky cloud of dust. Two of Kirin’s warriors dropped, writhing in the dirt, hands pressed to their eyes.

  Above the fray, an angry flight of ravens circled and voiced loud alarm calls to each other as one of Kirin’s veteran warriors dashed to the blinded archers, helping them quickly to cover.

  Kirin kept his focus on the trees and followed the telltale vibrations in the limbs—a target...just there. He fired, and one last scrawny rogue slipped off a limp, fell to another, and went limp as it dropped to the ground below.

  Silence. The travelers with their shield wall stood still. Kirin counted heatbeats to ten...but no movement, no more shots fired. Seven skinny úkenn lay dead on the icy ground.

  Kirin charged ahead, a young lieutenant at his back with arrow nocked, ready to defend his prince. Several more of the Mountain Guard fanned out to search for more rogues among the evergreens, and he was aware that one of the older guards calmed the dust-blinded ones, using his water pouch to rinse their eyes. Kirin kept his focus on the source of the trouble.

  "Common úkenn," Kirin muttered when he got to the first one, shoving it over with his boot to get a look at the creature's half-rat, half-human face.

  One of the travelers approached, sword at the ready, eyes roving the road and the trees around them.

  "Skinny and underfed," the traveler observed. "Any more?"

  Kirin eyed the man, short beard marking him as a Grauvaler. "If there were," Kirin said, "they've scattered by now." A trio of ravens swooped past but the birds said nothing, which told him the threat was over.

  The newcomer, his cloak in Grauvale blue, glanced at the ravens, then nodded, waved forward one of his cneasaí healers, and looking Kirin in the eye, he bowed. "Brunsder of Grauvale. All honors."

  Kirin returned the bow, hand on heart. "Kirin, Prince of Snowmount, all honors in return."

  Brunsder nodded. "I thought it was you. Oldfather’s blessings, lad.” He reached for Kirin's shoulder and the two of them exchanged the warrior's greeting, hands on shoulders. "We are glad to see you. That nàmhid’s war is over, but there are still a mighty number of his twisted creatures on the roads.” He he looked askance at the dead úkenn. “Even this close to Snowmount."

  "Especially this close," Kirin acknowledged, glowering at the úkenn. "They're no longer organized enough to mount a full attack, but there's more than one lair left in northern Fernwoods...we burn them off Snowmount’s lands, but they hide in druid territory and we are barred from following. We need Sea Cliff's new treaty."

  "Agreed," Brunsder said. Ratifying it was why he was here, after all—him and envoys from all seven Green Isle léns. "But not everyone's convinced, I'm afraid. We hear rumors of contention..."

  "Yes," Kirin acknowledged. "But we have not come this far only to give up the fight." Kirin turned and walked Brunsder back toward the path and his caravan.

  "We have not, indeed," Brunsder agreed quietly. "How's your brother? News travels slow back to Grauvale. When we heard of your losses in the last battle...two Kings fallen at the gate...we feared for Gilleath. For you both."

  "Gill is fit as ever," Kirin confirmed. He carefully didn't mention his brother’s battle wound or that his survival had been a close thing. "Though our losses were terrible. Eoghan of River Bend. Our cousin Seissyl of Hillhome." Kirin put a fist to his heart in salute to their feisty old relation.

  "May he rest in Honor’s arms," Brunsder said, motioning his horse forward, ready to remount. He looked at Kirin in sadness and then spoke more quietly. "Have a care, lad. Someone among the seven families is intent on disrupting your brother’s Wintermeet."

  "And who would that be?" Kirin deadpanned. He'd heard the same gossip and sincerely hoped Grauvale had nothing to do with it.

  "No idea." With that, Brunsder re-mounted his horse and signaled his caravan of travelers forward. He looked at Kirin, sad regret on his craggy face. "And I wish I did."

  Kirin nodded. Grauvale was too remote to be a likely conspirator, and he was inclined to take Brunsder at his word.

  "We'll follow you in," Kirin said, stepping back. "Keep the vermin off your back." At this, a loud quork took Kirin's attention and he looked up. A large, glossy raven backwinged and Kirin held out an arm for it to land. "Tell the King that Grauvale arrives," Kirin murmured to it. The raven quorked once, nibbled on his coat cuff, and then took flight.

  —-

  Grauvale’s cneasaí kept eyewash solutions in her belt bag—úkenn used this horrid stinging dust all too often.

  One older warrior protected his blinded fellow archers with his sword drawn, but his eyes went to her Grauvale coat, the healer cneasaí insignia, and then nodded for her take over. He held tight to the hands of one younger lad, preventing him from rubbing his eyes as he
twisted in agony.

