Roger Parkinson - Summon Your Dragons

He did not know how, or even why. But this was the purpose of the dragons. He himself was the bridge. In spite of the spectre of corruption that lurked so close he rejoiced. He wanted to sing, but he knew no songs. Surely there were songs of dragons to be sung. He looked at Althak, for he had heard Althak sing before, but Althak’s song was not what he wanted.

On his other side, a little ahead, for he was leading them, Hrangil’s horse plodded through the rain. Hrangil was rigid with his doubts and hopes and weighed down by the water that ran off his cloak. Azkun had not heard him sing, but he told tales. Perhaps he knew a tale of the bridge, and perhaps it would please him to tell it.

He nudged his horse and it trotted obediently up beside Hrangil’s. A spasm of anxiety and alertness from Althak twitched in his mind but his senses were too dulled by the rain for it to register deeply.

“Master Hrangil?” The others called him that. It seemed to be a title of some sort.

The old man jerked up his head as if he were started out of deep thoughts. The eyes he turned towards Azkun were full of contradictions.

“Yes…” he trailed off, as if grasping for a title he should give Azkun but unable to find one.

“You told a tale last night about the Lansheral. Do you know a tale of the bridge?”

“I know the tale of the bridge, yes,” he appeared puzzled to be asked.

“I would like to hear it, if you wish to tell it.”

Hrangil started to object and stopped himself. Azkun could see he was confused for some reason.

“I enjoyed your tale last night. I would like to hear more. I felt as if I had been to the places you spoke of.”

At that Hrangil smiled, as if an unspoken question had been answered.

“Very well. It is a delight to tell you. Perhaps you will remember.

“It was sixteen years after the founding of Relanor that Gilish made his journey north to Kelerish. He and a small company travelled by sea and the journey was long, for it was winter and the north wind blew. For this reason Gilish forbade Sheagil, his wife, from accompanying him and left in secret so that she would not follow.

“But, although he had forbidden her, Sheagil followed Gilish north. When she caught up with Gilish and his company she found that they were separated from each other by a mighty gorge.

“When Gilish saw her he was moved with compassion, for she had travelled many days alone and with great hardship to be with him. He resolved to make a monument to the love that inspired her journey so, using his magic, he constructed the Bridge of Sheagil, which allowed him to cross over the gorge and be reunited with his wife.”

Hrangil stopped there. He seemed on the verge of continuing the story but decided not to say more. Azkun did not press him. He had said enough. This Gilish they had spoken of so much had built the bridge as a kindness to reach someone called Sheagil. It was what Azkun expected of such a structure and the story confirmed his feeling that he, himself, was a bridge.

Dusk was falling by the time they rode into Lianar. The last few miles had been easier because the villagers had kept the way clear of obstacles for their own use. The horses, sensing food and warm stables, changed from their reluctant plodding pace to an enthusiastic trot.

They found themselves moving down a cleft in the hills where the forest had dwindled to low scrub and tussock. A tangy salt wind blew in their faces and, not far ahead, they could see the first of the Vorthenki long houses. The smell of cooking fires drifted in the wind.

Azkun’s panic stirred uneasily with the approach of night. The spectres of the darkness gathered around him. But he knew now that this was only night. After the chasm of night would follow dawn. And he could smell smoke. Fire was not far away. He was weary with pain now. His arm was no longer numb, and it ached.

The houses they approached were made of wood and earth and their roofs were thatched with the scrub that grew around them. A doorway darkened the side of the nearest house, it was hung with a heavy curtain. As they passed the curtain was pulled back and a figure stepped out. Azkun caught a glimpse of fire and shadowy forms inside. It made the night seem suddenly deeper. The man in the doorway called something to his fellows inside and more men came out.

The gathering gloom made them difficult to make out, and the firelight was behind them, but Azkun could see that they were as tall as Althak. Their clothes were roughly made unlike his own, and among them stood some children with blankets wrapped around their shoulders. These were pushed back inside the house as soon as their presence was realised by the others. With their movements Azkun caught a glint of metal, an ornament or a weapon. Several of them were shouting to the other houses now and one of them ran to the nearest house. A horn blew, alerting the whole community.

More people appeared. Glints of metal were everywhere. They seemed tense, not quite afraid, but not at ease either.

He wanted to call to them. He was not to he feared. He was the bridge to the dragons. He would not bring the darkness of the chasm to them. But their anxiety had insinuated itself into his own mind and mingled with his native fear of the growing gloom.

“Say something, Althak. Tell them we are friends.” Menish spoke wearily from behind.

Althak nodded to Menish and called something in the Vorthenki tongue. Azkun did not understand it but it carried a tone of reassurance that eased his fear. The tenseness in the air evaporated to a vague uneasiness. Most of the Vorthenki folk returned to their fire sides and the few that remained were more curious than concerned.

But Azkun had been shaken. The darkness gathered about him, releasing its spectres. He clutched at the reins of his horse and clamped his jaw so that his fear would not be voiced. He must have fire.

Then it happened.

The villagers in their doorways wavered like ghosts. They became suddenly transparent. He could hardly see them. For a heartbeat he thought it was just the darkness, but he could still see the houses. The darkness was not complete. Even the hills behind were still solid to his vision. He had seen two nights now. People did not turn to ghosts at night.

He turned to Althak, hoping for an explanation. But before he could speak he realised that Althak was just the same.

Althak noticed his sudden movement and returned it with a raised eyebrow, an unspoken question. His wavering transparency made the gesture into a mocking death’s head with diamond eyes.

“Azkun, what is it?”

But he could not speak. Terror clutched at his throat, robbing him of speech, robbing him of the gift of the dragons. He could not speak to a spectre. He could not admit that this was happening.

A dog barked and they passed more people, all wavering ghosts, all adding to the paralysing terror. Grath, Bolythak, Hrangil, Menish and Drinagish, they were all ghosts. Was this how they had appeared to the pig?

He thought of running, but he had already rejected that way. Flight was madness unless there were some goal. Besides, how could he ever outrun this horror? If only he could reach a fire. But the fires were in the houses and the ghostly forms of the villagers guarded the houses.

Desperately he scanned the skies for the sight of a dragon. But all he saw was the black sky looming over him like death.

They stopped beside a building that was different from the long houses. It was taller and made of stone blocks. A warm glow came from the open doorway, bringing Azkun some relief. But, clustered on the roadway in front of the building, were more ghostly villagers. They stared at the horsemen, especially at Azkun. He felt as if they were sentencing him to death.