Summon Your Dragons

by Roger Parkinson

  People or spectres? He still held Tenari’s arm but he could see nothing in the blackness. The muffled breathing of a large company surrounded them. He shuddered. The waiting went on and on until he was too terrified to move, afraid to draw attention to himself. He could only stand and wait for them to come for him.

  There was a sudden flash of light, blinding after the darkness. A great fire erupted before them, which climbed to a high ceiling and then sank to a yellow glow. On the far side of the flame, on a high, black throne, sat an old man. He was so old his flesh had withered onto his bones and his hands trembled like small branches stirred by the wind.

  Surrounding them on every side were silent figures who stood motionless as statues. Hooded cloaks obscured their features making them seem like black-robed spectres waiting for prey.

  The Keeper of the Flame rose slowly to his feet, a stick-like arm raised in greeting. “Welcome to the fires of Am-Goluz. May Aton grant that you find what you seek, if what you seek is yours to find,” he croaked, then he sat back on his throne. “You may approach.”

  Menish led his company forward, past the flames to the steps that led to the throne. His heart pounded as he looked into the ancient face of the Keeper.

  “You are the same keeper?” he demanded. The silence of the place turned his voice into a hoarse whisper.

  “I am the same. Many years ago I remember a younger man with a heavy burden who came to me from the burning of Atonir. You had a child, a boy, with you then. I told you he would become Emperor.”

  “It was more than twenty years ago. You were old then. How?”

  Amusement tinged the Keeper’s face.

  “I was ancient then. Menish, must you doubt so? What was your reason for coming here?”

  Menish paused, wondering how old the Keeper really was, but not daring to ask in case the answer stretched his credibility too far.

  “I came to tell you she is alive.”

  “The woman you left to die? I am glad. You are free of murder.”

  To Menish his words sounded like an accusation.

  “She drugged me!”

  “Your condemnation is from yourself not me. Relanor does not see a crime in such things. It is the Anthorian in you that condemns you. You never told your wife.”

  “Of course not. I curse the day I went to Atonir.”

  “Is that all?” The Keeper’s gaze wandered over to Azkun and Tenari.

  “No, I bring you a question. Do you know who this man is? He doesn't eat or drink, he has stood in dragon fire unscathed.”

  The Keeper regarded Azkun for a long moment then he turned back to Menish. There was a hint of a smile on his face.

  “You call him Azkun and he comes from Kelerish. You would have added that he drove away a korolith, or so the Vorthenki call them. He calmed a storm, but you do not believe that, King of Anthor. And he raised a man from death. He is the son of Thalissa, the woman you thought you had killed.

  “But all this you know, you wish me to tell you if he is Gilish or Kopth. And I can answer that question.” He paused, watching them with amusement. “You are going to the land of Gashan. This Azkun will, in Gashan, declare himself to be Gilish.”

  “That's not what the priests of Atonir thought,” said Menish.

  “The priests of Atonir are fools. What do they know of power? Only our flame has been alight since Gilish placed it here himself. Theirs was allowed to die and be rekindled three times. Only our flame holds the truth!”

  As the echoes of his shouts subsided the Keeper made an odd, choking sound that Menish did not immediately recognise as laughter. Menish found himself wondering what made a man take the vows of eternal silence that bound him to the fire tower: a fear of the outside world or a yearning for mystic power?

  “You came to me for an answer and you do not like my answer. So be it, but that is still my answer. Yet perhaps I can give you something for your remaining guilt.”

  “I told you she drugged me!”

  “Of course, yet you still blame yourself. Such guilt is easily paid for by placing Vorish on the throne.”

  “Vorish? You approve of him? Why?”

  “What do you know of us, Menish of Anthor? You have visited a Fire Tower but once before in your life. The rest you know is mere rumours, the idle talk of men outside. Yet you presume to know of whom we approve and disapprove.”

  “I only know that Vorish tolerates you. He doesn't visit you, he doesn't leave offerings before your fires.”

  “Do you think we care? Does our power rest only with the approval of the Emperor?”

  “Power? You'd speak to me of power? Where were you when Telish was killed?” retorted Menish. “I have said all I wanted to. I do not accept your answer about Azkun. But I wanted to tell you that Thalissa is alive.”

  He turned and faced the cloaked figures that stood motionless in the shadows. Before he could walk towards the door the Keeper called him back.

  “Stop, Menish of Anthor. I have not dismissed you. You are presumptuous, yet you will be humbled before the Fire.” In front of him the fire leapt high into the air with a roar and Menish threw up his hands to shield his face. “I have something more to say to you.”

  Menish turned and faced the old Keeper, angry at him and yet awed. “What is it?”

  The Keeper leaned back on his throne and a look like glee crossed his face.

  “The ways of Aton are strange, as mysterious as the shape of fire, as unknowable as the dwelling place of the Ammorl. You do not see it yet, Menish. After thirty years you have not seen it. Yet we have known, we who sit in this tower, we who never leave it. The ways of Aton are strange.” He leaned forward.

  “We approve of Vorish. We absolve you of guilt. You are his father.”

  “What?”

  “Of course. How could you not know? He has the look of you.”

