Yet he had seen it for himself, the dragon fire, the lightning, and the fact that he did not eat. He remembered the way he had screamed when Menish had chopped at the pirate’s hand, the way he had clutched at his throat and side when the others had killed the pig, as if he had been wounded himself. Did he feel the hurts of others? And how had he known about Thalissa in Lianar?
Menish looked ahead of the ship, along the coast. Somewhere away to the south lay Atonir and Vorish. Vorish would have better answers than he had. Menish wondered how much he should tell the Emperor about his mother. He suspected that Vorish would find out. He was a man one could not easily keep secrets from.
Chapter 12: Deenar
As they sailed on southward, Menish began to worry about Drinagish. The weather was rough and the sea retch held him cruelly. Althak coaxed him into accepting a concoction of herbs he had brewed on the little stove on the deck, but it did no good. Hrangil, who had sailed more than the other two Anthorians, was badly afflicted himself. All he could suggest was that Drinagish drink himself into a stupor, a remedy that Drinagish was eager to try.
Menish was surprisingly at ease with his own stomach. It was as if the sea were content to torture him by discomforting his friends. Even so he found he was often clamping his jaws and willing down sickness, or giving in and emptying his stomach into the waves that tormented it. He ate very little and felt weak with lack of nourishment.
The sailors’ attitude to Azkun had changed. There was no doubt in Shelim’s mind, or even Awan’s, and Menish had thought the captain a sensible man, that Azkun had calmed the storm. They had seen him blasted by lightning and live, and they were, after all, only simple folk. None of them had fought the men of Gashan. None of them had seen the Emperor slain by magic fire and then beaten the fire by their own wits like Menish had. For them Althak’s suggestion that Azkun might be the manifestation of Kopth was the only explanation.
He puzzled them, of course, for he did not look like a god. Althak, with his jewelled belt and winged helmet, was much more their ideal. Menish was aware that most of the sailors assumed that Althak was the chief of his company. By comparison the Anthorians were drab little men, which implied that they were poor.
And the unkempt fellow with the ill fitting clothes and bare feet? He was a slave, of course. That was what they had assumed at first. But now they nodded politely to him as he passed. They brought him offerings of food, fresh fish they caught on lines hung over the sides of the boat, and it was amusing to see Azkun try and explain why he did not eat. This knowledge only increased their awe of him. After that Menish noticed that there was usually a sailor watching Azkun, perhaps to see if what he said about not eating was true. They were credulous folk but they were not stupid.
Although food was not an acceptable gift they found other things to give vent to their generosity. Omoth, with a shyness that contrasted with his bulk, handed him a small, jewelled dagger he owned with some halting Relanese speech. Azkun plainly did not want it, Menish could see that, and he tried to tell Omoth of his aversion to killing. But the man could not understand enough of his language. Menish, himself, did not follow it even though he understood the words. Omoth looked so downcast when he realised that Azkun refused his gift that Azkun relented and accepted it after all. So now he wore a Vorthenki dagger on his belt.
Menish was still concerned about Azkun’s injuries and he and Hrangil checked them from time to time. Hrangil, however, had taken to speaking with a knowing smile of Azkun. As if he were privy to some information that was denied to Menish, yet was known to Azkun. He hinted at some secrets that were held by the Sons of Gilish, things that were not written in the Mish-Tal. Menish snapped at him once in irritation, but the knowing smile persisted.
Althak also irritated him, though Menish could give no good reason why. He did not show Azkun the deference of the sailors, but the very fact that he was one of them, a Vorthenki, was enough. It was a fact Menish usually tried to ignore, but Althak had suggested Azkun was his foul dragon god. He felt as if a trust had been betrayed.
As for Azkun himself, his injuries were healing. He was soon up and about. He complained of headaches now and then but he seemed well enough. Surprisingly, Tenari had stirred herself to care for Azkun. She showed some skill in bathing the cut on his head with ambroth and securing the strips of cloth they had bandaged him with. Menish wondered if, perhaps, she had worked with the sick before her ordeal in the Chasm. Still she did not speak, as if the Chasm had sealed her lips forever.
