Roger Parkinson: Summon Your Dragons

Menish was indeed exhausted. His lack of sleep, along with so much activity, was telling on him relentlessly. Would he sleep tonight? Or would the dreams haunt him still? Perhaps the dream was awake now? These questions had been going around in his head all day, and now, as if to taunt him, the man had bowed to the fire, as Gilish might have done.

“Friend.”

The man turned and looked at Menish, but he did not take his eyes from the fire for long. Menish muttered. Did he not realise who was speaking to him? Even if he were Gilish he should be courteous to the King of Anthor. Yet his own men would forgive any insolence if he were Gilish. They would forgive Gilish anything.

But would they? He wondered grimly. Would they forgive him for losing a war with Gashan?

He sighed.

“Friend, I have to ask you again. Who are you? Who are your people? How did you come to be in the Chasm?”

“This is fire,” he answered irrelevantly as far as Menish was concerned.

“And your folk? They had hearths? Where did they live?”

“The fire is all. The fire is of the dragons. I am of the fire.”

The expression 'of the fire', especially the way he used it in his old fashioned Relanese, was near enough to 'Azkun'. It was not a common name nowadays but it had been once. Several Emperors had taken that name.

“Is that how you wish to be called? Azkun?”

His attention had wandered back to the fire again and he did not turn to Menish when he replied.

“Must you call me something? Oh, I see that you must. Then I am Azkun, I am of the fire.”

Hrangil let out a sigh as if he had been holding his breath. He caught Menish's eye and nodded slowly. The man had made a subtle declaration only someone versed in the mysteries of the Sons of Gilish could understand.

Menish stepped close to him. He knew the others would not have understood the meaning.

“Say nothing, not until we are sure. See? He claims this name.”

He turned to Althak and said in a louder voice. “We should make Azkun welcome with a song. Fetch your harp and sing for us, Althak. Something Vorthenki.”

Althak looked at him in surprise, then nodded his understanding. He always carried his harp, it had been his father’s, it was said. They sometimes asked him to play when they sang Relanese or Anthorian songs. Menish had never specifically asked for Vorthenki music before.

But Menish did not want them singing ‘The Lay of Gilish and Sheagil’ or ‘The Death of Gilish.’ He sat down on the blanket by the fire and Drinagish passed him some food, some more cakes and a leather flask of ambroth. There was a pot of mein simmering on the fire now, under Bolythak‘s watchful eye. Menish hoped he would not overdo the pepper again tonight. Beside him sat the man, Azkun, staring at the fire again. Althak began to tune his harp.

Menish worried about his men. It was not that they were disloyal. He had always been popular with his people, first by returning as a war hero from the battle with Gashan, then by protecting his kingdom from the Vorthenki Invaders. He had tried to be good to them, it was a king’s duty to love his people, not to oppress them like the Vorthenki chieftains who hunted their peasants for sport.

There had been many interesting incidents in the long wars against the Vorthenki, but they were forever making up tall tales about him and putting them in songs. Once, at the spring games, he had publicly castigated a bard who had attempted to entertain the gathering with a particularly ridiculous song. But still they made the songs and sang them when he could not hear.

He looked at Azkun. A god comes before a king. Gilish, if this was Gilish, was all but a god. If he could climb out of the Chasm after a thousand years the difference was too subtle for Menish, too subtle for his men.

Althak started to sing. It was a Vorthenki tale of a foolish farmer and had a bawdy chorus. No Anthorian would have sung such a thing a few years ago. Even now, Menish thought, an Anthorian lady would quite likely deem it sufficiently offensive to draw her sword on Althak without the formality of challenging him to a duel. But among men alone in the wild he was safe enough, and they all thought it uproariously funny. Soon they were all singing and laughing, and Menish noted how tactful Althak was. Most Vorthenki songs had a dragon in them somewhere, a fact Menish had overlooked when he asked him to sing one. Either Althak had found one that had no dragon, or he had left that part out. Azkun did not sing. Most of the time he stared at the fire, but sometimes he gazed around himself and Menish saw joy in his eyes.

Menish woke with the sun. It had been a cold night and his face felt chilled to the bone. He rubbed it with his hands to restore the circulation. Sleeping on the ground had left him stiff and sore, and a sharp ache in his left leg reminded him of an old wound. Was it really fifteen years ago he had cracked the bone in the battle for the Ammuz bridges? Some Vorthenki oaf had tried to chop him in half with a battle-axe and he had taken the blow on his shield. Unfortunately the shield had twisted in his grasp and smashed against his leg. Vorish had cut down the Vorthenki before he could follow with another blow and, though the leg had healed in time, the cold always made it ache.

With an effort he clambered out of his blankets. That leg was so sore this morning! Everyone else was still asleep except Althak who had drawn the early morning watch. Hrangil lay flat on his back with his mouth wide open, snoring. Drinagish was sucking his thumb like a child. Grath had thrown his cloak over his head and was snoring like a pig beneath it. The cloak rose and fell slightly with each snore.

Apart from the snoring there was a deep stillness about the glade. The birds were not yet awake, and the gurgling of the nearby stream as it crept over the rocks and boulders in its path only emphasised the hush. It was a clear winter morning, with just a hint of pale mist through the trees, and the sun shone golden through it. Spider webs glistened with frost in the bare branches.

Menish smiled. This was a pleasant place, far better than Kelerish. It made him think of Adhara, made him wonder what she was doing. She had warned him his leg would be sore if he slept in the open but until now it had not troubled him.

Realisation suddenly struck him. His leg was sore this morning, it had not been so yesterday morning for then he had spent the night with the watch or tossing and turning in his blankets. Last night he had slept soundly and still, and dreamless.

No dreams, no eerie wind. No skeleton, and no prophecies. He looked at Azkun, sleeping still by the dead embers of the fire. His eyes were closed but behind those lids they were Thalissa’s eyes.

That was why he had gone to the Chasm, of course. To face out that dream. What did it matter if some wild man had climbed out while he waited? He was not a skeleton anyway.

Yet he could not silence a nagging voice in his mind that whispered he had been sent to meet Azkun. The eyes somehow confirmed it.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness he limped down to the stream where Althak leaned against a fir tree.

In the long war against Thealum Menish had used Vorthenki auxiliaries to fight against their own kind. Althak was one of these. Most of them had settled in Relanor but Althak preferred Anthor. Menish valued him while not understanding his choice. His garish clothes and other Vorthenki ways meant he was often snubbed. Few of the Anthorian women would even speak to him and he had no chance of ever finding a wife there.

“Good morning, M’Lord. Are you well?” He still referred to Menish as ‘M’Lord’ rather than ‘Sire’. To the Vorthenki folk ‘sire’, was not a particularly respectful address for they did not greatly revere their ancestors. His question was more than politeness, he had noticed Menish’s limp.