The Son of the Dragon by A.Gustafson - Volume 1

From Volume 1 in Tales From Netherün A young warrior fights his first battle beneath the shadow of his brother's prophecy.

Rowers hummed as they dipped their oars into the water. Their sound rose and fell with the waves that crashed against the hull and the steady beat of the drummer. The sails were taut with the wind, a gift from the skies, and a good omen for the battle to come.

The other ships in the war fleet sailed on every side of them, with their black dragon figureheads, and their prows cutting through the grey waters.

Despite the thick layer of clouds blotting out the sun, Jebran raised a hand to his forehead to shade his eyes. The other warriors were tense, conversation had died out hours ago, and those who should be sleeping paced and milled against the railings, staring out at the horizon. There was no sight of land in any direction, but they were getting close.

Jebran ran the whetstone down his curved blade, feeling the rumble of the stone in his fingers. The air was cold and wet from the sea, and it clung to his skin. Lifting the stone he set it against the edge, already sharp, and followed it down again. He kept his gaze on the blade, his mind on the vibrating of the whetstone. He did not want to leave this moment. In this moment, he was alive, he was whole, and he was not a coward. By evening’s fall, any one of them might not be.

A gull, in the distance, caught Jebran’s eye. Fear roiled in his guts like a snake.

There it was, time, slipping forward, taking with it the last of Jebran as a boy. No matter how much he poured his mind and senses into collecting every piece of a moment, he couldn’t hold onto it.

The gull grew closer, soaring on a draft.

Now was not the place to let his mind wander into the future, or the past. What had come and what was written, could not be changed. He must stay in the now, make the choices it demanded and prove himself a warrior. Jebran could not stay a boy forever, and his brother would need men he could trust if he was to bring them the great victory promised to them by the aldars and their reading of the stars.

Jebran climbed down the ladder into the hull, past the rowing men to the lowest level that sat beneath the ocean’s surface. The inside of the ship was filled with crates and barrels, a single area cleared near the middle for gatherings. Only the fiercest warriors of the Chieftain’s circle could venture here. 

It was not a place Jebran could feel at ease. It was not a place he had earned.

Armaghan. His brother and Chief, sat across from Shabaz, the white-haired aldar.

Armaghan was nineteen summers, his face still not yet showing any signs of a beard. They looked alike, Jebran and Armaghan. The same silk black hair, dangling past their shoulders, their faces clinging to boyhood and their eyes the colour of slate. But Armaghan bore the scars of many battles and Jebran’s skin; only the scratches of an adventurous boy.

‘Brother,’ Armaghan said, smiling. ‘I have a gift for you.’ He rose and dug through a small chest.

Gulab watched from the shadows. He was twice as big as any man had any right to be, with a thick beard that tumbled wiry and wild to his chest, and he dressed in the hide of the brown bear. 

Gulab didn’t like Jebran, but then, he didn’t like any man, except for Armaghan.

Everybody loved Armaghan.

‘Here.’ Armaghan stepped around the old aldar. He held out his fist and opened it to reveal a smooth piece of petrified driftwood, the size of a thumb, at the end of a leather cord. ‘From the beaches of home. It will bring luck to you.’

Jebran lifted the necklace from Armaghan’s hand. ‘Thank you, brother.’ The gesture sunk a stone deep into the pit of his stomach. They all knew it was his first battle. He didn’t need to wear evidence of it. But the years they had spent inseparable as brothers in the black rock mountains and shale beaches of home were gone, slipped into memory. Jebran could not reject his Chieftain, so he put it around his neck.

‘What is it?’ Armaghan asked him, his grey gaze piercing Jebran.

‘A gull,’ Jebran said, changing the topic. He could not voice his fears, that he would prove himself a coward, that he would die or become maimed and sent home. He would not say these things, not in front of others, and not in front of his Chieftain. Not ever. 

His brother smiled. ‘The wind has been at our backs, the seas calm, and now a gull has welcomed us into the home of our enemy.’