  Vorish had dark, Anthorian eyes but he was otherwise Vorthenki looking. Menish had always thought he looked like Thalissa.

  “He looks like his mother, you haven't seen him.”

  “And he looks like his father. Did you not commit your crime nine months before he was born?”

  Menish’s mind raced as he tried to remember over thirty years before. He had been in Anthor when Vorish was born. The Vorthenki had not used the Relanese calendar in those days and they were still rather haphazard about recording birth dates. The timing might or might not be correct, he did not know.

  “So you see,” the Keeper went on, “you have placed an emperor of the line of Gilish on the throne. Not, unfortunately a direct descent in the male line, but for the present we are content. The means are not relevant. Do we not call Gilish ‘the two handed’ for that reason?”

  Menish said nothing. He simply glared at the Keeper as if he had insulted him.

  “You may go,” the keeper dismissed him. Muttering oaths Menish turned and walked to the door.

  Chapter 19: The Lansheral

  For the next three days they continued their journey across Relanor, leaving before dawn, changing horses at way stations and sleeping in post houses. They had to slow their pace somewhat because Keashil grew tired. She was unused to riding, and she was stiff and sore each night.

  Menish wondered if Tenari also suffered with the pace, for as far as any of them knew she had never ridden before. But she had lapsed back to her old, sullen manner, having eyes only for Azkun. Other than that she appeared to manage fairly well. Menish could see Azkun was doing his best, but he was not so used to riding that he could hope to keep up this pace as long as the Anthorians and Althak. He looked relieved when Menish said that they would rise later and halt sooner.

  As for the words of the Keeper, Menish did not believe him. He had been a fool to go to the fire tower. It was a place where old men burbled stupidity and made it look like power. Many years ago, when the weight of his cares and his guilt at leaving Thalissa to the mercy of Thealum’s mob lay heavily on him, he had visited the tower to try and find some solace. He had
found peace and understanding, if not compassion, at the place. It was appropriate that he should give them the news that Thalissa was alive.

  But this talk of power was nonsense. The Keeper had spoken grandly of things far away, things he could not have known about without being some kind of oracle. But Menish knew better. Vorish was also good at obtaining information. There was no need to surround it with mystery and awe, it was simply a matter of having spies in the right places and asking the right questions.

  And yet, although he told himself these things over and over, he found himself watching Azkun, wondering about Gilish. During the long gallops and short halts Vorish’s face appeared again and again in his mind. It was slowly changing to look more like his own.

  On the evening after the one spent at the Fire Tower, when they had eaten, Drinagish made a remark about Am-Goluz.

  “Tell me more of the Fire Tower, Master Hrangil,” asked Azkun.

  Hrangil raised his eyebrows and an eager look crossed his face, as if this were some sort of test he knew he could pass.

  “The Fire Towers, there are two of them: Am-Goluz and Onen-Goluz, were built by Gilish when he first landed in Relanor. To the uninitiated they were signal beacons to warn Atonir of a Monnar attack and to summon aid.

  “Gilish built them to be impregnable, and neither tower has ever been conquered. Even the Vorthenki could not breach their doors, although Thealum brought great engines to Onen-Goluz because he thought Vorish lay within. In years past they have been a refuge for the Imperial family in times of danger. Gishirian the Good was born in Am-Goluz and lived there until he came to the throne in his thirties.

  “But they are more than beacons and refuges. They are the source of the sacred fire. The temple of Aton, in the palace of Atonir, was intended to be another source of the flame, but its flame was lost when… when Gilish fell at Kelerish. Alas, the flame of Onen-Goluz was also lost in the time of Kulash the Usurper. Both were rekindled from Am-Goluz, but they do not retain their former power.

  “Because of the flame of Am-Goluz the Keeper lives to a great age. There is no man alive who remembers when the present keeper came into his office, I have heard it said that it was two hundred years ago.

  “But it's not only the Keeper who lives long. Those who serve him in the tower are also long of life. They spend their days tending the fire and meditating the glory of Aton. They do not speak, only the Keeper may speak. If they spoke they would give voice to the mystery of the flame and it would no longer be a mystery.

  “The keepers are very wise. The Emperors used to consult them on difficult matters.” Hrangil paused then added, “not Vorish I fear.”

  “There was another fire tower,” said Keashil quietly. “We had one in Golshuz. But I doubt if it survived the invasion.”

  On the third day after Am-Goluz they came to the Lansheral, the great wall Gilish had built to fence off his borders from the wild Anthorian hill men.

  Their first sight of the wall came when they passed over a low hillock and saw the plain spread out before them with the mountains rising behind it. The plains were so flat here that they could see for miles from this small rise in the ground. The wall ran along the base of the mountains, an even, regular thing that wound across the contours of the ground on a line stretching from north to south as far as the eye could see. It looked like a natural feature of the landscape from a distance, like a peculiarly regular cliff that chopped off the foothills prematurely.

  They halted their gallop and looked for a long moment, on their lips the word ‘impossible’ waited to be spoken. The wall was simply too colossal to believe.

  It was Althak who broke their silence.

