DRAGONFANG: The Telling of the Maal Book 1

By Stephen Reilly

Sumulat, the storyteller, relates the tale of Meeya and her family.

On one of the six worlds of Majick, Tatlo, the human place, a family struggle to survive their unforgiving world. From the days of their childhood when they are attacked by warriors of another tribe to the end of their lives, they face hardship and trauma, spir

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Reilly
• Release date: Mar 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645755510

Book preview

1

When it arrived, I had been enjoying the pleasures of Braistown, in a tavern that went by the name ‘The Maiden’s Kiss’. I am Sumulat, a storyteller of some renown, as attested by my coat, embroidered with its many scenes from the ancient tales. During my telling of ‘The Witches Cuddle’, an amusing tale that provides many laughs and more than its share of coins, I saw the man enter and lean against the wall by the door. He ignored offers of mead, ale or wine and took no interest in food. Even the scantily-clad serving girls could not distract him. He stood there and stared, at me.

When the story finished, a dark-haired young girl of about fourteen brought me a mug of ale. Her bright blue eyes smiled from a face that would have been innocent if not for the pouting lips. The inn-keeper had offered a room for the night and food, and a mug for each tale I told. Was she offering more?

What is your name? I asked, trying to make my voice sweet and kind.

Millie, sir.

I graced Millie with one of my best smiles. Maybe she would come to my room when business ceased.

As she left to tend to other customers, I watched her hips wiggle away. When I looked back the man from the door was sitting opposite, separated by the stained table, damp with spilled ale. He did not speak, instead he slid something across to me. He carried with him the stink of farmer, pigs and chickens.

What is this?

The man shrugged, his face half hidden in a tangle of long hair. Dunno. I was given a gold crown to bring it to ya. I done that. The man rose and disappeared as quietly as he arrived. A farmer, maybe, but a dangerous man. My fingers drummed on the folded parchment, sealed with green wax and imprinted with a scribe’s mark, two vertical lines crossed by two others. I had learned much without opening it. The sender was not poor, nor was he a Lord or wealthy trader. He could afford to pay well to ensure his message delivered but he, or she, could not write. If they could, why would they have need of a scribe write for them. Maybe the writer is simply lazy, and can afford to pay others to write for him. I found my intrigue growing.

Slipping a thumbnail under the wax, I lifted it and unfolding the parchment, I read. A simple message in neat script stared back at me. ‘To Sumulat, the Storyteller. Come to Clearbrook. We do not have much time. Ask anyone and you will find me.’ The only clue was the name at the bottom. It was signed ‘Kuwento’. I am a storyteller, not a bloody servant to be summoned.

#

The hard-trodden road from Braistown wound gently west through the shallow hills. Groves of trees dotted the waving fields of wildflowers, vast expanses of yellow and white punctuated with reds and blues. Often I saw rabbits pause from their scurrying to watch me pass. My horse, a tall brown stallion I named Horse, easily stepped over or around the rut marks of numerous trading waggons. The traders would travel with their assemblage of guards, but I have no need of protection. No one would harm a storyteller. They are known to never carry coin and their stories are too respected. My hand swung casually to brush the pocket that held the message. Soon, I will know what this means.

The fields of wildflowers began to make way for barley and corn, maize and oats. Further, and herds of sheep lazed in clusters on the hillsides, short lumps of stringy fleece with tiny faces and skinny black legs, many heavy with milk. I could see a few folk tending the various plots in the distance, but none had the urge to talk. Clearbrook must be close.

Cresting the next rise, I pulled back on Horse’s reins. Clearbrook sprawled in the vale, a rambling clump of quaint houses, tall barns and one building reaching to two storeys. A shallow river bubbled along beside the town. From a spring nearby water tumbled over the ground, cutting between the houses to be lost in the river. Clearbrook could not hold more than five hundred people. Nudging knees into Horse’s flanks, I set him walking down the hill.

