Summon Your Dragons

by Roger Parkinson

  “Ah! You get the sea retch? I have a concoction of herbs that is renowned-”

  Menish shook his head.

  “It is made of fennel and dock, isn't it?”

  Astae nodded.

  “I've tried it. Not only does it taste foul but it makes the ‘sea retch’ even worse.” To Astae’s crestfallen look he added. “It was well meant, my friend. Here, this is for your trouble.” Menish reached into the leather pouch at his belt and drew out two gold coins.

  Astae’s mouth dropped open and snapped shut before Menish could blink. Then he was all bows and fawning again.

  “Thank you, M’Lord. Thank you.”

  Fortunately he was interrupted by the outside door opening and a wet, bedraggled youth entered. He glanced about him until he found Althak.

  “M’Lord, Awan says we must sail soon.”

  “Come,” Menish said to the others, and they farewelled Grath and Bolythak and made their way outside.

  It was a dreary morning. The rain had degenerated into a fine mist that hung in the still air like fog, turning the nearby houses into formless shapes. It even obscured the dragon post. The moisture clung to their hair and clothes and made the stone under their feet slick and wet. The stone was simply the continuation of Gilish’s road, and here it was clear of accumulated earth and debris from constant use. The wide, flat slabs now ran unevenly, threatening to trip the unwary and their slickness made them more treacherous still.

  Stepping carefully they made their way through the mist after the youth. Although it was early the Vorthenki village was by no means asleep. The long houses were bustling with activity. Men were setting off with bundles of canvas, netting and rope. Women were farewelling them and children scampered about everywhere. Several small boys joined their company for a while, walking importantly beside Althak as if they had been officially asked to. They took Althak for the leader of the company, of course, for his bright torque and bracelets and his polished greaves made him look like a very significant Vorthenki chief. The Anthorians, with their heavy cloaks and coats around them, made small, sombre figures, not worth consideration. Althak smiled at the boys and tousled their hair. Their mothers called them back, some amused, some concerned for their safety. All scolded them soundly.

  Menish took no notice of the children. He was looking carefully at the women. Once he thought he saw her standing in the doorway of a long house, but he was mistaken.

  He could not get her out of his mind. Even while he had given Grath and Bolythak their instructions she had lurked behind his thoughts. He was surprised that he had not dreamed of her again. His previous dreams had shown him a version of the truth and that had unnerved him. Thalissa was alive, and Azkun had her eyes. Azkun had emerged from the Chasm where he had dreamed that she would. But he dreamed a skeleton and she was alive. He felt he had a puzzle nearly solved and the answer would yield a vital truth, but he was missing some clue.

  It was foolish to try to make sense of dreams, but that was all he had. He could not speak with her, not with his men here. Hrangil might kill her the moment he recognised her, for he had met her before. Drinagish had not, but he would require an explanation for not killing her and Menish had none to give. Althak, he did not know. Perhaps he would say she had been released from hell if she had escaped the Chasm. He wondered how well Althak remembered her from his childhood.

  The dead are so easy to hate. They require no action, no vengeance. The knowledge that she was alive lifted the weight of murder from his shoulders. But nothing would remove the burden of his own infidelity.

  Azkun seemed to be walking better this morning and he had discarded the sling that had supported his injured arm all yesterday. A good night's sleep, even in a Vorthenki inn, can do wonders.

  The youth led them quickly through the mist, and presently they came to the water’s edge. The road continued as a great pier jutting out into the mist-covered sea, which splashed itself fitfully against the stone. Through the mist he could see the vague shapes of cliffs enclosing a sheltered cove.

  All along the pier lay small fishing boats, typical high-prowed, triangular sailed Vorthenki ships which bobbed gracefully on the swell of the sea. Men were clambering in and out of most of them with their bundles of nets and baskets. Sails were being raised on several and two or three were moving away from the pier for their day’s fishing.

