Kraken's Depths (The Dragonland Saga Book 2) Read online

  Kraken’s Depths

  The Dragonlands Saga, Book 2

  By Rachel Ford

  Chapter One

  The Sjødronning – Sea Queen, in the common tongue – cut across the surface of the bay with a casual ease that belied the efforts of her crew. Near the bow of the ship, Ingrid Bjarnesdatter clutched the forestay for balance. “On!” she shouted. “Full sail.”

  She felt the precise moment the sail dropped, and the wind caught it. The day was a good one, with a wind strong enough for hearty sailing but light enough for tender stomachs. Of tender stomachs, there was one in particular on board: Karina Bjarnesdatter, Ingrid’s youngest sister.

  Already, the contest had provoked Karina’s disapprobation. It was, she’d said, neither the time nor place for such frivolity.

  The challenge had been issued, though, and Ingrid was not going to shirk from it. She threw a glance across the water at their rival, the Svane. The Svane was a longship like her own, one of the snekkja class. It ran about twenty meters long and four meters wide – a little larger than the standard ships of its type – and employed forty oarsmen.

  Though they were classed the same, the Svane outsized the Sjødronning. Still, she’d put her Sea Queen against any contender, any day of the week. She had, in fact, when Trygve had boasted of his ship’s ability to best all comers.

  Trygve Bjarneson was Ingrid’s brother, the eldest of their family. The Svane was his own design. It was a remarkable ship, she would not deny, and one of the finer in their fleet. But it was a sorry substitute for the Sjødronning – as her brother was about to learn.

  Not that, judging by the impudent grin he was throwing in her direction from across the bow of the Svane, he realized it yet.

  “Full oars!” she called. She could feel the pace slackening as they entered the harbor. Good sense, perhaps, but it might cost them the race. “Full oars!”

  The Svane, in the few seconds of indecision from her crew, had gained. But as the Sjødronning’s pace quickened, she began to retake lost distance. Her rowers were the best in the fleet, but it was the Sea Queen’s design that really put her ahead of the competition.

  The Queen was sleek, sacrificing a little in size to gain a great deal in speed. There was not a ship built that could outpace her.

  The spray of the water kicked back at Ingrid, and the wind raced past. She felt herself smiling at the strange new world before her, the expansive harbor, the shining lighthouse. A city of onion domes and grand buildings waited, and beyond it a landscape of rolling hills and rich, green forests.

  She wondered how many times her ancestors had looked upon these shores from ships like her own. But they had come to conquer, to pillage, to take what they wanted and leave happy. The thought struck her that, though she followed in the wake of her ancestors, hers was a very different voyage.

  She had come to take what she did not want, and never to leave.

  Her smile faded. The city took on a new look to her eyes. The colorful domes that had delighted her, lost their charm, and the lush countryside looked the poorer. The feel of the water against her skin seemed strange, as if even the sea itself was different here.

  “Ingrid,” a scolding voice called behind her.

  She was drawn from her reverie. “Karina.” She didn’t have to turn to recognize her sister.

  “Ingrid, you must stop, before you kill us all.”

  “Go sit down, Karina. You’ll lose your balance.”

  Footsteps against the wooden deck indicated that her suggestion had been ignored. “Stop this ridiculous nonsense, while you still can.”

  “We’ve almost beat him,” she said, gesturing to her brother. Their ships, now, were neck in neck.

  “The Sjødronning will not be able to stop in time – not without hitting the docks.”

  Finally, she turned, placing a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Trust me, Kar. I know what I’m doing.”

  Karina scowled, scrunching her pretty features into a tight bunch. “If you kill me, Ingie…”

  “You’ll haunt me,” she finished for her sister. It was a threat that had followed them from childhood, when, by rights, it should have met its end in the dustbin of youthful nonsense. Somehow, though, Kar had never quite been able to let go of it.

  “For the next hundred years.”