‘It welcomes you, Armaghan,’ Shabaz said, joining them. He was an old man with a twisted spine and a loop of rag hiding his missing eye. ‘The spirits have foretold the glory of our people by your hands. You are the one we have been waiting for.’

Armaghan put a hand on the aldar’s shoulder, and the other on Jebran’s. ‘The spirits are wise, and I am honoured by them. We must rouse the crew.’

Armaghan climbed the ladder, Shabaz followed. As Jebran reached for the wooden rungs, Gulab shouldered him out of the way, grunting.

The men were already gathering around Armaghan by the time Jebran reached them.

‘Sound the horn,’ Armaghan said.

The curved horn lived on Armaghan’s ship. Too large for any man, it sat in a special mount against the port railing.  

Wiry Ashkan, with his shaved head a canvas of faded tattoos, lifted the tip of the war horn and blew.

The sound filled Jebran and trembled the wood of the deck. The ships of the war fleet began to draw nearer to each other.

‘Friends!’ Armaghan shouted, standing at the prow of the ship. ‘Warriors.’

‘The Son of the Dragon speaks,’ Shabaz called. ‘Hear him.’

‘Hear him,’ rumbled the crowd in answer.

Jebran added his voice, trying to keep the quiver from it.

Behind Armaghan, the black line of land was taking shape.

‘Today we honour our ancestors and put an end to our enemies, once and for all,’ Armaghan yelled, and Jebran’s flesh prickled.

‘The Son of the Dragon will lead us to victory,’ Shabaz said. ‘Hear him.’

‘Hear him!’ the crowd roared and Jebran roared with them.

Armaghan drew his curved blade and held it above his head. ‘Glory for all!’

‘Glory for all!’ This time Jebran joined the crowd.

The beat of the drum, a slow and steady rhythm for rowing, turned to the triple beat of war. The oarsmen pulled harder, faster, as the land in the distance grew into jagged black mountains.

‘Bring me the shale,’ Armaghan demanded, taking off the key that hung from a chain around his neck.

At the stern of the ship was mounted a chest with three locks. The crowd parted as Shabaz shuffled through, bringing Armaghan’s key. Shabaz produced the second key from somewhere within the loose folds of his robe and Ashkan met him with the third.

From within the chest, Shabaz lifted a small box of polished redwood and a golden clasp. Lifting the lid revealed a bed of fox fur and three pieces of slate-grey shale, from the beaches of home.

Armaghan met Shabaz and took a single piece of shale from the box, the size of his palm.

‘Jebran,’ Armaghan called.

What was Armaghan doing? His mouth went dry.

Jebran shrunk as the battle-hardened men turned to stare.

A hand nudged him in the shoulder, pushing him towards his brother. Jebran swallowed but it caught in his throat. He couldn’t stand up in front of these men. He opened his mouth to speak but his brother reached out towards him and more hands shoved Jebran through.

Armaghan ushered him to the railing. Taking Jebran’s hand he set the shale in it. ‘Say a prayer to our ancestors and drop it in the sea.’

The aldar frowned at Armaghan’s words. ‘This is not the way, Armaghan.’

‘He must learn these things,’ Armaghan answered.

‘What will happen?’ Jebran asked.

‘Whatever the spirits grant us,’ Armaghan replied.

Jebran shook his head, heart thudding against his chest. ‘I can’t.’

‘You, too, are the Son of the Dragon, Jebran. The nether will work for you as well.’

Armaghan couldn’t know that. Their father spoke often of the malevolence of magic. ‘You use it too freely,’ Jebran hissed. ‘And what if it doesn’t work for me? We only have three pieces.’ He shoved the shale back at Armaghan.

Armaghan didn’t take it. ‘We only need one. Our victory against the Bedar is already written in the stars.’

Jebran was not an aldar or a warrior. He was just a boy. Armaghan pushed too far sometimes, always testing the boundaries of his power. What if the spirits cursed Jebran for Armaghan’s brashness and nothing happened? What if the men took whatever was summoned by Jebran as an ill omen? The battle would be lost before they even reached the shore.