  “Perhaps while we gaze on Gilish’s greatest achievement, we should remember one of his failures.” He laughed as he spoke and pointed away to the north east where a line of hills rose in the distance. “Azkun, beyond those hills lie the mountains of Kishir, the place of the dragons. In the mountains there's a city, and Gilish yearned to conquer that city, didn't he, Hrangil? But he couldn't conquer the dragons.”

  “There are dragons? Dragons in those mountains?”

  “No, no. There are no dragons there now. No one knows why they left their city but they're gone.”

  Although they had seen the wall clearly from the rise in the ground they did not reach it until noon the next day. It grew and grew as they approached, each view of it made it appear quite close but still they did not reach it. Hour after hour it grew before them. Azkun had assumed that it was about twice the height of a man when he first saw it which, considering its length, was impressive enough. But when he finally stood at its foot and threw back his head to see its crenellated top he was astonished. It was at least three hundred feet high, not as high as the walls of Atonir’s palace, but it was over four hundred miles long. This was impossible.

  Even Menish, who had seen it many times now and was not easily impressed anyway, stood before it speechless with awe. The wall always had that effect on him. He never believed his memory of its size and always it shrank within his mind so that each time he saw it he was astonished all over again.

  Their road led them under the shadow of the wall and Azkun wondered, when they passed towns and villages, what it must be like to live so near to this colossus. Did these people stare at the wall afresh each morning as if it had grown up in the night? Or did they accept it as part of their world? He found himself continually looking at it, making sure that it really was as high as he thought, and peering ahead and behind as it wound away into the blueness.

  When night fell they came to another amazing sight. They had followed the wall down into a wide valley where a great river ambled its way across the plain. A walled town, its wall looked foolish beside the great wall, stood on the riverbank. Not far from the town the Lansheral had been breached. It was as if a huge fist had punched its way through, leaving a crumbling opening. Some attempt had been made to fill the gap and the result was a good, solid wall that looked well made and adequate. It was only three times the height of a man. Like the town wall it seemed a childish imitation.

  They spent the night at an inn built just inside the gates of the town. There were no courier post houses here. Menish knew the place well, for he usually spent a night here in his journeys to and from Relanor. The innkeepers, an Anthorian couple named Yartha and Vyanol, knew Menish, but not as King of Anthor. They thought he was a wealthy Anthorian merchant who traded hides in Relanor. There were many of these now that Relanor was peaceful again.

  It was convenient to remain incognito here. Unlike the previous towns and cities they had passed through, such as Askonir, these border towns had no Drinol. A council elected by prominent citizens governed them and they were inevitably dreadfully self-important. If they found the King of Anthor within their walls they would want him to attend this feast and that, preferably for at least a week or two so that they could boast to the neighbouring towns.

  He could simply refuse, of course, but they would still want him to spend half the night discussing some absurd local business anyway unless he had Althak and Drinagish forcibly remove them. Anonymity was the simplest way to avoid all that and get himself a good night’s sleep.

  Yartha and Vyanol made him comfortable, serving him their best ale and the choicest cuts of the pig that roasted on the open hearth. They did have some ambroth but very little, they kept it more for medicinal purposes than for drinking. After the meal their hosts joined them as Menish and his company sat with their mugs of ale around the hearth while a bard played softly in the corner.

  Menish liked these two. Yartha was a dark, powerfully built woman with hair as black as night and olive skin. Her face frequently lit with a bright smile and she had a vast capacity for ale. Vyanol, in contrast, was more pensive. He hesitated before he spoke, as if he took some care in choosing his words. They spoke in Relanese from habit, but they occasionally reverted to their native Anthorian tongue.

  Yartha had much to say about the weather, the
re had been storms in the north lately, and how it kept away travellers. Not that the inn was empty, several groups were staying that night and a whole caravan had passed through a few days before.

  Vyanol hesitated a comment about the recent elections in a pause left by his wife. He was annoyed that women could not hold office on the council. Any prominent citizen could vote, including Yartha for she owned the inn jointly with her husband, but she could not seek election herself.

  “It's these foolish Relanese, and the Vorthenki are worse,” he said in his slow, hesitating way. “My wife would make a good councillor, better than some I could name.”

  “I'm certain of it,” said Althak, a twinkle in his eye as he saw Vyanol remember the Vorthenki’s presence.

  Menish smiled at their host’s concern.

  “Fear not, Vyanol,” he chuckled. “Althak is not as Vorthenki as he appears.”

  “M’Lord!” protested Althak and they all laughed at his use of the Vorthenki honorific which seemed to deny Menish’s words.

  “Nonsense, Uncle,” snorted Drinagish. “He's as big as an ox, he likes the sea and he dresses like a, well, like a Vorthenki. What else do you call him?”

  Menish changed the subject.

  “There have been storms in the north?”

  “So a man said who was through last week,” said Yartha. “You may have flooding. How far north do you travel?”

  “Meyathal, no further.”

  “Well, it probably won't affect you. I heard that Gildenthal was flooded.” She shrugged, “Mind you those northerners are a wild lot, they'll say anything.”

  “He was a northerner?”

  “No, a plainsman, at great pains to tell us how many cattle he owned, you know the type. But he heard the news from northerners when he was near Gildenthal.”