  Tsar Fyodor listened as his secretary, Danil, ran through the list of the day’s scheduled events, one more time. There was the parade upon the royal delegation’s arrival, to run through the center of the capital. A lunch and reception at the Miran musical academy would follow. The services of the famous operatic, the Lady of Isles, had been retained, on account of the Princess Ingrid’s fondness for music. After a sumptuous midday meal and concert, the party would return to the palace. The evening would conclude with an even more lavish dinner. Danil was running through all the courses, when a tap at the window sounded.

  The secretary lowered the carriage window, and the rough face of a dock worker came into sight. “My lord,” the man said, bowing so that his disembodied head momentarily disappeared from sight, “the ships have been spotted.”

  “Very good,” Fyodor declared.

  The man disappeared, the window went up, and the list resumed. Normally, such details were below the tsar’s notice. But on a day such as this – well, nothing was too insignificant, too minor, to escape his inspection. Today must be perfect. Today was the beginning of a long and happy relationship between Fyodor’s empire of Mir, and the Northlands of King Bjarne – a happy relationship, borne of the happiest circumstances: a betrothal of two fine young people.

  On the Miran side was Prince Vladimir, Fyodor’s son. Vladimir – Vasha, to his nearest – was three and twenty, and fully ready to settle. This was a point the young prince disputed – hotly – but his father paid little mind to his complaints. Vasha, though a dear boy, was often a boy who did not know his own mind. His twin, Yuliana, was already a year settled, and more happily than even he could have wished – and she had been as stubbornly resistant as her brother. Fyodor fully anticipated as felicitous a resolution in this case as there had been in the former.

  On the side of the Northerners was the Princess Ingrid. King Bjarne’s oldest daughter, and second heir to the throne, Ingrid was a famed beauty whose reputation of fair face was only just proceeded by the renown of her fierce spirit. On the whole, though, that defect – and a defect he surely took it to be, having already dealt with not one but two spirited children of his own – was rather outweighed in Tsar Fyodor’s mind by the prospect of a closer union between the interests of Mir and the Northlands. The savage histories of these men of the North were so well known that, despite some centuries of more peaceful existence, their name still inspired fear in the southern kingdoms. A tie with such a power could only strengthen Mir’s standing in the eyes of her neighbors. Not only that, but the Northmen’s heavy reliance on naval power for trade and transport meant that Mir would become a beacon of commerce to and from her northern friends. And into the bargain was the potential for Mir’s own fleet to stand a bit of improvement and expansion.

  Yes, Fyodor was more than willing to put up with a fiery personality in his daughter-in-law, if such rewards were to be the payoff. And, anyway, she was only going to be a daughter-in-law. It wasn’t as if he was going to marry her. Putting up with her day-to-day will be Vasha’s job. There was some measure of comfort in that.

  “And then,” Danil was saying, “looking to the next days: we have tours of Moigorod this week, and tours of the countryside next. There’s the week at Patriarch Leonid’s estate, and then a week at Falcon Cape. Next month starts with the ball.” He added, with a light laugh, “On my birthday, as it happens.”

  It was a good plan, Fyodor decided. Not that he had doubted it, but, still, with so much riding on it, he liked to be certain. “Good,” he said. “A welcome that even Sven cannot fault.” Ambassador Sven was the representative from the Northlands – as odious and difficult a man as Fyodor had ever met. Sven had very nearly convinced his king to postpone the entire endeavor, on account of the late finish of the new, grand harbor. It was nothing more than a power play, of course. The ambassador knew that the tsar’s heart was set on this alliance, and he meant to impress upon him how uncertain his footing was – he meant to exploit Mir’s eagerness to the full advantage of the Northlands.

  But Fyodor had been at this game before the good ambassador had left his diapers. He’d humored Sven and did all that was required. Now, though, the royal delegation was here, as he had always known they would be. Because, however disinclined Sven might appear, the union was much more to the Northlands’ benefit even than Mir’s. The second daughter of a rough king of the tundra was hardly the equal of the heir of such a place as this.