  “Hold still, Skirfir,” the older man said him. “Cneasaí lass will set you right,” he murmured.

  “I have an eyewash,” the lass said to him as she finished with the first archer. “It will stop the stinging.” She broke the wax seal on a small sack. “Hold still and count to ten,” she instructed.

  The older guard held the lad’s hands firmly away and the lass popped the wax seal on a leather sack and sent a stream of clear fluid into younger one’s eyes.

  He stopped struggling and blinked, still cringing a bit.

  “Skirfir, is it?” she asked to distract him.

  He blinked and focused his eyes on her. She squirted a bit more in eyes, tossed him a clean cloth and moved on to the other warrior, an older woman with enough sense not to struggle.

  As expected, both victims were quickly back on their feet and ready to fight again.

  The lad wiped his face clean with the cloth she gave him, stopping long enough to give her a nod, one hand on his heart. “Thank you, cneasaí ...” He stopped, not knowing her name.

  “Nÿr. Trainee,” she introduced herself. The lad held out a hand to her, but she doused it with wash. “The other one as well,” she demanded. He quickly allowed her to splash more eyewash. “Try not to rub your eyes...go see your Guard healers once you’re back at your quarters.” She looked up to realize he was staring at her.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  She raised an eyebrow, about to tell him she did not warrant the title, but he dashed off, making a beeline for his commander. Her other patient stood nearby, dusting off her bow and readying herself to join the others.

  “I can stay as your guard...” she began.

  Nÿr shook her head. “No need. I’m just heading back to my horse.”

  The warrior nodded, made a hand-on-heart gesture, and spotting her squad, headed to rejoin them.

  Nÿr kicked the soil at her feet, found the wax seal on the ground and gingerly picked it up. She knew better than to leave debris on the ground—it left evidence for a tracker. She was scanning the ground left and right when a thrashing in the underbrush startled her.

  Birds, she realized. She was about to turn away when a raven the size of a mountain hawk swooped low as if on a collision course with her head.

  “What...?” She ducked, pulling up her hood and grabbing her long braid to tuck it inside.

  The raven swooped again and then landed on the ground not six steps away, beak open with pink throat exposed.

  Her eyes went to the source of the thrashing sound. A smaller raven—maybe even a yearling—rolled in the leaves, unable to orient itself and fly.

  With regret, she was ready to turn away. A fact of war...nature’s beasts took collateral damage.

  The adult raven hopped twice toward the smaller bird, then once toward her, setting up a pitiful begging eeeping that clearly meant it was seeking her help.

  “Is this your hatchling, then?” she asked, peering closer at the injured bird. There—chalky dust on the wing feathers.

  Nÿr reacted quickly. She did have just a little more eyewash left in the pouch. She pulled a cloth from her pouch and tossed it quickly over the writhing bird and stepped forward to swaddle it, keeping it restrained.

  “If you peck me, this won’t work,” she warned it. But wrapped in cloth and turned upside down, the young raven went still, eyes shut tight. The parent bird landed nearby and observed, clearly ready to attack if things went wrong.

  Nÿr was quick—using the last of the eyewash to douse the bird’s head.

  It shook its head, blinked, and Nÿr drained the pouch solution, crooning to it. “I think that’s better,” she said, flipping the bird right-side up and releasing it. She stowed the used cloth and eyewash sack, getting one last look at the pair of ravens before turning back to the caravan and her horse.

  Both ravens launched upwards, calling to others.

  Back at her horse, she stowed her healer pack in the saddle bag but looked up at the whisper-rustle of wings very close. One rather brazen raven alighted on the cantle, looking at her, tilting its head left and right.

  “Hen-hen. Hen-hen!” It bobbed once, and then flew away.

  —-

  Kirin stood back as Brunsder took his leave and the caravan moved forward. He remained watchful as the long line of travelers passed by. The last late autumn leaves were falling and morning clouds hid the sun, but the path was dry and their horses moved on firm ground. Yet the caravan from Grauvale was a bigger group than Kirin expected, perhaps fifty warriors altogether. His brother would be relieved to hear they were here—Grauvale was several days overdue and they had begun to worry—at least until the ravens had alerted them yesterday morning of a caravan near the edge of the Fernwoods.

  So today, Kirin had ridden out to meet them.

  "They're traveling well-armed," Kirin commented to his fosterling. Every warrior in the contingent carried weapons—from swords and axes to bows and long knives.