  Some of the ships were much larger than the others. One was more than twice the size of the little boats, and it was to this that the youth led them. The ship was built on classical Vorthenki lines, that much Menish knew. The land locked Anthorians viewed the sea with suspicion, and even the Relanese had always said the Vorthenki were supreme on the waves. They built their boats of long, warped planks that curved elegantly from the carved dragon head bowsprit to the tall stern. Each plank appeared to be unjoined for the full eighty-foot length. It was said that giant trees grew in the far north and the Vorthenki built their larger ships of these.

  From the broad decks rose a tall mast supporting a long spar that dipped low towards the bow and rose high above the stern. As yet the sails were furled, bunched along the spar, and there was any number of ropes and tackles stretching from the gunwales to the mast giving the ship a spider web appearance.

  As they drew closer they could see the sailors were still loading provisions aboard. The deck was filled with men and barrels and boxes. Several of the sailors had climbed the masts and were adjusting ropes in preparation for the voyage.

  A gangplank reached from the stone causeway to the gunwales and Menish grimaced as he saw it rise and fall with the waves. Only a ship could take them to Atonir in less than a month, but it would not be a comfortable journey. Drinagish did not know what he had let himself in for. Already he could see Hrangil’s jaw clenching.

  Althak was, of course, at home on the sea. He was talking to Azkun about tides and weather signs.

  Wondering whether Azkun was looking forward to the voyage or not, Menish glanced at him. He was surprised. Azkun was paying no attention to Althak, he was staring earnestly towards Menish as if he were shouting mutely at him. When he caught Menish’s eye Azkun turned his head and nodded along the pier. Menish followed his gaze. The mist swirled and swallowed the end of the pier in the distance, but he could see the shapes of boats moored beside it and the tall Vorthenki figures that moved about on the stone. Something drew his eyes to a group of three figures that were climbing into one of the small fishing boats. No, two were embarking, one remained on the pier.

  He looked back at Azkun with an unspoken question and Azkun mouthed the word ‘her’. A shiver ran through him and he clenched his teeth before they began chattering. His dreams loomed before him as he turned to look at the lone figure left on the pier while the little boat cast off. She was wrapped in a heavy sea cloak to keep out the dampness of the mist. In his mind’s eye he saw a skeleton under the cloak. Was it really her? How did Azkun know? There was no opportunity to debate these questions. If he was to speak with her it must be now. He would not waste such an opportunity.

  “Hrangil.”

  “Sire?”

  “The sea retch clings to my guts already. The ship won't sail just yet. I'll walk a little further. Call me when they're ready.”

  Hrangil nodded and Menish strolled off. He made some effort to wander aimlessly, yet he was aware that he did not have long before his ship would be ready. But the others might be watching and they must not know that she was alive, he would not give them the opportunity to ask questions that he would have to lie to answer. So he fought down his wish to stride up to her and demand how she came to be here. Instead, he walked along the pier looking at the waves and wished they were not so boisterous in their splashing and crashing against the stone.

  As he drew near the figure he had more doubts. He was approaching a strange woman in a strange country on the say-so of a wild man from Kelerish. He was not even sure if it was a woman, for the cloak hid the figure well and it faced away from him. It was t
oo short for a man, though. Briefly he wondered if it was too short for the stately figure of Thalissa.

  The figure stood on the great stone pier and watched as the little boat disappeared into the mist. A small lantern shone palely through the whiteness to warn other boats of its presence. Hearing his approach the figure turned and saw Menish.

  It was her all right.

  For several heartbeats they simply stared at each other, both transfixed by the other’s presence. Thalissa broke the stare first. Her eyes flicked away and back, as if she searched for an escape. Seeing none she turned her back and resumed her gaze at the lamp in the mist, a gesture of defiance to Menish. But he could see that she was trembling. He crossed the remaining steps that separated them and stood behind her, for she stood on the very edge of the pier. The sea splashed and gurgled several feet below, cold and green.

  When the mist finally swallowed the lamp of the fishing boat she spoke.

  “Well, Menish, what is it to be? A knife in the back? Or will you throw me into the sea? I warn you I swim well.”

  Her words held the weariness of more than twenty years of bitterness. She no longer cared.