‘You place too much faith in me,’ Jebran whispered, gaze darting towards the men who were drawing near and sharing looks of doubt. Jebran may be Armaghan’s brother, but the stars only spoke of one Son of the Dragon.

Jebran let go of the shale, forcing Armaghan to take it, and pushed away from the railing to join the men.

Armaghan took only a moment, head bowed, casting one furtive glance towards Jebran before he dropped the shale into the sea and took a dagger from Shabaz. He drew the edge along Shabaz’s arm, next to a dozen other scars.

The blood dripped, like rain from a forest canopy, into the sea, until Shabaz went pale and Ashkan had to grab him before he fell. He was taken below to rest and heal.

They all waited to see what protections Armaghan had summoned from the earth's spirits. Armaghan’s gaze drifted to the mountains.

The clouds above the black peaks began to descend like a waterfall, obscuring the black rock, drifting down until it shrouded the beaches, hiding the arrival of their war fleet from their enemies.

‘Prepare,’ Armaghan said, pushing through the group of warriors.

Jebran stumbled into the that line forming to take their shields from the railing. The circle of oak, painted black and grey, was heavy as he slid his arm through the leather straps. The war drums thrummed through his chest, discordant to the beat of his own heart, and it made his stomach roil like he’d eaten fire. He could vomit, wanted to, but it would just be another sign of weakness.

Armaghan silenced the drums below decks as they reached the edge of the mist.

It swallowed the fleet whole, muffling the sounds of the oars and disappearing the other ships from view.

Jebran couldn’t see beyond a few feet. His breath came fast and shallow and he loosened his sword in his scabbard. He shifted foot to foot.

Unaffected by the watery shroud draped over them, Armaghan appeared.

‘Keep your shield high,’ Armaghan said, grabbing Jebran’s buckler and raising it to his chin. ‘And keep a strong hand on your sword. And do not fear. The Bedar will fall, it is written. When you feel the boat run aground, it’s time. Ashkan will fight beside you, stay close to him.’

Ashkan was there, appearing from the mist. His gaze met Jebran’s and quickly looked away. He knew what he did, what Armaghan asked of him. Jebran’s cheeks blazed with heat.

‘You shame me,’ Jebran hissed.

Armaghan put his hand on Jebran’s cheek. ‘I do not mean to. I love you.’

‘Then remove Ashkan’s protection,’ Jebran said. The fire in his belly was burning up his throat.

His brother kissed him on the forehead. ‘Forgive me, I cannot. When this world is ours, I want you at my side.’ He turned away.

‘Armaghan!’ Jebran called into the mist as his brother disappeared. 

There was no time to go after him. The oars rumbled as they were pulled into the vessel and the rowers climbed up on deck to grab their weapons. The boat slowed.

‘Take a knee,’ Ashkan whispered in Jebran’s ear, making him jump.

Ashkan put a hand on Jebran’s shoulder and pulled him down.

The boat scraped bottom, coming to a rough halt.

The mist vanished back into a cloudy day.

Armaghan was first over the railing, Gulab and all the rest rushing to catch up.

‘Go,’ Ashkan shoved Jebran.

Jebran stumbled. The air that had been so cold and wet turned thick and hot and his hide armour was tight around his chest. 

This was it. This was where the boy Jebran would last exist. Here, on this beach, beneath grey skies, far from home. 

Jebran gripped the railing, the wood cool beneath his hand. The drop was seven feet but it might as well be from a rooftop. Waves washed against the shore, dragging at the sand.

Ashkan jostled Jebran as he moved past him and over.

Jebran was the last on the boat.

Here he was again, clutching at a single moment while the world kept rushing past him.

 Any longer and they would forever call him a coward.

Time to let the boy go. 

Jebran leapt over the railing, landing in wet sand. A wave lapped against his leather boots.

With the mist gone, Jebran could see again. Ashkan was waiting for him, watching him with a narrowed gaze.

The town was made of stone and timber, just like Jebran’s own. A thick forest stood between it and mountains of jagged, black rock, just like Jebran’s own isle.

