Roger Parkinson - Summon Your Dragons

Menish looked up to Vorish’s command post on the hill. The signal to charge would sound soon. The Gashans approached the place where Vorish’s engineers had prepared their gourds of pitch. He glanced towards Adhara, reached for her hand and pressed it. She smiled grimly back at him, then turned her face towards the Gashans. Drinagish and his guard lay in front of them like a protective wall. But there were only seven of them. Bolythak was on his left, holding Menish’s standard studiously vertical, lest a small movement be misinterpreted.

The trumpet! It sounded from Vorish’s command post. Menish nodded to Bolythak. The standard dipped and Anthor began to move, slowly at first, building to a gallop. War cries and yak horns sounded from left and right. The Gashans continued their walking pace as if nothing was happening.

They were heartbeats from the Gashan front line when there was a deafening clap like thunder. Fire exploded in the Gashan front ranks. There were screams and burning, several Gashans were thrown into the air. Another explosion over to the left, and another. Menish saw one horse at the front of the Anthorian line shy, then it and its rider were lost under the hoofs of the horse behind. Their first casualty.

“Drinagish’s fire!” cried Menish. “Now show them Anthor’s mettle!”

But his words were cut short. A low rumble sounded, like distant thunder, there was a flash, a second’s blindness, and most of Anthor’s left flank disappeared in an inferno. At that moment Menish lost all hope, at that moment they struck the Gashan front ranks.

Azkun and his companions landed at Lianar one hundred days after sailing from Atonir. They had had less distance to travel from Kishalkuz to Lianar than from Atonir to Kishalkuz but they did not have a following wind and had to tack this way and that to travel home. Although they did not realise it, this was the same day Menish and Vorish set out from Meyathal.

During their voyage Azkun had become haggard and worn, though he did little work on the boat. His dreams tormented him and there was something like madness in his eye, but his mouth was grim with resolve. Ever since Kishalkuz his dreams had been infested with the Gashan demanding blood.

Lianar looked the same as they had left it. Small fishing boats bobbed by the great stone pier and mist surrounded the small cove. Gulls cried above, gliding in and out of the mist, fighting over scraps of fish left on the docks or floating on the sea. Astae's inn stood where it had done for so many years.

It was strange to stand on solid ground again when Azkun stepped onto the pier. He remembered the circumstances in which he had left here, the spectres that Tenari had made irrelevant by her presence. Those spectres had retreated from reality now, but Tenari could not save him from the Gashan. The dragons could not save him either. They were just beasts. He could only save himself.

After Althak and Shelim had fastened the boat they went to the inn. Azkun wanted to see it again. He wanted to see the pictures on the walls.

“Welcome, welcome, M'Lords,” beamed Astae as they approached his door. It was mid morning and the inn was deserted. “You're back from the southern lands, it was my ale that brought you back-” he stopped when he saw Azkun's face. It was plain that Azkun wanted neither ale nor friendship. The look in his eye was alarming and Astae stepped back as he shouldered past him into the inn. Tenari, clinging to his arm, was pulled blankly after him.

“My friend is… unwell. We've travelled far, further than I ever imagined,” said Althak by way of apology.

“We have been to Kishalkuz,” said Shelim in a lowered voice. “It's Kopth himself who walks in your inn.”

“Kopth? Kishalkuz?” The innkeeper laughed. “And you are Yaggrothil, I suppose?”

“It's true!” said Shelim.

“It doesn't matter, but for your own sake, Astae, be careful of what you say to him. He's not what he seems.” Althak spoke so seriously that Astae's humour evaporated and he nodded dumbly.

They entered the inn to find Azkun staring at the picture of Gilish throwing himself into the Chasm of Kelerish. He glared at it as if it were a personal threat.

“Do you still want to do this?” asked Althak, placing a gentle hand on Azkun's shoulder.

“I have never wanted it, but I must do it.” He turned to Tenari. “Look at her, Althak. She is under a spell, she is trapped by the Monnar. I do not know how to free her. Gashan will destroy Anthor and probably Relanor; I promised them help, but I do not know how to save them. In Kelerish I will find out or I will die.” He nodded at the picture on the wall. “I hoped I would learn something from the pictures. They only show me how to fail. I do not want to fail.”

“And you will still journey alone?”

“Yes.” Tenari, who clung to his arm showed no sign that she understood him. Her blank expression was unchanged.

Althak sighed.

“I wish I could think of something else you should do instead, but all I can do is help you to your doom. You'll need a horse to take you to Kelerish. I have some gold. We should be able to find one here, though we'll not be overwhelmed with choice.”

Leaving Shelim at the inn Althak sought out his cousin Akarth. He had a household across the road from the inn and to reach it they had to pass the dragon post. Azkun had not seen it on his previous visit but now it confronted him: a thick, wooden post rammed into the ground with a carefully carved dragon’s head on its top. The sides of the post were black with old blood and the mud around its base was a dark shade of red.

He stopped before it. The dragon's head seemed to leer at him like a spectre and he instinctively clutched Tenari's arm. He would have to leave her soon, what would he do if the spectres came upon him when he was alone?

“Althak, what is this?”

Althak hesitated,

“It's the dragon post. The place where the sacrifices are offered.” Deaths unnumbered paraded in front of Azkun. Sacrifice after sacrifice, oblivion opening and swallowing life after life into darkness, throat after throat opened. He felt a burning in his own throat, he remembered the sacrifice he had been unable to stop. The Gashan deep in his mind stirred. If he had let it it would have made him burst into gleeful laughter.

They entered Akarth's house. It was dim inside, much like Darven's house with its cauldron and animal pens. A similar wickerwork screen covered the women's quarters at the far end. But this house was made of rammed earth bricks. The smells were much more pungent than in Darven's wooden house. Akarth was not at home, he and most of his folk and his animals were out in their boats or their fields. But there was a priestess there and a middle-aged woman supervising a group of children.

“Althak!” said the priestess. “Unexpected but welcome. Akarth will be pleased to see you again.”

“It is good to see you, Tari.”

“Have some stew, Althak,” said the other woman. “Who's with you? Is that Tenari?”

Azkun saw the two women exchange a look.

“Yes, it is,” said Althak. “And this is Azkun. He was here with us last time but he didn't come to your house.”

Tari peered through the dimness.

“Oh, yes, I saw him go with you on the boat with Awan. Come and tell us your news.”

“Have you seen Loreli?” the other woman frowned in thought. “She said she used to call herself Thalissa, said she knew important folk away south.” She shrugged, “Told us she had to make sure they didn't find her, then chased off after Tenari when you'd gone. I never could fathom her.”

“Yes, Moreni,” said Althak. “She sailed with us but… there was an accident. She died.”