My entry into the pretty town attracted attention, more than usual. Riding past the whispers of awe and pointing fingers I reached the inn, a sure place of local knowledge. ‘The Rose and Hammer’ was nothing like ‘The Maiden’s Kiss’. The ground floor was all windows facing out into the street. Inside, the floor was swept, the tables polished and the serving girls demurely dressed, not offering any promises. The innkeeper stood filling tankards while his eyes studied the room. I did not believe he would put up with any mistreatment of his wenches. A table in the back suited me. Away from eyes peeking through the windows, I ordered ale and food and both appeared quickly.

The inn-keeper approached wringing over-sized hands on a clean black apron. I cannot stay, I stopped him. I have been asked to find someone named Kuwento. Do you know them?

I may do, he answered slowly, caution detectable in his voice. What do you want of him?

I brought out the message and I began unfolding it, but the inn-keeper was shaking his head. I do not read.

It tells me I am needed, and there is not much time.

The man smiled. Sounds like Kuwento.

If you can tell me where to find him, I will return and entertain your patrons before I leave, I promised.

I passed many houses tucked away in narrow streets, large buildings of packed stone and timber and others rendered in various colors. Kuwento’s house was as the inn-keeper described, with an olive tree beside the door and a cartwheel leaning against the wall behind it.

I stood for some time outside the house. Should I approach or turn away? It may once have been a much-loved home, if only small, but its days had long passed. The house was a narrow and crumbling structure with a cracked and well-worn step leading up to a door bent with age. Hugging the tiny building in its hope of providing protection was a long-neglected slate roof.

It was not the house that caused me to waver. It was the many questions that echoed in my mind. Why have I come? How could the owner of this house afford my services? What services? Who is Kuwento? If I rode away now, Kuwento would never know I had come. But the town would talk of the storyteller who came to the inn. I have ridden all this way. I cannot walk away without listening. Hitching Horse to the tree, I looked up to see the door swing open. The figure standing in the doorway was beaming with delight. He wore a full-length coat that had been patched so often little of the original color remained. His head was bald, with long white hair hanging from the back and sides. It matched his beard. Peering out from the gaunt face however, were blue eyes that sparkled with life. The house suits him, I thought.

Welcome. You must be Sumulat. I have been looking forward to meeting you. Your reputation is known throughout the land. He threw his skeletal arms around his body. Come inside out of the wind. I do not enjoy the cold, but my ancient body dislikes the wind even more. My home may be small and humble, but it is all an old man needs.

At that moment, I felt I should give my apologies and leave and was considering how I should do this.

Come in and sit by the fire, he insisted. I will pour you a goblet of mead. I felt trapped, but the long day in the saddle decided my fate. I was led to a chair by the hearth while my host stumbled off to fetch the drinks. When he returned and passed me one, he fell into the other chair, bringing his tankard to his lips.

You are Sumulat, are you not? I nodded. Good. I do not have much time before the spirits call me. So, I will get straight to business. I have need of a scribe. He raised one shaking hand to forestall my protests, and I was reminded of the inn-keeper. I know, you do not consider yourself a scribe, but I know you can read and write. They say you are the greatest storyteller of our land. Your stories can carry a person to places they have never seen. I smiled. But can you take these people to another time? Or even another world?

His questions aroused my interest. What did this broken old man want of me?

Allow me to introduce myself properly; I am Kuwento, a MaalKeeper, the last MaalKeeper. His tankard raised to meet mine in a toast of greeting, then he sat back and closed his eyes. I waited, and after a few moments began to wonder if he had fallen asleep. The quiet rumble of his voice escaped his cracked lips. There was a time long ago, when being a MaalKeeper was a noble and proud profession. His eyes opened and he sighed. He sounded defeated though whether by life or his work, I did not know. Long gnarled fingers fumbled inside his shirt. When they appeared again, they held an amulet in their grasp. I admired it for the thing of great beauty it was, a tear-drop of polished shell, the ancient white of its surface streaked with red. Spots of grey marked its top where it hung around his neck on a leather thong. This is the symbol of my office. It has been passed down through many generations, and was given to me by my mentor. The grey represents the stories being told around the fire. He paused. In these enlightened times of battle and glory, of wheels and manor houses, the young people see no future in becoming a MaalKeeper. That is why I will be the last.