Horns sounded. Children ran for the forest, shepherded by grandparents who clutched babes in their arms. They were dressed in the same fur and hide as home. 

It could have been his own people running.

Armaghan was half-way up the beach, Gulab at his side. Together they moved step by step towards the town, leaving a trail of dead. The beach was swarming with Bedar warriors. How was Jebran supposed to tell them all apart from his brethren?

All around Jebran, the other ships from Armaghan’s war fleet were sliding onto the beach and halting. A few Bedar warriors slipped around the first attackers, sprinting full tilt towards Jebran.

Shield up, Armaghan’s voice sounded in his mind.

Jebran raised it to his chin.

The enemy warriors screamed like wild animals, their faces painted, hair shaggy, eyes wild.

Keep a strong hand on your sword.

His sword.

It was still in its sheath.

Jebran grabbed the hilt and pulled too hard. His blade stuck. Ashkan shoved Jebran as the first axe whistled past his head. Jebran landed in the wet sand.

Ashkan killed two Bedar by the time Jebran drew his sabre.

A man bore down on Jebran, twin axes swinging. Jebran hid behind his shield; the strike battered his arm. The second axe came down, hooking the edge of his shield and yanking his arm away, leaving him exposed.

Jebran thrust his blade forward. It slid, too easily, through hide and wool and flesh and organ and the man’s life leaked out into the sand. They stared at each other, Jebran and the man who was dying.

Was that all that stood between man and death? A few layers of hope? Was Jebran a warrior now?

The grey sky, the tan beach, the black mountains, they all stood flat like a canvas before Jebran, with splatters and blotches and trickles of vibrant red shining like fresh warpaint.

‘Get out of your head,’ Ashkan warned, felling another, a woman this time.

Their enemy had scrambled into a semblance of order, hiding behind a shield wall. Armaghan’s forces met them, forming their own wall of interlocking shields.

‘Jebran!’ Ashkan’s grip was tight and pinched where he grabbed Jebran by the scruff of his tunic, marching him up the beach towards the main fighting.

What more was Jebran expecting of his entry into manhood? He had killed a man who would have killed him. 

He had survived. He was a warrior. And no coward.

Jebran jerked loose from Ashkan’s hold. He adjusted the grip on his blade, picking up his stride until he was sprinting and screaming for them to come and kill him.

It was all luck and favour. The spirits chose one over another and that other gave their blood to the earth.

Jebran didn’t want to be that other.

He kept his shield high, and his sword gripped tight. He used his buckler to press close to his enemy and his sabre to slip past their guard. He did not stay near Ashkan, but Ashkan stayed near him. They fought the stragglers and made it to the others.

Pressed into the wall, Jebran locked his shield among his brethren’s and every time Gulab screamed to push, Jebran pushed, and in between he rammed his sword through any cracks in his opponent’s wall. Sometimes it met air, and sometimes it met flesh.

Buckler pressed and rattled against buckler as, step by step, they forced their way up the beach towards the town, stepping over the bodies of their enemies. But the enemy, still gathering themselves, soon outnumbered them and began to push back.

Jebran dug his feet into the sand but felt them slide as even more Bedar warriors appeared from the deep woods, adding their strength to the wall. Warriors pushed against Jebran and spear tips were thrust into any gap.

They were pressed back, despite the strength in their arms and the fire in their blood and the promise written in the stars; until cold liquid washed against Jebran’s heels. Trapped between the Bedar and the sea, pinned in on either side by their own ships, they would die here; drowned or stabbed.

There would be no stories of Jebran told around the cookfires of his home. And no one to mourn him save his brother. This battle would slip to memory and Jebran would be forgotten.

He looked for his brother, to see how he would save them, but Armaghan was not with them.

‘Where is my brother?’ he asked Ashkan. The snake was back, twisting in his guts, sapping the strength from his legs.

‘Do not fear,’ Ashkan grunted. ‘He has gone with Shabaz to use the shale. He will turn the tide of this battle.’

Armaghan had said they would need only one shale.

