Roger Parkinson: Summon Your Dragons

Who would have thought she could have changed the wild man so much? He should never have been able to see into peoples’ heads the way he did. The old man was still trying to work out how that was done. And conjuring up the dumb woman? Oh, she was clever all right, even though she was mad. She had even made the thing speak at Atonir, but she had long ago left enough of her own magic in the stones there to assist her.

He had made use of the dumb woman himself, of course, sending the man a dream of her when Azkun was lost in Gashan. He was good at conjuring dreams.

But Sheagil could conjure spectres when she wanted them. That was real power. Such a pity she was mad.

It was still early evening when he arrived at the battlefield, he passed close to the watch fires of the Gashan camp, but they could not see him. What he saw there convinced him he had made the right decision. The Gashans were a foul folk, it was his own people who had made them so.

He had to leave the road not far from the Gashan camp and make his way to the riverbank where he found tall bushes of fennel growing. He hummed a tune Menish and the others might have recognised as that of Althak’s tale of the foolish farmer as he cut bunches of fennel with a small double headed axe.

When he had gathered as much of the green herb as he could he carried it out into the middle of the battlefield. He had to stop on the way several times, pausing to cough or blow his nose on his clothing. The fennel stank, which did not help his progress, but he finally reached a point where the fires of Gashan were as far from him as those of the Anthorian camp. He knew Vorish’s men were hiding on the forested slopes that rose on either side of the plain. He even knew that Vorish was at his command post above the tree line, and that Menish and Adhara were making their way up through the trees towards him.

He dumped the fennel in a heap at his feet. The moon had risen by now. It was just past full and the painted eye on his forehead, the one that only Azkun could see, glowed in its light. He hummed his tune, coughed, spat, and resumed humming. He stooped down and took a frond of the fennel, crushed it in his hands and tossed it skywards. He took another and did the same, and another. The pungent smell became overpowering, his forehead glowed brightly, and still he continued to hum.

It was dusk when Althak rode into the camp at Gildenthal. Cooking fires flickered in the tents and smoke drifted upwards in the still of evening. He knew nothing of what had happened at Kelerish, no one did except for the old Monnar and Sheagil herself.

Two days after he had left Lianar came the darkness that blotted out the sun in the middle of the day, and Althak had trembled, wondering what it meant, but he continued his journey.

At Deenar Darven had rejoiced to see him, but Althak told his story with a heavy heart. Shelim remained at Deenar. Althak continued, in spite of Darven’s offers that he could remain there. The dragons had failed Menish, but Althak would not. He hoped he would be able to return in time for the battle. So Darven had given him a horse and he had taken a road to Golshuz and then to Anthor. Much of the time he travelled through the wild with no road at all, only a direction he knew from the sun and stars.

And he rode into Gildenthal six days after the battle.

People did not recognise him, or were too busy with their own affairs. Perhaps they assumed he was one of Vorish’s army. The first person who knew him was Neathy.

“Althak! Althak! You've come back!”

“One, at least, welcomes me.” He smiled through the grime of weariness and travel. “I've had no news. Why aren't you further north by now?”

“You're welcome, Althak, very welcome. Menish… was asking for you.” Althak slipped down from the horse.

“What's wrong? Is he ill?”

“He's dead, Althak. He died two days ago. He took an evil wound in the battle and didn't recover. He lies in his tent, ready for the last journey to Gomol-thal.”

“Oh, Menish!” Althak sank to the ground and covered his head with dust. Neathy understood, she had seen enough of Vorish’s men lamenting their fallen comrades in this way after the battle. But many of the Anthorians who passed were embarrassed by this display of grief and hurried on. He cried the Vorthenki words of passing. The words were Vorthenki, which Neathy did not understand. She stood and let Althak’s grief run its course as he wept at her feet. It was not the Anthorian way to offer comfort to any but the most intimate of friends, but as she stood beside him a tear ran down her face.

“Take me to him.”

Neathy led Althak’s horse between the tents to the one that had Menish’s standard flying over it. It was ripped and torn from the battle where it had been trampled underfoot by horses and Gashans. Drinagish and Vorish were outside the tent. Althak had never seen Vorish look weary, but now he looked thin and ill. There were lines on his face Althak did not remember seeing before, and grey in his hair, though that might have been dust. Drinagish looked older, more responsible. His arm was in a sling.

Vorish was not normally given to display but when he saw Althak new tears brimmed in his eyes and these two, who had been like brothers as children, embraced. There were no words to be said until Althak had entered the tent and looked upon Menish.

He was dressed in a new battle jerkin, his curved sword in one hand and his shield strapped to his other wrist. His head was bare and his hair was neatly combed into the ponytail clasped with gold. There was no sign of any wound, his face was peaceful, although pale. His eyes were closed as if asleep.

“Vorish and Adhara stayed by his side until the very end,” said Neathy behind him. “Before he died he told Adhara she had to look after Drinagish, and Anthor. We could all see she wanted to follow him when he went. But she didn't. She's taken it badly though. You might be able to cheer her a little.”

For a long time Althak sat beside the body. He refused food and all comfort until well after the lamps were lit. Adhara came in and the sight of Althak made her break down with fresh grief.

“If you had only stayed,” she said. “But then the dragons would not have come and all would have been lost. As it is we only lose our dearest and our best.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“We went into battle. There were not so many of them, we would have won if they had been just what they seemed. But they had fire, so much fire. So many riders never struck a blow before they were burned up. It was worse for the ones further back. They threw the fire into the midst of us, and the leading edge mostly escaped it. Vorish lost many of his cavalry too.

“For those of us in the front… I can't describe it. It was, for a moment, as if we wanted to die there. We wanted the Gashans to hack us to pieces. I felt it and,” she placed a hand on Menish's body. “He felt it too, he told me afterwards. He said it was the Eye.

“Then it passed. The sky was suddenly filled with dragons. They swept across the Gashan ranks and incinerated them. But by that time Menish had already been wounded. We thought it was not too bad, he seemed able to travel. Whether he took ill suddenly or he wouldn't speak of his pain I don't know. He didn't have much pain at the end, anyway. One of the Vorthenki priestesses who came with Vorish gave him something to drink to make it easier.

“He left a message for you, though he didn't think you'd return.”

“No one has ever returned from Kishalkuz,” said Althak, “until now.”

“He wanted to tell you and Azkun that you were right. You fought them the best way, and you won the battle. He said that Azkun’s dragons have proved themselves gods after all.”