  "Aye," Skirfir nodded. Then Kirin noticed several lasses riding past—some dressed in archer brown, some in forge red. He recognized them as Snowmount trainees sent on exchange some four years back. When the war heated up, it had been too unsafe to bring them back.

  "Our own trainees, returning home." Kirin nodded at them. "I know some kin who will be glad to see them again." But he sighed. Some of those kin had likely perished in the siege...they'd lost so many at that last battle at the gate, including Skirfir's own father. Kirin stood beside the lad as the group passed on horses, travel-worn and eager for the safety of Snowmount.

  "Welcome," he nodded to a trio of archer lasses with Mountain sigils on their coats, "Welcome home." One looked at him, then raised an eyebrow with a knowing smile and Kirin felt his cheeks heat up.

  He'd just meant to be polite. He looked away. Most of the time he sidestepped interested lasses as a matter of course. What else could he do?

  Yet it was about to be Wintermeet.

  Look elsewhere, he wanted to tell the archer lass. You can easily find someone more suited.

  And he was better off as a bachelor.

  "My lord," a young lad greeted him with hand on heart as he rode past.

  Kirin nodded. A lad with a healer’s belt. And right behind him, the tall fresh-faced cneasaí lass who had helped Skirf. The one with a single raven-dark braid and serious eyes—he couldn't help but admire her good seat in the saddle.

  One of the ravens flew past again. No úkenn, it quorked. No úkenn, Hen-hen.

  The lass seemed slightly startled. She looked up and tracked the raven's flight, almost, Kirin thought, as if she'd understood the raven's words, though what hen-hen meant, he had no idea. A moment later, the young healer's eyes met his, then she looked away.

  He was imagining things. Very few people could hear a raven speak—all people who had known his mother.

  Still, he looked again at the cneasaí as they rode on.

  —-

  Gilleath, King of Snowmount, stood firm in full red-and-gold royal regalia on the battlements above the Mountain’s Great Gate.

  A well-armed contingent of warriors approached, their helms removed in respect, their horses lined up three across, and one blue flag unfurled. A drummer beat a solemn cadence for their steps.

  "Hail, Grauvale!" The Guard Commander's words rang out.

  Gill, standing between battle-scarred embrasures, raised his hand and seven Snowmount warriors hoisted the royal banners high. They'd brought out the most festive of decorations and the Mountain Gate indeed looked its best today. But the Gate had been properly repaired only six months past, and anyone with an eye could still see the great gashes of battle damage on the stone.

  He hoped no one could see the battle damage on him. Hip pierced by a sharp lance, he'd been struck defending old Seissyl...and if Kirin had not been quick to gut the bastard úkenn first, they would have both been flattened by its massive war axe just as it had flattened their royal cousin.

  Stunned and
in excruciating pain, Gill had been whisked inside to the physicians. But he had no doubt that the entire mountain would have fallen that day if not for Niall's victory over the nàmhid.

  By many sacrifices, the people of Snowmount had endured; as had he, his brother, and his family—his lady wife and four children who'd spent the battle hidden deep inside the mountain.

  Not all families had been so lucky.

  Gilleath now faced the contingent of visiting warriors with steel eyes. He was taking a chance, hosting such an enclave in support of the Green Isle’s new High King. Apparently he was the only warrior lord brazen (or stupid) enough to do it. He'd heard the criticisms of Niall and objections already.

  Still under the thumb of that druid.

  No true scion of First Ones will answer to the likes of that upstart.

  What's Sea Cliff's peace to us?

  Sea Cliff's peace was everything, Gilleath believed. Nàmhid’s Keep might have fallen, but evil forces still lurked on the Green Isle and the seven families were still a target, the Children of Eathom in particular. They needed that mutual aid treaty with Sea Cliff. And the truth was, he did in fact agree with the druids—Niall represented their best chance for peace going forward, and Gilleath meant for the Seven Léns to stand with their swords and arrows alongside their new High King.

  Gilleath knew it would be his job, as a royal son of Eathom Firstfather, to convince them all that it was time for old grudges to be set aside and for the warrior léns to unite.

  To be honest, he'd rather face a úkenn horde than a Conclave of his feisty brethren, but he meant to prevail.

  With a final drum cadence, the Grauvale warriors halted just before the new bridge at the moat, hands on hearts in respect. Adhering to protocol, the Snowmount Guard sounded the great battlehorns in their honor: deep, bass notes that could be felt in a warrior's bones.

  The horns finished, the sound echoing in the canyon. Gilleath let silence return before he stepped forward.

  "Hail, warriors of Grauvale! With your coming, the Wintermeet begins. I grant you entry and welcome to Snowmount!"