  So the time for humoring Sven was at an end. He’d made his concessions on the front end, and now it would be King Bjarne who must see things his way.

  He was lost in these thoughts when a second tap at the window came. A new face appeared, looking far more agitated than the one before him. “My lord – you must come quickly, my lord. The ships, they’re entering port at – at dangerous speeds.”

  Chapter Two

  Boris was waving a set of flags on the docks, with all the urgency of a man who feared for his life.

  “What in Mirvara’s name are they doing?” Prince Vladimir asked the harbormaster.

  But he was too busy operating his signals
to answer.

  “They do plan on stopping at some point, I trust?” Danil wondered.

  “Of course they’re going to stop,” Tsar Fyodor scoffed. But even his tone sounded a little less sure than his secretary would have liked to hear.

  Ambassador Sven, meanwhile – the only Northman in the group – chuckled nervously. “That’s the Svane and Sjødronning. The Prince and Princess’ personal craft.”

  Danil, though, was less concerned with the ships’ ownership than the ability of their crews. “Why haven’t they reduced speed?” he asked. “Surely they see Boris’ signals?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sven said. “I’m sure it’s some kind of jest, between them.”

  “They seem to be racing,” Fyodor observed.

  “Exactly so, my lord.”

  “They’re getting awfully close,” the prince said nervously. Prince Vasha, of everyone present, had the most cause for concern. The harbor had been his personal undertaking, at Tsar Fyodor’s request. Construction had only just wrapped up, so his worry was understandable.

  For Danil, the issue was simply self-preservation. Two ships of that size and speed careening into the docks would be a very unpleasant bit of business for anyone standing in their way. Standing, Danil thought, exactly where they were all standing.

  But they were mercifully spared such an ignominious demise. The larger craft, the Svane, drew off first, slowing rather faster than its size indicated was possible. The second ship, the slimmer of the two waited until it had overtaken the other – and only then, when it was spine-chillingly near the docks – did it slow.

  Indeed, Danil had never seen a maneuver quite like the one performed. And while he was not much of a boatman himself, those around him who were more acquainted with the sea and her vagaries caught their breath as readily as he did. The ship, the one Sven had pointed out as the Sjødronning, banked sharply to the right. Its bow rose out of the water, and for a moment it teetered precariously as if on the brink of tipping.

  It was only now that Danil saw the figure at the forefront of the longship – a tall woman, fair of form with a braid of flaxen hair that flew wildly behind her. But the woman stood strong, keeping balance despite the swaying of her ship, with the aid only of a firm grip on the forestay.

  The ship found its way back into the water and landed with such a force as to send a tremendous spray out from under its hull – a wave so great, it reached the farthest end of the docks, showering those unlucky souls who stood there. Among the victims were the prince and harbormaster. From his own vantage, a little further removed, Danil was spared this second bath of the morning.

  Now the ship, its momentum curtailed in so dramatic a fashion, was rowed quietly, demurely, into dock. The Svane followed a minute later, but Danil’s attention was focused on the first vessel.

  The woman who had, somehow, maintained her footing throughout, grinned broadly as her ship was secured. Rather than feeling the fear that had infected those on the docks, she seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed her hair-raising entrance.

  He quickly seized on the idea that she must be Princess Ingrid, the eldest daughter of King Bjarne. She was beautiful as Ingrid was said to be, with features as fair and delicate as any he had ever seen, and a poise so controlled, so regal, that he could not but admire it. But her command of the vessel, and her self-assurance in it, sealed the picture in his mind. Only a princess would make such an entrance.

  The Tsarevich, Danil noted, wore a sour expression, ringing himself off as best as he could. If he had divined the identity of the source of his discomfort – his intended – he made no pains to hide his annoyance with her.

  Tsar Fyodor, who had, but for his boots, escaped, chuckled nervously. “Well,” he said. “How exciting.” Sven joined the tsar in an affectation of merriment.