Jebran could smell the sharp tang of fear. The cold water and closeness of death was dousing their fire. They needed to believe Armaghan would save them.

‘The Son of the Dragon will lead us to victory!’ Jebran shouted.

Sea water lapped against his ankles.

Did the others ignore him because they were afraid, or because he was only Jebran?

The Bedar shoved and stabbed and water surged around Jebran’s calves. Any deeper and they would lose all grip and strength to the sand and the waves. Armaghan was nowhere. Jebran could not give up.

‘The Son of the Dragon will lead us to victory!’ Jebran shouted again.

‘Heave,’ Gulab answered, catching Jebran’s gaze and giving a single, curt nod. ‘Heave I said!’

The hands pressed against Jebran’s shoulders and back from the men behind shoved and Jebran shoved and together they all stepped forward. 

That single step was sweet as victory and the snake inside Jebran coiled into slumber and the fire in his heart burned anew.

He was a warrior. Not a boy. He may not be Armaghan but they would hear him. They would listen.

‘The Son of the Dragon will lead us to glory!’ Jebran shouted.

‘Heave,’ the men answered.

And together they stepped forward.

‘The Son of the Dragon will lay waste to our enemies!’

‘Heave.’

And together they stepped forward.

‘The Son of the Dragon will bring us the world!’

‘Heave.’

And lightening split the sky.

The crack of thunder slammed against Jebran.

Armaghan appeared, standing at the railing of a ship, towering over all. The wind at his back ruffled the fur of his armour, whipping his long black hair. He looked like a dark spirit, his face shadowed and angry.

 The Bedar hesitated, the force against Jebran’s shield easing, the spears slamming through the gaps pausing.

A second bolt zagged across the sky above Armaghan, another crack of thunder. The wind grew into a roar, rushing off the sea.

Armaghan looked up to the clouds, lifted his arms, closed his eyes, and a moment later the rain came.

Heavy drops splattered down, soaking them in seconds, obscuring the world around them so that only this beach existed, only this moment.

Armaghan looked back down on the two shield walls and leapt from the railing onto the Bedar.

They scattered before the Son of the Dragon.

‘Break,’ Gulab yelled, taking advantage.

Jebran pulled his shield away and stabbed. The enemy wall broke and they surged forward. Their enemy were scattered, retreating up the beach, but re-gathering for a second attack.

Jebran tried to push through to his brother’s side, who fought alone, surrounded, but a Bedar stepped in his way. Jebran swung his sabre and it clattered off the man’s shield.

‘Leave me,’ Jebran shouted to Ashkan, using his body as a ram to barrel forward. ‘Get to my brother.’ The Bedar was knocked off balance and Jebran struck with his blade, but the man hooked it with his axe and twisted it away, tearing the sword from Jebran’s grip.

The man slammed his axe into Jebran’s shield, each blow rattling through Jebran’s arm and wrenching his shoulder.

Ashkan sunk a knife into the man’s shoulder and Jebran snapped the rim of his shield across his jaw. Jebran retrieved his sabre from the sand and continued to fight their way to Armaghan.

Not that his brother needed their help.

The Son of the Dragon was invincible. Armaghan’s blade was a blur in the rain, spraying blood as he moved through his enemies.

Jebran wiped his hair from his eyes and launched himself at another man while Ashkan faced two.

The rain was relentless. Draped over the beach, it hid the mountains from them and washed the blood from the sand.

The warrior before Jebran wielded a single axe on a long pole and the first blow struck through Jebran’s shield, nearly cleaving it in two. When the warrior yanked, the axe stayed wedged in the shield and Jebran was thrust off his feet.

Jebran struggled to pull his arm from the shield straps as the man abandoned his axe and drew a dagger. His arm would not come free, the straps were too tight. 

He couldn’t run, or dodge; not with the axe wedged in the shield and stuck to his arm. 

Jebran dropped his sword as the axe man stepped towards him. He fought to loosen the leather strap. The spirits favoured him. His arm came free. Jebran grabbed his blade and rolled away as the axe man stabbed the sand where he had been.