  “You tried to kill me,” retorted Menish, clambering for an excuse. “Olcean ate your broth before me. He was my friend.”

  She continued, ignoring his accusation as if it were insignificant.

  “I wish you'd chosen the knife then rather than leaving me for Thealum. Do you know what hell is, Menish? I'll tell you.” Her voice sounded still and passionless, or bereft of passion. “They lowered me into the Chasm. The others were thrown in, but me they lowered. Such was the measure of Thealum’s kindness. He wanted to prolong my agony.”

  “I didn't know they would-”

  “They lowered me into the Chasm,” she continued, her voice monotonous but relentless. “You don't know what that means. No one does except Tenari and she has no voice. I lay among the bodies and bones of the others, the ones they had thrown in. I think I screamed for a whole day, or the wind screamed for me.”

  “But you lived.”

  “Lived? Something like it. I don't know how I stayed alive. I remember eating a lizard and there was some slickness on a rock I could lick at. It wasn't enough.” She spoke her words with a dull rhythm as if reciting a litany of pain that required no expression. “And I was with child. But somehow my belly grew and months later somehow I delivered the child.” She turned and fastened her eyes on Menish. They were eyes for which tears could only be a distraction from the anguish they held. And they were the eyes of Azkun.

  “After… the birth someone… something… took my baby away and left me to die at last. I never saw the child, but I thought of you then, Menish.”

  Menish could say nothing. He looked back at her across a gulf of grief and his retorts and excuses seemed trivial. Even Olcean’s death, quick as it was, paled before the torment she had endured in Kelerish, a torment Menish was responsible for. As he fumbled for words he wondered if he should tell her that her first child, the one he had stolen away when he left her for Thealum, was now Emperor of Relanor and surely this child she had borne in the Chasm was Azkun, a few yards away. But he could not find the words. Vorish hated her as much as the others, he had seen to that himself, and Azkun was mad.

  He had been glad she was alive, it had denied his guilt of murder. But now he was responsible for more torment than he had dreamed. He thought of his dreams, of the skeleton at the Chasm edge. It had been a dead thing that had come alive, just as she should have been dead but was now alive.

  What words could he find that would not mock her with triteness?

  Nothing. There were no words to be said, no amends that could be made. He turned and strode back towards the ship.

  Azkun watched the King of Anthor and caught the charged interplay of emotions between Menish and this woman he was so concerned about. It frightened him in its intensity, a cloud of blackness engulfed them, and he knew that the woman was utterly wretched.

  He could not hold his attention on them for long. That boiling cloud of night reminded him of the death of the pig. He wrenched his gaze back to the boat. Hrangil had shown him pictures of boats on the walls last night. He had expected Azkun to know all about the pictures and, because it seemed important to him, Azkun had tried to seem as knowledgeable as possible.

  His injuries had faded in the night. Parts of his body, especially one arm, was still tender, but the sling was no longer necessary. He mentioned it to Althak but Althak did not seem surprised.

  “If you can stand in dragon fire it would be a wonder if a few bumps bothered you for long. Even that cut on your head is fading.”

  The sailors were still loading the last of the provisions, roping barrels to the deck or passing boxes and bags through a hatchway. Others were checking the ropes and tackles and two were up in the rigging. They were a happy folk, these Vorthenki, for all Menish despised them. The sailors laughed and sang as they worked, driving away the sombreness of the mist. By contrast the Anthorians were gloomy.

  As he watched them he sensed their satisfaction in their work. Here were men who loved their ship and loved the sea. Four of them, all tall, yellow-haired men, were manhandling the last barrel up the gangplank. It was heavy and they strained and heaved at it, yet one of them still had enough breath for a joke, and the others paused to laugh.

  Menish returned just as they finished lashing it into place, and Azkun almost expected them to grab him like the barrel and roll him up the gangplank. In spite of the blackness that hung over Menish, Azkun grinned at the idea. As he did so he caught the eye of one of the sailors. The man grinned back. He appeared to have been thinking the same thing for he nudged one of his fellows and said something, pointing at Menish. The other man doubled up with laughter and slipped below the deck before anyone could accuse him of mocking their passengers.

