Roger Parkinson: Summon Your Dragons

“Well enough, thank you, Althak. The cold has got into my leg, that's all. It will pass. And you? You played well last night.”

He smiled and bowed his gratitude.

“Thank you, M’Lord. Our new companion… Azkun, he didn't seem very impressed.”

It was true. Azkun had stared at the fire until Menish had rolled himself in his blankets to sleep.

“Did he have anything to eat? I didn't see him do anything but stare at the fire.”

“No, M’Lord. He did not eat or drink.” Althak hesitated.

“What is it?”

“I don't think he has eaten in his life. He didn't know what to do with the cake I gave him at noon yesterday and he ignored the food last night. He's a strange one, M’Lord.”

“Nonsense.” Menish frowned. “How can a man not eat and live?”

“How can a man stand in dragon fire and live?”

“Hmm. Well, you worship dragons. How do you say he did it?”

Althak looked pained for a moment, as if he wanted to correct something Menish had said, but could not.

“I don't know, M’Lord. At first I thought he might be a korolith, a spirit of the wind, but he is not.”

“I assumed you would say… well, surely he's escaped from Hell, has he not?”

Again Althak looked pained.

“He has escaped from torment, he said so himself. But no one escapes from Hell, M’Lord. Yaggrothil, the Dragon of the Deep, guards it. But some are released.”

That made Menish uneasy. It made him think of evil dreams and strange coloured eyes. But it hardly mattered what Althak thought. He was a Vorthenki. Menish could not think why he had asked him.

There was a grunt from under Grath’s cloak, then a loud groan as blanket and cloak appeared to erupt from the ground, falling away to reveal the heavily built northerner. Grath came from the lands beneath the Ristalshuz Mountains where the folk were nearly as big as Vorthenki. He stood there for a moment, shaking his head and muttering. Menish saw Althak grin. Grath was like an ox and sometimes the resemblance was all too obvious. Still half asleep he stamped across to the edge of the glade, treading on Hrangil’s blanket as he did so. He urinated noisily for what seemed an age and then stamped his way over to Menish and Althak. He favoured them with a brief grunt then he knelt down by the stream and thrust his head under the water.

Althak grinned, “Too much ambroth again.”

With a bellow he raised his head, water dripping down his tunic. “Oomph! That water is cold.” He stood wringing his hair. “There is no rest gained in sleeping armed. That should be in the Mish-Tal.”

Hrangil was awake now, disturbed by Grath.

“It is, indeed, in the Mish-Tal, oaf,” he said as he rolled up his blankets. “You should read it. There is much about allowing your fellows to sleep as well.”

“A good day to you too, Master Hrangil.”

Hrangil ignored him.

“Good weather again, Sire,”

“Yes. Cold but no rain yet.”

“I thought it always rained here in the north.” That was Drinagish.

“No,” said Grath. “The north is cold and bracing, but we have crisp, clear days in winter.”

“But rain on the coast,” put in Althak. “And we head for the coast today.”

Azkun was awake too, but he was silent. Menish saw him look around himself in confusion for a moment, then his eyes lighted on Althak and he smiled.

“Yes, we head for the coast. How far is it, Hrangil?”

“We could reach Lianar by this evening, Sire, if we make good speed.”

“Lianar? The Vorthenki fishing town?”

“Yes, it was the place the imperial retinue always landed. I remember there used to be a Relanese inn there years ago.”

“It's still there,” said Althak. “I passed through Lianar on my way north two years ago. The building is Relanese, at least.” There was an awkward silence as they remembered just why Althak had travelled north.

“And how is our new friend this morning? Are you hungry?” Menish walked over to Azkun and squatted beside him.

“No, not hungry… thank you. But…” he hesitated.

“Yes?” prompted Menish.

“The fire is gone.”

“Of course, it's burnt out.” Was he a half-wit?

“But there is a fire that does not burn out.”

Menish noticed Hrangil’s ears prick up at that.

“There's a fire in Am-Goluz that is always alight. It's been burning ever since Gilish lit it, nearly a thousand years ago.”

“That is where we are going?”

“We are going to Atonir. It's not so far from there.”

“Drinagish!” called Grath. “Stop combing your hair and give me some help with these horses.”

“Some of us,” replied Drinagish testily, “require more than ducking our heads in the nearest stream.” He resumed combing his hair with the little silver comb he always carried. “This place we hope to reach today, is there any chance of a bath there?”

“The inn used to have a Relanese bath with a hypocaust, but that was long ago,” said Hrangil.

“I didn't go inside the inn,” said Althak. “But no doubt we can contrive some hot water. We Vorthenki do bathe sometimes.”

“We'll never get there unless Drinagish finishes combing. Here, let me help-” offered Grath.

“No, get off!” Drinagish gathered his hair back in the characteristic Anthorian ponytail and fastened it with a gold clasp.

Menish sat on a log and pulled his own hair back while the others packed up the blankets. He too had a gold clasp. It was a mark of royalty.

After they mounted their horses and resumed their journey his leg was better for a time. The winter sun shone through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the road and sparkling on the stream that ran beside it. In places the road was choked with bracken or blocked by fallen trees, but no serious obstacle presented itself. Once they had to wade the horses into the stream to pass a place where the road bank had collapsed across their path. Menish noticed that Azkun controlled his horse well, even when it began to paw the water with its hoofs as horses inevitably do when forced into streams. He wondered how he had learned that in so short a time.

As the morning wore on Menish’s leg began to hurt again. The movement of the horse jarred it and he found himself clenching his teeth with pain.

When they stopped at noon Hrangil, who had just passed him a honey cake, looked at him anxiously.

“Sire?”

“It's my leg, Hrangil. The cold crept into it last night.”

Hrangil nodded. He had been there when Menish received the injury and he knew the trouble it could give him.

“You look ill, Sire. Shall we rest a while?”

Menish was about, to snap at him but he clenched himself. He was in pain. It irked him, though, to see Hrangil, who was two years older than he, in no discomfort. But Hrangil had had an easier life than Menish.

“Perhaps,” he said. “If I could only get some warmth into it.”

“We could make a fire.”

Menish shook his head. “It would take too long. I would rather we pressed on and reached Lianar by this evening.”

“Lianar is still a long way off, Sire. The road has deteriorated since I came this way. We'll have to spend another night in the wild I fear.”

Another dreamless night, thought Menish.

“Then we might as well make a fire here. We can use the daylight to get fresh meat.

“Grath! Drinagish! You are going hunting while I rest my weary old bones. But build me a fire before you go.” Painfully he eased himself off his horse and found he could hardly stand. Althak took his arm and helped him limp over to a log to sit on. Drinagish and Bolythak piled some bracken near him and started a fire. Grath used a little axe he carried on his belt to chop a fallen branch into convenient sized pieces.