What is a MaalKeeper? I asked, and his head came up, eyes wide.

I suppose it is to be expected, he sighed. Once, there were many of us. Now there is only one. Me. A MaalKeeper is the holder of the spoken histories. My head holds stories from the beginning of time, but no one listens to me any more. Even if one should step forward to train, I no longer have the patience or the years to teach them. Anger entered his voice for a moment. These days, it is all about glory and the future. But I ask you, how can a man envisage his future if he does not understand his past? Again he sighed. But they say, why should I remember a story that a scribe can put on parchment?

And that is what you wish me to do, I finished.

He nodded. I will tell you the maal. Each one holds the life of a person or event from our past. I want you to commit them to parchment.

I looked once more upon my host, though with different eyes. His home looked to be crumbling, but inside he kept it tidy. The clothes he wore appeared tattered, but on closer inspection, though greatly patched, they were of the finest linen. Even the patches were of the best quality. It struck me then, this was Kuwento’s disguise, the way he wished to be seen. In his own way, he too was a storyteller.

You are a learned man, I suggested. You could do that.

He smiled. I would, but alas, my life has been spent remembering. There was never time to read or write. This admission surprised me. With no one to learn them, the maal will soon be lost forever.

I am not a scribe, I reminded him.

That is why it must be you. His reply was quick and filled with passion. People today listen to you where they ignore me. Your stories take hold of a person’s heart and make them part of the tale. I can only tell them how things were. You must take the maal and tell them in a way the people wish to hear. It will be a difficult task. I could hear the desperation in his voice.

Our conversation continued, and as it did, I began to understand him better. He was a proud man, a man of vast knowledge, a man that valued his memory above all. It amazed me to learn how many generations were trapped in his mind. As we talked, I knew I would write his maal.

I am not wealthy, but will pay what I can, Kuwento offered.

We sat in silence while I considered my price.

Finally I smiled, my decision made. I will make you a bargain. I will listen to your maal and write them as I believe they should be told. I am a storyteller, and I sense stories that have been long lost. I will take your coin, but you may feel my price is high. The promise of his stories captured me.

My host dragged himself to his feet. Then I can at least pour you another mead, he beamed, then busied himself refreshing our drinks. When he sat, he smiled. "What is your price?

One copper penny, I answered, and we both smiled.

With my drink freshened, I listened as Kuwento began to tell the first of the maal. He called it the Awynmaal, the story of Awyn, the first MaalKeeper. He laughed. So this maal has been passed from the first to the last.

He seemed to come alive with the telling of it.

#

Hello, Kuwento, I greeted as the door creaked open. On seeing me his face lit up. I have something to show you.

He hurried me in and filled a tankard without asking. I have written our first story, though I doubt it is what you were expecting. When we were seated by the hearth, I pulled from my bag a book, neatly trimmed parchment pages edged in gold and bound in calfskin. At the center, embossed enough for his fingers to feel, rose an image of his amulet, surrounded by a border of dragons. The corners were decorated with brass bosses and the word DRAGONFANG adorned the top in gilt.

Kuwento took the book and pressed it to his chest with twisted hands. A tear leaked down each of his hollowed cheeks. After a while, he looked up and passed the book back. Will you read it to me? he asked.

I will, I smiled. Within these pages are the combined maals of Awyn and all his family, and others close to them. I felt it was necessary to present their story in this manner so that people would understand the fullness of their lives.

Kuwento sat back to listen.

Carefully opening the book, I began to read.

Lying beneath the fur, the hard ground cold under his back, Awyn wondered what had woken him. His nose curled. The stench of death was on the air, yet no sounds of fighting came to his ears. His tongue swept around lips to taste blood, the blood that left its tang drifting over him.