  Azkun noticed a ripple of unease pass through the three Anthorians. One of the sailors at the top of the gangplank beckoned to them. Drinagish looked worried, in spite of his earlier request to go to Atonir. Hrangil looked ill. Only Menish seemed undisturbed, but Azkun could see that even the darkness of his thoughts was fraying with anxiety as he watched the heaving of the vessel.

  Menish surprised Azkun. In spite of the instinctive distrust that gripped him, in spite of the darkness that seethed in his mind from his encounter with the woman, he stepped confidently onto the gangplank, refusing to appear daunted before these Vorthenki. Azkun could only admire him. He could put aside his fear when the need arose. This was something that Azkun himself had not yet learned.

  Hrangil followed Menish. He almost succeeded in imitating Menish’s confidence but he failed dismally at the last moment. The gangplank gave a vindictive lurch when he was nearly at the gunwales and his habit of clutching his sword hilt when he was nervous spoilt his balance. Menish, who was standing at the gunwales, managed to grab his arm and pull him into the ship before he fell, but the result was not particularly dignified. Azkun felt the suppressed laughter of the sailors.

  Drinagish was much more successful. He walked carefully up the plank and did not look down to the water below. At the top he shrugged and grinned at the still shaking Hrangil. The mist was growing thicker, it was difficult to see the sailors in the rigging now. Azkun hoped it would not interfere with the voyage.

  “Our turn,” said Althak, nudging Azkun forward.

  As he stepped onto the plank he felt it shift beneath him as if it were alive. He flailed his arms wildly. The world dissolved into a haze as the mist thickened and what had always been solid ground beneath his feet now lurched and bucked. Below him the sea gurgled and splashed as if it were laughing at him. Yet he was buoyed up by the mirth of the sailors, it was not unpleasant. Althak steadied him with a firm hand on his shoulder and he quickly learned to shift his balance to anticipate the rocking motion. As he stepped over the gunwales he looked sheepishly at the Vorthenki sailors who had skipped up and down the plank with ease.

  H
e cried out with horror.

  The mist had dissolved them into ghosts. It was happening again. He twisted around to look at Althak, whose hand was still on his shoulder, but he too was no more than a quivering outline. He could see the ship and the pier clearly through the mist, only people turned to ghosts.

  If they had disappeared entirely it would have been less distressing, but he could see several of the sailors looking at him, puzzled by his cry. One of them pointed at him, like a spectre choosing a victim.

  “Azkun? What's wrong?” It was the voice of Althak but the mouth of a ghost.

  He felt desperately alone. He pushed Althak away, feeling him solid to his hand, not knowing which reality to doubt. In despair he closed his eyes and tried to think only of the rocking of the boat, tried to make it fill his thoughts and crowd out the ghosts.

  How long he stood there he did not know, his eyes were clamped shut and he swayed with the boat, hugging himself as if he were cold. He tried to think of dragons, but the dragons seemed small and far away.

  “Tenari!’ A woman’s voice struggled across the dock. “Tenari!” Dimly he recognised the voice. A faint hope rose in his heart. Fearfully he opened his eyes and looked down the gangplank to the pier.

  There she was.

  “Tenari! No!” It was the woman, the old woman, running towards the boat. The young woman at the foot of the gangplank moved slowly and steadily onto it, her vacant gaze cast negligently in the direction of Azkun.

  He heard voices behind him, questions, exclamations, but he ignored them. They were only ghosts. She was reality incarnate. Even the mist drew back from her as she approached.

  “Tenari!” The old woman reached the foot of the gangplank and stopped, checked by fear as she saw Menish. “Don't leave me!” she cried forlornly. But she was just another spectre. She hardly even existed.

  The mist lifted suddenly and a ray of sunlight peered through it. The ghosts solidified into people and Azkun breathed a sigh of relief. The young woman, Tenari, stood before him, motionless save for the rocking of the boat.