Rather than endure his own company, which only made him think of his stomach, he sat with Keashil and Olcish by the main mast. Keashil had lifted Althak’s harp onto her lap and was plucking the strings in a lazy, experimental way. Just to get the feel of the instrument again, she told Menish.
Presently her fingers began to pluck more swiftly and surely. Gentle notes swam over the noise of the tossing sea and seemed to blend with the swish of the waves. Olcish smiled and began thumping his fists on the deck, picking up her rhythm in a skilful pattern. Her music caught the ear with quick, rippling sequences like sunshine on water and low, sad parts that made Menish think of deep, rolling waves. He nodded in approval. Here was one who could do anything with a harp. Althak could play, but not like this.
She began to sing.
Menish had heard the song many times before, and he had heard it sung well, but Keashil was truly gifted in her voice. The song told of Bolythak and Harana, an ancient king of Anthor and a princess of Relanor who fell in love and strengthened the bonds between the two lands.
He felt as if he gazed out of the window beside Harana when she first saw the Anthorian lords ride through the gates of Atonir, when she first caught sight of the dark figure of Bolythak and loved him. He was there, too, when she disguised herself as a man so that she could leave her women’s apartments and go hunting with the Anthorians and the Relanese lords. He felt her astonishment that some of the Anthorian lords were trousered ladies, and her resolve to escape forever from the palace apartments that were now like a prison to her.
Perhaps Keashil had added some verses, Menish was not sure, but at the close of the song, when the lovers rode away to Anthor with the hard-won blessing of Harana’s father, the Emperor, his eyes were misty and his mouth trembled.
‘‘ I've never heard such skill on the harp, nor with the voice. You've even cured my sea retch.” It was true. The boat still rocked and swayed but Menish’s ill effects were gone, for the moment anyway.
“Sire? Oh, you startled me. I'd forgotten you were there. Is there something you would like me to play? ‘The Battle of Ristalshuz’ perhaps?’
“No, not that one. It's a mere tale anyway. Play as you feel, but please avoid songs about me.’
“Are they none of them true, Sire?” Her sightless eyes looked past him.
“They must be, Mother,” put in Olcish, “or we would have been murdered by the Gashans.”
“Not you, boy. It was all years before you were born.”
“But the songs are true, for here is the King of Anthor himself!”
“Olcish,” said Menish, “much of what the songs say is true. But it's the work of a harper to entertain on long, cold evenings when the fires burn low. At those times the real world is a dull, dreary place. So the songs must grow larger than the real world to fill the gaps in the walls or the winter wind will steal through.”
“The King of Anthor is a poet!” said Keashil, delighted.
“Not I,” said Menish. “It's a thing our harpers often say to introduce their songs.”
Late in the afternoon of the second day after the storm the town of Deenar appeared on the shore.
They had noticed a change in the cliffs that marched down the coast some hours before. They had become low and broken. A hint of green meadows could be seen on their crests and, once Menish saw a sheep grazing on the cliff edge. It seemed casually unconcerned that it was but a step away from a headlong plunge down the cliff face to the rocks below. B
ut sheep are always sure-footed.
They rounded a small headland and Deenar lay in the gentle curve of a wide bay. A smooth pebble beach swept up from the tossing sea to a green valley. A stream emptied itself over the pebbles as it curved around a high palisade. Tall, straight logs with sharpened ends had been thrust into the ground close together surrounding the town within. Several small buildings lay outside the walls, clustered around the gate that stood open.
A squall blew across the deck, making it difficult to see much welcome in this place, but to Menish it appeared that Deenar was well constructed. No doubt the wall was to fend off pirates. He hoped they were hospitable to travellers, for he knew Drinagish needed a night off this rocking deck even if it meant spending it in a Vorthenki village. Awan had said that they did not have a sailor’s lodge here like the inn at Lianar and was reluctant to land. Another ship lay at anchor not far from the shore. It was a trading vessel like their own, Menish wondered where the crew of that ship were spending the night.