  Then, when the ships were moored, the gangplanks came down. From the Sea Queen, the lady Danil had already observed descended. She was, at this nearer distance, even lovelier than his initial impression had granted. She walked with an easy grace, and a natural majesty. Clear blue eyes, a strong chin and high cheekbones were the highlight of her features, but there was no fault to be found in any.

  The richness of her clothes confirmed her station as being royal. She wore a deep blue apron dress, embroidered with threads of silver, over a crisp white kirtle. The apron dress was secured with two great silver brooches near the shoulders. From these brooches hung strands of precious gems and woven chains of silver. Across her back hung a fine, lush fur cape – the entire hide, it seemed, of some snowy white animal.

  Another lady, diminutive in stature compared to the first, descended after her. Her features were not so fine, her air not so easily imperious. She was pretty enough, in her own way, but Danil’s eyes lingered only a little on this dark-haired, round-faced woman. It was an unfair reality, perhaps, but in the presence of the woman he’d decided must be Ingrid, this newcomer was scarcely worth a second glance.

  Finally, a man descended. He was old, with lines etched deep into his skin, and dressed in the strange robes Danil recognized as belonging to the pagan priestly orders of the Northlands. He’d seen one or two of these priests visiting Sven. Unlike men of his own church, these clerics dressed simply, in rough tunics. What they lacked in rich fabrics, though, these pagan priests made up for in peculiar ornamentation. This man wore a kind of necklace of stone carved runes, some pictographic and others appearing to be letters of some kind.

  From the other ship, a man emerged first, with another young woman on his heels. He was young, and his face half grown over in a well-trimmed but enormous mane of yellow hair. Little braids, secured with beads, ran through his beard, but his hair hung loose to his shoulders. He was grinning as he leaped from the gangplank. “Damn you, Ingie. You and that damned Sea Snake of yours.”

  “Queen,” the ethereal blonde corrected archly.

  Danil smiled to himself. He had identified her correctly, then. She was Princess Ingrid. The man must, of course, be Prince Trygve. That left a mystery of the remaining two women. The final to emerge, the lady from the prince’s ship, had the height of Ingrid, and the hair color of Ingrid’s companion. She was pretty, not as pretty as her older sister, but prettier than the other, and she carried herself with a sense of deportment that almost matched Ingrid’s.

  One of these women, he knew, was Princess Lucia, and the other Princess Karina. Beyond that, his powers of deduction could do no more. There was no marked difference in their dress: all wore the riches of their station in ample supply. Though they were easily distinguishable from each other, there was nothing to identify them to a stranger.

  Tsar Fyodor approached the newcomers with a most amiable air. “My venerated friends: welcome to Mir! I am Fyodor, tsar of this land, and I extend you my fullest welcome.”

  Prince Trygve shook the tsar’s hand heartily. “We are honored to be received as your guests, Tsar Fyodor. I am Prince Trygve. This –” he pointed to Ingrid, “is my sister, Ingrid.” To the taller of the dark-haired ladies, he gestured next. “This is my sister Lucia.” Finishing with the shortest of the trio, he said, “and the youngest of our family, Karina.”

  Fyodor bowed one by one to all the princesses, assuring them that he was honored to make their acquaintances. Then he turned to Vasha. “And this – this is my son.”

  Trygve regarded the other prince with a cool smile and made no effort to hide the appraising glance he gave him – a glance that seemed to find not much to like in what he saw. “A little early for swimming, isn’t it?” he asked. It was said in an easy way, and the elder two ladies laughed.

  Vasha did not, though. “You’ll have to forgive my state, Prince Trygve. It is the result of some – injudicious – sailing just now.”

  Fyodor’s nervous laugh sounded again, and again was joined by Sven. Trygve only smirked. Ingrid’s expression was inscrutable, but Danil sensed the words had not been well received. He sighed inwardly. The prince was not doing himself favors in the lady’s eyes.

  Still, the matter might have been left there, save for the Princess Karina, who was scowling at her sister. “Injudicious? You are kind, Prince Vladimir. Reckless is more accurate.”