Jebran kicked the man in the face and found his feet.

            Smiling at his own speed, Jebran looked for his brother. Armaghan was still alone inside a ring of Bedar, and wounded now. His right arm dangled at his side.

            Jebran’s throat clamped tight.

Armaghan!

Jebran kicked the axe man in the face a second time as he sprinted past. 

He shoved his blade into the spine of a warrior at the edge of the circle that wreathed Armaghan and stole the man’s buckler.

Armaghan battered aside an axe blow with his shield, but the force dropped him to his knees.

Jebran burst into the middle of the circle. He stood before his brother, shield up, sword held strong.

‘I’ve got you, brother,’ Jebran said. He held his blade out, side stepping around his brother to keep the Bedar away. 

Jebran would cut them all down

A Bedar warrior struck at Jebran with a two-handed sword. Even with a shield, the blow cracked against his body and threw Jebran off his feet.

As the man stepped over Jebran, sword raised, Jebran rolled to his feet. He struck three quick blows, each easily blocked and on the third, Jebran lost his sabre. It sailed away and stuck into the sand.

But while the man watched the sabre leave one hand, Jebran dropped the shield in his other and took the man’s own dagger from his belt, slipping it up into the armpit and dropping him.

Jebran whipped around, dagger in hand, looking for his next fight.

But there was none.

The Bedar were fleeing into the woods.

And his brother lay still, ringed by dead warriors. 

‘Get up,’ Jebran said.

The rain ceased. The thunder and lightning faded. Sunlight broke through the clouds.

‘Get up,’ Jebran said, stomping over to his brother.

Ashkan’s hand slapped down on his shoulder, halting Jebran. Ashkan shook his head, gaze on Armaghan.

Jebran dropped beside his brother. With trembling hands, he lifted his brother’s head. Armaghan’s skin was cold and slick with rain. Jebran’s breath was heavy and gasping, bruises already spreading up his shield arm.

The others gathered around.

Jebran bent over his brother, their foreheads touching. ‘Please, Armaghan,’ Jebran said. His throat was closed and tight, his nose prickled and tears slid down his cheeks. He gripped Armaghan’s head, fingers tangled in his hair, pressing their foreheads so tight together it hurt. ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘You can’t leave me. You can’t.’

But the spirits had already taken his brother away.

Jebran kissed Armaghan on the forehead, eyes squeezed shut. He couldn’t open them. To open them would be to see an emptiness where his future used to be. To open them would be to allow time to keep slipping forward, further and further away from the last moment his brother breathed, laughed, cried, lived. Jebran’s world shouldn’t have to exist without Armaghan. That wasn’t how it was supposed to be. That wasn’t how it was written. To open his eyes meant to find a new path. Jebran didn’t want a new path. He wanted to follow his brother.

Jebran dug one hand into the sand, a million little fragments ground between his fingers, the air in his lungs was damp and cold, the taste of blood burned the back of his throat. Jebran clung to the pieces of the moment.

A hand wrapped itself gently over Jebran’s.

‘We will grieve later,’ Shabaz whispered.

There it was, time slipping forward, pulling at Jebran, telling him he couldn’t stay here, no one could. That wasn’t how time worked. First it was potential, then it was here, then it was a memory. It was always shifting and twisting and pulling you along like a stone tumbling along the bottom of a river.

‘Find strength,’ Shabaz said.

Jebran the boy was gone now, taken by battle and blood and death. He took a breath and opened his eyes.

With gnarled hands, Shabaz forced Jebran to let his brother go.

The warriors surrounded them, cradling injuries, soaked in the blood of their enemies, eager for guidance.

They looked to Shabaz.

No, not to Shabaz.

To Jebran.

‘The Son of the Dragon,’ Shabaz said, ‘has brought us victory over our enemies.’ He turned to look at Jebran. ‘Now you will bring us the world.’

THE END

If you enjoyed this and would like to read more short stories in the world of Netherün visit www.quillandread.com (It's FREE to subscribe because we're simply writers who love what we do.)