Awan’s booming voice shouted across the water and was answered, even above the noise of the sea, from a figure in a watchtower that rose above the palisade.
Men in heavy sea cloaks appeared in the gateway as they hove to and Shelim let go the anchor.
Menish knew that the Vorthenki sometimes greeted visitors with an alarming war dance but either they recognised Awan or they did not feel threatened. The men on the shore launched two small craft, which had been lying keel up on the beach stones, and rowed them out to sea. The waves grew more restive by the moment and this made heavy work for the rowers, but Menish could hear them chanting a work song to the rhythm of the oars. From the calls back and forth between the two boats it appeared that they were racing each other to the ship. When the first vessel thumped hollowly against their hull the crews of all three boats roared with laughter, cheering, and friendly abuse.
They were Vorthenki folk, of course. No one else lived on this coast. In the second boat stood a tall, red-bearded man who was dressed as a warrior. His helmet was even gaudier than Althak’s, for it sported a dreadful, nodding plume of horsehair that echoed every shift of his head. Menish noticed that he had not had to row. He was obviously the village chief.
The red-beard and two other armed Vorthenki hauled themselves over the gunwales. Menish held himself ready. Awan and Keashil had assured him that the folk of Deenar were friendly, but it would do no harm to have his sword loosened in its sheath. The red-beard drew himself up to his full height, about six and a half feet judged Menish. A little taller than Althak, and he was built more heavily. His face was partly obscured by the helmet so Menish could not judge his age easily, possibly he was in his mid forties. He had the look of a seasoned fighter, the stance of one who has been well trained. The two who stood beside him were younger men, the one on the left was younger than Drinagish.
Menish was about to introduce himself when the red-beard noticed Keashil. “Kopth’s balls!” he cried, “it’s the blind harper!”
He crossed the deck in three strides and crouched beside her figure. Menish saw him turn and notice Olcish too. “And the lad as well,” he murmured, “but only the lad. Woman, do you know me?”
She had been smiling from the moment she heard his voice.
“I know you, Darven. I've harped many times in your house.”
“Aramish? Falia?”
“Aramish is dead,” she reached out and fumbled to grasp Olcish’s hand in her own. “Pirates attacked us. I don't know what happened to my daughter.”
The red-beard gabbled something that Menish recognised as the Vorthenki words of passing and then added an eloquent oath of his own. Menish tried to remember something but could not think what it was.
“Darven? Yes it is,” cried Althak. “M’Lord, it's Darven of the Olsha fords.”
“Of course! I knew I had seen him before.”
Darven rose, looked about him and then pulled off his helmet, releasing a tumble of red hair.
“It is not… aye, but it is! Young Althak and M’Lord the King!” Suddenly he was caught by Althak who held him in a bear hug and thumped his back while he whooped for joy. The exuberance of Althak’s greeting dismayed Darven’s attempts to greet Menish more formally. Finally he extricated himself from Althak’s grip and bowed to Menish. It was a bow that made Astae’s efforts seem fawning.
“M’Lord, it’s good to see you again. But what brings you to Deenar? And by ship?” He glanced at Drinagish, on whose face the sea retch was plain.
“We travel to Atonir. But we're weary and need a night with solid ground beneath our feet.”
“Then you're most welcome. You'll lie in my house tonight, the ground's solid enough there!”
A rope ladder hung from the gunwale to one of the lighters. The little boat rose and fell alongside the larger, making the operation of getting from one to the other rather precarious as far as Menish was concerned.
Somehow he clambered down and found himself sitting in the middle of the boat, clutching at the wooden seat with white knuckles. He tried to smile a greeting to the other men in the boat but he suspected that all he managed was a bare-teethed grimace.