2

Sharp pain tore down his arm. Eyes fought to open. The night was still dark, yet a warrior was dragging him from his rest. Awyn came into the air, dangling by his wrist. My father will punish you for this. He was carried to the center of the camp where the man threw him into the small group that was his father, mother and siblings. His father still lived, so everything would be alright, his mind encouraged. But looking across the camp, he saw the bodies of his tribe, many still in their sleeping furs. Blood colored the camp. His family was gone, save the few near him.

Stone Pigs, he heard his father snarl, only to be knocked down by the hard-swung fist of a warrior who objected to the insult.

But another laughed, a big man with many scars. The flint knife in his hand dripped red. His laugh turned to a growl. I am Uwak. My Stone Pigs stand victors. Say what you will, you will all soon die. I need only choose whether it will be quick or painful. That depends on you. He laughed loudly then, before ordering his people to search for all they could carry. Neither Awyn or his family wore furs, they had not been needed while sleeping. Uwak ordered them to sit and set a guard around them. His mother and eldest sister, Wissa, were then dragged away. He heard their screams and cries beneath the laughing of their captors. It continued until the sun peeked into the valley.

He knew the time had come for his family to enter the spirit world.

With his mother and sister returned, the warriors tied each of them over a fallen tree, first his father, then his mother, and then the children in order of age. Cheering gathered Uwak’s approach. He stood looking down at Awyn’s father, the leader of a tribe that was no more.

Uwak stepped up to sneer at his prisioners. Without a word, he raised a the weapon he held to the sky.

The mists of morning parted.

The cold stone ax whispered through the chilled mountain air to meet flesh and bone with a sucking that drew away life.

His father’s head fell to the ground with a dull thud, the naked body twitching where it lay stretched across the fallen tree. He watched. His family faced the ground, except for him and Meeya. Awyn watched with anger, yet his sister did not flinch. She had never been one to allow her feelings to steer her thoughts. She was not giving in to them now. The spirits come for everyone at some stage, but why had they come so soon? He was only four, and his siblings were not much older.

They had lived in this small piece of the valley, a beautiful place nestled between towering ice-capped mountains. Their spears found food, the river gave them water, and the land provided berries and nuts. Occasionally Volu, the God of the Mountains, would grumble and spit smoke. Brite, Goddess of the Wind, moaned as she sent the air searching through the valley. It was a land where the gods and the spirits were always ready to show their displeasure. Thoughts of his father rushed in. As the tribe’s leader, Nodon tried to keep the spirits satisfied and had always kept peace with the neighboring tribes. While life had not been easy, it had been comfortable under his father’s protection.

Uwak moved on to his next victim, Awyn’s mother. Rata appeared to stare blankly down at the dead eyes of her mate as they looked blindly back at her. Were her eyes closed? Did she wish to see the face of Nodon when the spirits came for her? Uwak had found his amusement with his mother last night before passing her to the warriors of his tribe. As Awyn watched, Uwak looked down at Rata. For the briefest moment, he thought he saw the doubt on Uwak’s face. What else could she do for him if he allowed her to live? The moment passed quickly. Awyn knew it would. There would be far too much danger in allowing his mother to live. Rata was a strong woman. She would have sought her revenge when the chance came. Uwak’s hands gripped the ax again and lifted it to point its head at the sky. Rata accepted death quietly while the crowd cheered.

Then came Rata’s eleven children. He did not understand why Uwak would want their tribe dead. He knew he should be like his parents and face the ground and accept death with dignity. Honor was needed to satisfy the spirits but could not turn his eyes away.

His eldest sister would be next. Wissa often teased Meeya, always making fun of her skills and lack of interest in boys. She, too, had suffered the terrors of their captors all night. Eventually, her screaming had turned into heavy sobs. But her ordeal had lasted till the return of the sun. She waited silently in the line on the tree.

