Roger Parkinson: Summon Your Dragons

There was a narrow ledge. On one side was the drop into the shadowy depths far below; and on the other, surrounded by strange beasts carved into the rocks, was the awesome entrance. Nothing but blackness could be seen beyond the rough opening in the rock, and the carvings around it looked like the spectres he had seen so many times. Diamond eyes glared at him from the stone, and above the doorway was carved a double-headed axe.

He stood looking at the entrance, willing himself to go on, but he was afraid. The wind buffeted him, clawing at him. He felt small and weak, a tiny thing blown by the gales.

But he had to go on. All those promises he had made urged him forward. And he took a step.

As he did so the wind stopped.

The awful wind that had clawed and stung and howled at him for years stopped. For a moment he stood in the quietness, his ears still ringing and his eyes still squinting. But it was not a mere faltering of the gale. The wind had stopped, and it was replaced by a deep, brooding stillness. He could feel the presence of something nearby that he could not see; something evil.

Then he noticed the bones. Near the door of the Chasm lay a small pile of shattered bones. He had not seen them before because of the wind, and they were only just recognisable anyway, little more than a pile of broken fragments. A part of a human skull was discernible, and a longer bone, perhaps a thigh.

Bones, human bones, and the wind had stopped. He almost turned and fled from this dreadful place. But where could he run? To Gashan? He bent to examine the bones. Among them was entangled an encrusted piece of metal that might once have been finely worked.

“Your bones, Gilish,” sang a woman's voice.

He whirled to see who had spoken, but there was no one, only the tinkling of laughter. It sounded like water over rocks. If he had been anywhere but here it would have made him smile, but in the Chasm it made his skin crawl.

“Who are you?” His voice sounded flat and empty in the stillness. His own heartbeat seemed louder than the wind had been.

Again the laughter sounded. It was all around him.

“Do you not know me, Gilish, my love?” It was teasing, as a maid will tease a lover or a cat will tease a mouse.

“I am not Gilish! I am Azkun.” He tried to sound bold and defiant, but his voice shook with fear.

“No.” The voice sounded disappointed. “No, but you will suffice.” It sounded like a threat. “But do you not know me, my love? I am your wife, your Sheagil.” Again she laughed. “Have I not been a good wife? I saved you from the dragon fire and I taught you to speak. So many little things to make you happy, even though you wanted to leave me.”

The truth struck Azkun like a blow.

“I even followed you in my own way, my love.” More laughter. “For if you must be Azkun then I will be Tenari!” And she appeared before him in the entrance to the Vaults, no longer solemn but eyes alight with laughter.

“Tenari?”

She laughed again, and Azkun could see that hers was the voice.

“I could not often make it speak outside the Chasm, but at least I could be with you, my love, and I could see what you needed.” She seemed to see his injured arm for the first time. “Oh, I am sorry, Gilish. I could not protect you. The dragon was too quick for me.”

Was he Gilish after all? He was almost deceived by the words. But he could still see into minds. The mind he saw was boiling with malice.

“The magic? It was yours all along?”

“Of course,” she laughed. “It was always mine, my love. You have no magic of your own, you are not a Monnar like me. It was always mine. But I gave you the glory of it, for I am a good wife. I gave you the glory when I told them you built the palace of Atonir, when I told them you built the Lansheral. Always, always…” The voice was changing, and Tenari's expression began to writhe across her face. “But you, my love” the endearment was sarcastic now. “You wanted the power for yourself. You came to Duzagen because you were not satisfied with what I gave you freely! You wanted your own magic! Magic to use against me!”

“No!” shouted Azkun. “No. I am not Gilish. He died. These are his bones. I thought the magic was my own. I did not know-”

She was not listening.

“And you came here for magic to curse me to this Chasm, to howl my anguish in the wind forever!” Abruptly the anger returned to girlish laughter. “No, my love,” she said sweetly. “You cannot curse me and come back again. For I will kill you.”

“I am not Gilish!”

But Tenari had gone. Only the laughter and the boiling malice remained. It echoed off the cliffs.

“Gilish! Gilish! Gilish!” she sang.

“No!” The abrupt return of the howling wind snatched the word from his mouth. The wind shrieked with delight, still singing Gilish's name as the Gashan in his mind stirred. It whispered the way out, the only way. He had no magic, he had no way to keep his promises. Where was Tenari? She had saved him before, but there was no Tenari, there was only Sheagil and she was mad.

The Gashan's voice became more insistent. What else was left to him now? The spectres on the walls leered at him and the wind still screamed 'Gilish'. The blackness of the Chasm was an invitation to oblivion. With the Gashan in his mind gibbering with delight, he threw himself off the edge.

His final cry: “Tenari!” was lost in the howl of the wind of Sheagil.

The old Monnar stared sadly into the fire. The plan to free his daughter, Sheagil, had failed and Azkun was dead. It had taken more than a century to arrange the events that had produced Azkun, but it had all been ruined by that dragon attacking him when he first emerged from the Chasm. Stupid beast! It had wrecked everything.

He lifted an object down from a shelf on the wall of the hut. It was a bronze figure of a dragon, about the size of his fist and worked with exquisite detail, and it had ears. He ran his finger down the back of the statue, feeling the roughness of the scales.

Gashan would meet the combined armies of Vorish and Menish tomorrow morning, and Gashan would destroy them. The Monnar was aware of Vorish’s plans, they were clever but they were useless against what drove the Gashans. They had the Duzral Eye.

His thoughts were interrupted by a fit of coughing which racked his body. He spat phlegm into the fire and resumed stroking the little dragon. The Eye had to be returned to its place in the Vaults of Duzagen, where it could do no more harm. But that was impossible with Sheagil still boiling in her own madness there.

The tiny bronze head swivelled suddenly and the little jaws bit into the old man’s finger. He cried out and flung it from him, but the little wings unfurled and lifted it into the air. It flapped jerkily about the room screeching while the old man sucked the wound on his finger. The noise disturbed the cow and the two goats he shared the hut with.

Irritated, the old man picked a tongue of flame from the fire and threw it at the wayward statue. The dragonet squealed as the fire splashed over it, then froze into its original shape just before landing with a thud on the dirt floor of the hut. He picked it up warily and replaced it on the shelf.

He felt responsible. Oh, it was not his fault Gilish had stolen the Eye from where the Monnar had hidden it, but they had made the Eye in the first place. Besides, if the Gashans won this battle his next attempt to free Sheagil would be made more difficult. With a sigh he picked up his stick and hobbled outside. The moon had not risen but the sky was clear, and it was cold. There was no touch of spring yet in his mountain valley.

There was a magic road, like the one he had led Azkun, Menish and Althak along, which led from his valley past the battlefield. Its final destination was Kelerish, but he had no need to go there tonight, not with Sheagil writhing angrily in her prison. She had always been the most powerful of them, and she was dangerous when she was angry. Well, she was dangerous at any time while she was mad. Freeing her was a delicate task if one wanted to stay alive.