Hrangil managed well enough but Drinagish’s face was a greenish colour by the time he found his seat. Althak and Darven assisted Keashil down with Olcish supervising.
To Menish’s vague annoyance Azkun and Tenari swung themselves down easily, as if they had been born to the sea. Of course Azkun did have Vorthenki blood in his veins, as only Menish knew for sure.
In spite of the weather the sailors stayed on the ship. Awan was reluctant to let them ashore when there was no sailors’ lodge sacred to Yaggrothil. He was happy to trade with the village though and Omoth, who had relatives here, was allowed to land.
Althak took a hand at one of the oars and they seemed to fly across the waves. It was another race between the two boats. One of the oarsmen, another red-beard who resembled Darven enough to be his son, urged their rowers on with threats, jokes and curses.
When, finally, the boat scraped against the shingle beach amid a wash of foam, it was impossible to decide who had won. The oarsmen leapt out and hauled the boat up the beach. Drinagish, for all his apparent weakness, was out of the boat almost before the oarsmen. He threw himself on the stones and hugged the ground on which he lay. Menish and the others left with more dignity. He could not bring himself to rebuke his nephew for unseemly behaviour. He too was grateful for solid ground beneath his feet.
The stones crunched comfortably under their feet as they made their way up to the palisaded village. Darven sent one of his men on ahead to order preparations for a feast and Menish discovered, for the first time in days, that he was very hungry. The sea retch had forced him to eat sparingly and now that it had left him he was starved. No doubt the feast would be more fish stew, but he felt he could enjoy even that.
The village was a good deal better than Lianar, although there were no stone buildings like the old inn. This was not a place the Relanese had used. The palisade was well constructed and three times the height of a Vorthenki. The tops of the logs were sharpened and, on the inside of the structure, a fighting platform ran around the walls to allow the villagers to fend off ladders and to hurl spears and rocks at their attackers.
The gates, always the weak point in such a defence, were set at an angle into the wall. The wall on the right curved into the edge of the door, giving those defending it easy access to the unshielded side of the attackers. Great iron hinges held the gates and a heavy wooden bar could be drawn across it. Darven, who was obviously proud of the defences, pointed out another bar that lay alongside one of the open gates. It could be fitted into a socket in the ground that was packed with stones and placed against the gates to give them extra strength.
The houses themselves were made of well-cut planks of wood and thatched with straw. Rather than curtains of animal skins they had wooden doors, again on iron hinges, and carved door lintels. The carving writhed with sinuous figures of
men, women and dragons. Over each lintel hung a pair of sheep’s horns, and some sprigs of fennel were threaded around them. Much as Menish disliked the Vorthenki, he could not help but admire their carving.
Women clustered in the doorways of the houses, torn between the drizzle and their curiosity of what the men had found in the ship. Like their men they were tall and usually yellow-haired.
Darven led them to the largest house, though they were all much the same. The doorway reeked of fennel as they passed through into the gloomy interior, but that smell was replaced by the smell of smoke, stale sweat and cooking.
Inside the house was typical of its type. A long hall filled the whole structure with a fire burning at its centre. At the very far end a wicker screen hid the women’s enclosure and near the door a similar screen formed a pen to enclose animals at night. Menish noted one of the differences between the way the Vorthenki treated their cattle and their women was that they kept them at different ends of the house.
The fire in the centre of the hall burned brightly and was the only source of light, for there were no windows and no lamps. Its flames curled around a great cauldron that hung from a large chain attached to the central beam of the roof near the smoke hole. Surrounding the fire a ring of stones kept the cracking, popping logs from lighting the rushes on the floor.
Benches and stools and sleeping furs lined the walls and, near the fire, an ornately carved throne stood; the chief’s place.
As they entered Menish heard a gasp beside him and turned to see Azkun wide-eyed and clutching his throat. He caught him by the shoulders and shook him.
“What is it?”
“They killed something,” he whispered. “It has passed,” he said after a moment, and Menish’s attention was diverted by Darven’s folk greeting them.
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