Everyone knew death was a part of life. When the spirits chose to take you was their decision. Relying on his father’s protection however, his mind had not yet accepted it.

There was no reason for this display, they could have cut the throats of his family while they slept. Uwak did this for his pleasure and the enjoyment of the gathered men and women. Awyn’s mind reminded him that the younger children had at least avoided their attentions last night. When the warriors took his mother and sister, Uwak placed the younger siblings under his protection. Awyn ignored the thought.

The ax fell again, and again, and again, first for Wissa and then his two older brothers. It was Meeya’s turn. She refused to stare at the ground. She would watch her death coming, and Uwak would see the power of her courage in her eye. He stepped closer, his hands gripping the weapon that dripped with his family’s blood. Though the ax rose above her, Meeya continued to stare into Uwak’s eyes. The warriors cheered him on. His arms wavered. The calls for blood grew deafening. He saw the hesitation on Uwak’s face. His rough and scraggy features twisted. He could not take enjoyment from his task with Meeya’s eyes on him. Awyn was old enough to understand it was his duty to his people. Five deaths had come easily, but Meeya’s eyes held him. She would not come to his aid. She stared into his eyes while not allowing any expression to show on her face. He stood there, unable to drop the sharpened stone on her neck.

He knew Meeya would win this battle as long as Uwak did not hear the calls of his warriors.

#

Meeya shook violently. She could not help herself. No, not her. The ground beneath her jumped and kicked in protest.

Uwak’s eyes widened. Even though her body would not hold still, she watched him with a steady gaze. Then came the furious roar of the distant mountains, and all eyes turned toward the sound, all except hers. Uwak stumbled but remained where he stood, arms and ax raised above her head. Soon came the whistling of the wind along the valley wall. Uwak had not moved. A great roar of air rushed down the valley carrying with it the rotting stink of the spirits ire. Throwing his ax to the ground, Uwak ordered, Cut the others free. The spirits have spoken. The warriors had been enjoying the show, but the voices of the spirits had unnerved them. They did as ordered. Volu and Brite had come to her aid.

She gathered her remaining siblings in a huddle of naked flesh. While tears stained many faces, they all stood tall, even young Awyn. The crowd wanted blood. They had overcome their fears and demanded it. Meeya pulled her family closer. She was proud.

Sit, bellowed Uwak, and they dropped to the ground as one. They will wait here under guard, do not touch them. Any who do will answer to me. I will ask the spirits for their wishes. When I return, I will tell you what is to be done with them. She knew this would not end it. He was their clan leader and had to offer them something. He could not do otherwise. Would they all be made the pleasure toys of his warriors? He came closer, and in a voice that carried not much beyond her, he whispered, It would have been kinder to kill you all. You will not survive, and your deaths will be far worse for it. With his warning delivered, he turned and pushed his way through the crowd. Now she took the time to look around. In the north, a cloud grew over the mountains, a red and black cloud, the colors of anger.

Meeya could feel the eyes on her. Her skin prickled with their touch. The eyes of the warriors traced her body that would not see its fourteenth age-day for two more moons. She did not feel that small fact meant anything to Uwak’s fighters. They were fierce despite their lack of honor. The men leered, but the women measured her face and found her eyes to dive deep within her, seeing her fear. They grinned.

She shivered. The light breeze on the crisp morning air chilled her. Judging by the movement around her, the remains of her family felt it too.

I want Mother, cried Awyn. Meeya reached out her arm to take his head and hold it against her.

Mother is gone. I will be your mother now, she whispered, rocking him gently.

The sun climbed into the sky, yet it brought no warmth. If anything, it only helped to prove how cold she was. It was already sinking from the sky and seeking its resting place before anyone approached, not Uwak, a woman.

A guard stepped in front of her, his flint-tipped spear held menacingly towards her belly. Where do you think you are going? he snarled. The woman did not flinch, and the guard withered under her stare. Meeya admired her for that.

