Roger Parkinson - Summon Your Dragons

He covered his face with his hands and wept.

Althak sighed deeply. He had followed Azkun to the end of the world, and now he wanted to go to the depths of hell itself.

“Very well,” he said. “I'll go with you.”

“No. I must go alone. Thank you, Althak. I know your offer is generous; you are afraid of the Chasm. I cannot take anyone with me. If I return from the Vaults of Duzagen mad like Gilish I might destroy you. I must go alone.”

“What of Tenari?”

“Take her back to Atonir. She was happy there.”

But Tenari's grip on his arm, steady as it was, suggested otherwise.

“Then I'll travel back to Anthor, to Gildenthal. Perhaps Menish will need me again. If not then at least I can see how Keashil and Olcish fare at Meyathal.”

“I have broken your friendship for nothing. For that I am deeply sorry.”

So they sailed on, and Azkun’s nights were troubled by dreams of spectres racing across the sky or hanging in the night clouds, watching him from single eyes in their foreheads. He dreamed of the days since he had left the Chasm. The dragon fire had bathed him with the power of sense and speech, but it had not after all. The power was his own. He dreamed of the storm when he had been struck by lightning, and of the man he had brought back to life in Atonir, and he wondered how he could do these things. But, most of all, he dreamed of the horror of Gashan and the evil that lay there, and he would wake in a sweat of fear at night, dreading sleep.

He also dreamed of the future, of the coming battle with Gashan. He saw the battlefield in Ristalshuz, the wide valley with the river and the mound of the dead. But it was night. Moonlight filled the air, and in that moonlight hobbled the old Monnar. He was coughing still. Azkun saw the eye in his forehead glistening brightly as if freshly painted. He was up to some wickedness, Azkun could feel it. He held branches of some plant in his arms, and these he crushed and scattered around himself. The eye in his forehead stared at Azkun and he fled from it.

Fennel. Fennel to call dragons. The Monnar was going to murder them all.

He woke from this dream confirmed in his resolve. He could imagine the Monnar watching him through Tenari, laughing at him on his fool’s errand. But they would not laugh if he emerged from Kelerish with the Second Eye. He would stop their evil and drive back the Gashans. And he would release Tenari from their magic.

Vorish did not spend much time at Meyathal, after two days he was anxious to press on northward. With him went Menish and most of the rest of Meyathal. Mora arrived from Kronithal just in time to accompany them north to Gildenthal.

For Menish it was much like the migration that took place every spring when he went north for the spring games. The clan chiefs always gathered at Meyathal beforehand and they and their people travelled with him. Most of the rest of Anthor also converged on Gildenthal, some coming from the north, from the foothills of the Ristalshuz Mountains, others coming from the wide plains to the west. Everyone who possibly could went to the games, but this year it was not the games they were going to, this year it was battle.

It was a relaxed time for the Anthorians because of the usual ban on cattle raiding before the games. They could move their herds together without fear, though there were usually a few arguments after the games about whose cattle were whose if they had not been branded carefully. Someone took advantage of the fact that this year there were no spring games, therefore the ban should not apply, to make off with some of Yarva’s yaks. It was just one of the disputes Menish had to resolve along the way.

Cattle were always an obsession with the Anthorians. Menish was often asked how far it was beyond the battlefield to their pastures, and did he see many cattle when he was in Gashan? Did they keep yaks or camels or did they prefer sheep? At first he explained carefully the difference between a battle and a cattle raid, but usually their minds were closed to what he said.

When they were two days out from Meyathal, just before noon, a strange thing happened. Up until then the sky had been wide and clear, as only the open skies of the Anthorian plains can be. Suddenly the sky turned from blue to a slate grey. The sun seemed to lose its brightness. The horses noticed it and became skittish. Then, just as people were trying to control their horses, they were plunged into night as if something had swallowed the sun. People screamed with fright, animals panicked and a sudden blast of howling wind tore across them from the north. In a moment the sun returned and the wind faded as quickly as it had risen. It left Menish blinking with surprise and wonder, and he shivered when he thought of that wind. In its howl there had been something like a cry of despair.

But the incident did not stop them for long. Vorish said that it was an omen of good fortune, the fire of the sun had turned away from them to show that the fire of Gashan would also turn away from them in the battle. It was the kind of thing people wanted to hear and each thanked whatever gods they worshipped for this sign.

As for Drinagish’s guard, Menish did not see very much of it. Drinagish had collected a few of his friends, including Neathy who had agreed to be his standard bearer now, and Athun met them every day for training. They rose early each day and rode to the place where they would camp that night. The rest of the company moved more slowly, hampered by cattle, wagons and infantry. By the time they arrived at the camp Drinagish and his guard had received several hours of instruction from Athun. Neathy seemed delighted with the standard.

Shortly after the odd darkness Vorish sent a team of engineers on ahead to Gildenthal, accompanied by Anthorian guides. They were to proceed from there to the battlefield to check the accuracy of Vorish’s map, and to prepare Drinagish’s fire. Several carried large gourds that Menish noticed and asked Vorish about.

“They contain the pitch.”

“How do you carry pitch in a gourd? It's too sticky.”

“We've found a way to make it flow like water,” said Vorish. “It burns better too.”

“And you just happened to have some with you on a journey to fight Gashans?”

“Of course,” said Vorish with exaggerated innocence. “It's standard equipment.”

Menish and Adhara took to walking together in the evenings to get away from the pressure of people in the camp. Often they would walk long into the night and be weary the next day. He had always loved Adhara, but now that there were no secrets between them he found the flame burning anew. More than ever he did not want to lose this battle, he did not want to die. He wanted Adhara.

It took less than a month to reach Gildenthal, and as they travelled the weather grew cooler. Spring was slower coming to the northern lands. But, except for the desert, the ground was covered with the green mantle of spring. Here and there lay the remains of a late snowfall.

As they rode into Gildenthal Menish was heavy-hearted. His leg ached again after the journey although he had taken care of it. There were thousands of people to greet him. But Menish saw them all consumed in flames.

When they had set up their camp Vorish came to Menish’s tent alone. “Come in, Vorish. Have some ambroth.”

“Thank you,” he poured it himself and sat down on the rug. “Your people seem settled.”

“I think so. Are yours?”

“Yes, it was a good idea to put them on the games field.”

“There's not much other flat ground to spare around here, except right beside the river. But you can get sudden floods down there.”

“Where's Adhara?”

“Some fool wanted to pitch his tents in one of the wheat fields, she and Bolythak have gone to see what damage has been done. We're not that short of flat ground. My leg's sore so I left them to it.”