Roger Parkinson: Summon Your Dragons

“Well, some here will miss her, but not many.”

“She was my mother,” said Azkun.

“Oh, you're the son she always talked about? The one she thought should be emperor?” Moreni frowned. “I take it you're not the Emperor, then?”

“No. I am… someone else.”

“Azkun needs a horse to get him to Kelerish.”

“What do you want to go there for?” Tari grimaced. “Entrance to Hell and all that.”

Althak forestalled him from answering.

“My friend has a great burden. He hopes to leave it at Kelerish. Now, about this horse.”

“Akarth will be happy to loan you a couple of horses, Althak.”

“Only one, and it needs to be more than a loan. I've some gold for it.”

“All right, let's have a look at the horse paddock.”

There were several of the stocky beasts common to this part of the country, none of them in very good condition, but Althak selected one he liked the look of and they agreed on a price with Moreni, who seemed happy enough to sell it cheaply to Althak.

“That's the business done, now, about that stew. I could use some gossip.”

“I have what I need,” said Azkun. “I can go now.”

“Aren't you hungry?” asked Tari

“No. But thank you.”

“You'll want something for your journey at least.”

“It's all right, Tari,” said Althak. “Azkun… actually neither of them seem to need food.”

Tari stared at Tenari.

“She hasn't eaten all this time? I knew she didn't eat when Trian first found her but that was only a couple of days. She ought to be dead by now.”

Azkun would once have assured her it was the power of the dragons but now he had nothing to say.

“We don't understand it either,” said Althak.

“I must go,” said Azkun. He could feel a weight of promises on his shoulders.

Althak folded him in his arms and wept.

“I hope we'll meet again, but I fear for you.”

“Tell Menish I was wrong about the dragons, and that I am sorry. If I do not bring you aid then I will be dead. Do not search for me if I do not return. Look after Tenari.”

When it came to it, Tenari would not be separated from him. Neither he nor Althak were prepared to force her and she clung to Azkun's arm as dumbly and as blankly as ever.

Azkun tried to explain the danger, why she could not come with him, but it was like talking to a stone.

At last he gave in and let her climb onto the horse behind him. He hoped he would not be her doom, but she was a small comfort to him. And he had not forgotten the times she had helped him. He told himself the first thing he would do was rescue her from the Monnar spell.

As they rode off the last he saw of Althak was a backward glance at the Vorthenki standing in the road looking after him with one hand raised in farewell.

He rode as fast as the horse could tolerate. He did not need to stop for food, and he feared the Gashan that haunted his sleep. But he could only force the horse so fast. It had to stop, and during those stops he had to sleep. His dreams were filled with the Gashan and the old Monnar calling the dragons.

His burned arm still troubled him. He had to hold it bent to ride the horse and that cracked open the remaining scab painfully.

They came to the bridge built by Gilish to reach Sheagil and Azkun stopped for a moment to gaze at it. He was weary and he remembered his thoughts when he had first encountered it. A bridge to the dragons, that was what he had called himself. A bridge to rid the world of corruption. He had hardly known what corruption was then, he had only witnessed the death of a pig. The dragons were beasts, what good was a bridge anyway? He looked down into the gorge below. What good was he? He could end it all now, he could go where the Gashan could not reach him. It would take little effort to make the leap into the void and be swallowed by oblivion. And he felt the Gashan urging him, lusting after his death.

No, he would not placate the Gashan. He strengthened his will with the memory of the promises he had made and carried on.

When he emerged from the foothills onto the barren plain of Kelerish he forced the horse into a gallop. The beast was tired, but he ignored its complaints. He wanted to reach his doom quickly. Power or death, he wanted to get it over with.

The Tor waited for him at the edge of the Chasm like a sentinel of warning. The place where the dragon had flamed him was still blackened, for there was little rain in Kelerish to wash it away. When he dismounted he put the horse's reins into Tenari's hands.

“Wait here. Hold the horse. But when I come back, if I seem… ill… get on the horse and ride away.”

But she let the reins fall from her grasp and clutched his arm. So he took off its tack and let the horse roam. If he did not return it could run free. It was a death he would not be responsible for. The beast ambled away, looking for something palatable in the tussock.

The Chasm of Kelerish lay before him, a gaping slash in the plain, as if some great wrong had been done to it. And out of the Chasm howled the wind, like a chained demon imprisoned within its shadowy depths.

Did Tenari remember her time in the Chasm? She showed no sign of it.

He peered down into the sunless gloom. It was said to be bottomless. Hrangil and Althak had both agreed on that. Azkun had never been to the bottom. His life had been spent clinging to the walls of the Chasm in small caves, or so he thought. The years spent in the Chasm were a dimly remembered numbness.

And he had to re-enter that numbness or break his promises. Warnings cried in his mind. Gilish had been driven mad. What could Azkun do? But he could not listen to them. To do so would be to invite the Gashans into Anthor, and he could not live with that.

Tenari, at last, showed some reaction to the place. As he went to lower himself over the edge her grip on his arm tightened, holding him back. Well, that was to be expected. She was trying to protect him as usual. As gently as he could he prised her fingers from his arm and she made no move to renew her hold. It shook him, though. It was as if she was withdrawing her help. Did he have any chance of success?

Summoning his determination, he eased himself over the edge and began working his way down the cliff face, leaving her standing impassively on the lip above him. The wind-borne sand peppered his face and the howl filled his mind as he clawed his way down. He made himself remember the people of Atonir singing to him from the pier, and his promises. But the wind ate into his mind. He could feel something lurking here, a presence. It shifted as he reached for it with his mind. At first it felt like the well of sadness he had, long ago, thought was the call of the dragons. Then it was like the Monnar's standing stones. No, it was like Gashan. Something in the wind was thinking of murder.

But it was hard to think in the Chasm. The howling wind and the tedious handhold by handhold climbing drove these things from his mind. A numbness that was threateningly familiar slowly engulfed him. Only the pain in his arm, aggravated by climbing, kept him from falling into it completely

Hrangil had once said that the entrance to the Vaults of Duzagen lay directly below the Tor. That was all the guide he had. As he descended the howl of the wind grew worse. Once he missed his footing and caught himself in time to see a loose rock sail out into the abyss and out of sight into the darkness below. If it ever found the bottom of the Chasm the sound was lost in the noise of the wind.

The way was not very difficult for him to climb. If the wind and the evil he could sense had not been there it would have been a simple task, for he was bred to climbing in the Chasm.

It was midday, the sun shone directly into the Chasm, when he found what he sought: the entrance to the Vaults of Duzagen.