And what do you think you are doing, Bule? she replied quietly, but with the growl of intense authority. You know me. You know what I will do to you. Uwak will not be pleased if he returns to find you have allowed these children to die. I bring them water. She spat as she raised the skin to emphasize her point. The guard only held for a moment before stepping aside.

The woman smiled as she approached and crouched before the group, passing the skin to Meeya. I am Fayre, she murmured. If the woman meant to kill them with poison, it would be a merciful death. She held the skin to Awyn’s lips, and he gulped at the cool freshness. Slowly, Fayre whispered, and leave some for your brothers and sisters. He pressed his head back against Meeya’s shoulder as she passed the skin around her family. Bule will not hurt you, she whispered, loud enough for the guard to hear. He is wary of Uwak, but he is more afraid of me. He knows what I can do. She glanced over her shoulder to ensure Bule understood her message. Only after they had all drunk did Meeya put the skin to her lips. The woman had not moved, but as the sweetness washed over her tongue, Fayre whispered, The Majick burns within you, little one."

Not understanding, Meeya lowered the skin to ask, What did you say?

You know of what I speak, just as you know it to be the truth. It is clear to all with the gift. The Majick speaks through your eyes. She took the skin from Meeya’s numb fingers, rose, and walked away without looking back.

The light was disappearing from the air, but far to the north, the sky pulsed with blood anger. At times the ground shivered in fear. Uwak finally returned. A small crowd quickly gathered to hear the decision of the spirits. My warriors, he called. I have the answer you seek. There was quiet as both captors and captives waited on his words. The moment when all would hear the fate of Meeya and her family was upon them. When the sun rises tomorrow, these children will be set free. Meeya’s heart skipped a beat. She could not hear the words that followed, they drowned in the bellow of sound that carried with it blood-lust and curses for their leader’s weakness. Uwak held his arms in the air as he waited for quiet to return, and she knew that she did not wish to hear what he would say then. They will be released, and we will grant them one day of safety. Then when the sun appears again, the hunt begins. Any man who finds one of these, he offered, waving an arm to indicate her family, is free to do with them as he pleases.

She heard cheers and joking as to what would happen when the warriors caught them. During this, Uwak spoke to her again. I told you it would be kinder if you had died.

One of Uwak’s men stepped forward, and while leering at the children, asked, Are we still forbidden from having some fun tonight?

Uwak looked in their direction. You may share her, he allowed, gesturing toward Meeya, but the others will be untouched. In the morning, she must be able to run. We will all enjoy the chase. If she is killed or damaged beyond hope of escape, there will be no hunt. Cheers and laughter continued as several men approached.

Meeya passed Awyn to one of her brothers. Stay with Alard, she whispered in his ear. He will care for and protect you. Awyn looked into her eyes but said nothing as Alard’s hands pulled him away.

Rough hands grabbed at her wrists and pulled her to her feet.

#

She hoped they would take her somewhere quiet. If she could not hold back her screams she feared her family would try to rescue her, and die in the attempt. They would not have the chance of escape. Instead, the pack of warriors dragged her to the large open fire at the center of the camp. Everyone would watch her ordeal. Her brothers and sisters would see her pain. She went silently, not that she had any choice in following. She thought her wrists would break, so tight was their grip. Her silence was for her family. They would see her pain, but she would not allow them to suffer the ordeal with her. I will not scream.

Her world blurred and grew dark. Maybe her mind was trying to protect her, but she knew it was only trying to save itself. Her body was the sacrifice her mind needed while it found a place to hide. Tears crept from her eyes. They meant nothing. Her mind was now so far away she could feel nothing of her body and had no control over what it did or suffered. I will not scream.

The sun lightened the eastern sky. Uwak towered over her. Enough, he called. It is time for her to run. Catch her if you want more. She could not move. The warriors moved back, pleased with their night and laughing at the fun she had given them. Can you run? Uwak asked while looking down at her. Meeya did not reply. I did not scream. "I will take that to mean you are still defiant enough to try. Join your brothers