Summon Your Dragons

by Roger Parkinson

  “It doesn't matter anyway. I'm not travelling that far on this trip.” But Menish was lying. The expedition to Gashan would take that route. He would soon find out more about what was happening up there.

  “Perhaps you can tell us what's happening in Atonir,” said Vyanol. “They say the King of Anthor arrived on a golden ship and brought a great magician with him who warned that the Gashans will attack Anthor soon. Vorish is sending an army north and the whole town is required to organise a supply dump he's ordered.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Our worthy council is delighted with all the responsibility.”

  Menish almost choked on his ale. How had such news reached here so soon? There must have been a courier that left before they did.

  “I saw the King,” said Drinagish. “But I saw no golden ship and the King looked sea-sick to me, whatever the ship was made of.”

  They all laughed and Vyanol shrugged.

  “The King beat Gashan last time, he'll beat them again.”

  Menish opened his mouth to say something less certain, but thought better of it.

  “What of the magician? Is it true he raised a man from death?”

  “It's not true,” said Azkun suddenly.

  Their hosts turned to him, questions on their faces and a little disappointment. A good story, it seemed, was about to be ruined.

  “What he means,” put in Althak hurriedly, “is no one was sure the man was dead. We saw it all. It was a knife fight in the street, one of them went down with a knife in his chest. The magician drew out the knife. I thought the man was dead, but he obviously wasn't.”

  “And the other things he did? They say he stood in dragon fire, calmed a storm and that he was seen flying like a bird above the walls of the palace.”

  They burst out laughing. Even Azkun was amused.

  “If he can fly as well then perhaps the Emperor will dispense with his couriers!” But as he spoke Menish cast a sidelong glance at Azkun. Who knew what he could and could not do?

  They retired to bed early, but not before Keashil and the local bard had sung together for them. Their hosts were impressed and hinted that Keashil and her son would be welcome to stay with them for a while. But Keashil politely refused.

  The next morning they made their way to the gap in the wall as the sun rose behind them. There was a gate in the low wall that now blocked the great gap. Beside the gate sat a pair of guards, old men past active service who acted more as porters than guards. The wall was of strategic importance, Vorish had it patrolled with a token force even though Relanor and Anthor were on good terms now.

  The two guards wished them a safe journey and one made a remark about the floods in the north. Menish thanked him with a coin. Then they were through the gate. The long shadow of the wall stretched out before them and they rode some distance before they were back in the sunshine, their horses crunching the frost on the road beneath their hoofs.

  Today the horses they used were different from the previous days. They were stocky beasts with shaggy coats and there were extras for the baggage they now needed.

  When the sunlight struck Menish’s cloak again he turned his horse and looked back at the wall. It was a great shadow, a vast silhouette with the sun peering over it like a range of mountains.

  Menish took a deep breath of the frosty air and felt cold bite at his throat.

  “Anthor. At last we're home.” He turned to Azkun and Keashil. “We're now only a few days from Meyathal, where comfort waits for us. Tonight we'll lie in Kronithal, then spend three nights in the open before we reach Meyathal. But this is the land of Anthor. The road, I'm afraid, is poor from now on, and we've no way stations to change horses. These will have to be spared.”

  “Gilish, you see, never built his roads beyond the wall,” explained Hrangil.

  “Because Gilish could not tame Anthor,” said Menish, suddenly irritated. “We'll make what speed we can.” He turned his horse and galloped ahead of them.

  Menish was right about the road. Gone was the paved stone of Gilish’s highway. Beyond the wall their way deteriorated into a track rutted by wagon wheels that wound up into the mountains. Gone, too, were the fertile lands of Relanor with their green fields and rich earth. The land before them swept up into barren hills and mountains, desolate but for the tough, brown grass that clung to the soil. In places the rocky bones of the hills showed through the thin, yellow soil.

  As they climbed, the chill wind that had followed them across the plains turned into an icy blast that stung their eyes and cheeks. They plodded on miserably, wrapped tightly in their cloaks wishing they could gallop away from the wind. But that was not possible. The road twisted up into the hills and soon a treacherous drop lay on one side of them, a cliff on the other and always a corner ahead.

  Azkun wondered what kind of country Menish was leading them into, a barren waste it seemed so far and, unlike Relanor, there appeared to be no inhabitants.

  Not long before noon they passed over a high point in the road and down into a wide valley. It was so wide that they could hardly see the other side of it. Winding like a great serpent across the valley floor was a river. It was a muddy yellow colour, the colour of the soil, and it meandered through a green forest that contrasted with the brown hills around it. The river was as wide as the Goshar River they had crossed at Askonir, but there they had found a bridge. Here there was no such convenience.

  The winding road down to the valley was much more pleasant for the wind no longer clawed at them and the view was promising. Azkun could see the road ahead snaking down towards a cluster of buildings by the river, his first view of an Anthorian settlement.

  Menish sent Drinagish on ahead towards the village, Drinagish seemed oddly excited but Azkun did not know why. He was surprised to see such a village past the border. He had thought the Anthorians never lived in one place but followed their herds across the plains and lived in tents.

  Now that they were sheltered from the biting wind the sun grew warm. Althak lifted his winged helmet off his head and tied the straps to his arm. Menish bundled his fur cloak into his saddle pack and loosened his jerkin. Hrangil did not seem to notice the change in temperature.

  “We seem to be high up,” said Keashil.

  “Yes, we're looking across the valley of Cop-sen, or Amsha as the Relanese call it where it flows through their land. Our road crosses the river at a village that we can see from here. It's called Kronithal, the ‘iron camp’ in the Anthorian tongue, for this is where the Relanese first traded in iron with the Anthorians. We'll sleep there tonight.”

  The village, when they reached it, was much like those they had seen in Relanor, though smaller than most, and there was no encircling wall. The flat land around the village had been ploughed but lay fallow. The road wound between the fields and the houses towards the river where two imposing, stone buildings stood.

  Azkun had seen buildings like this in Relanor, especially as they drew close to the Lansheral. There was a ground level that seemed to be for housing animals, and two levels above that. The first floor had a wide stone terrace with steps leading up to it. Menish led them towards the nearest of the buildings where, tethered outside, stood Drinagish’s horse.

  “They’ve arrived! Here they are!” cried a voice.

  A large, wooden door burst open, erupting with people who swarmed out of it, across the terrace and down the stone steps. Most of them were children and their elders in a more dignified fashion followed them.

  “Corith! Take your uncle’s horse. Romeryal, take the sorcerer’s beast.” A stern looking man stood in the doorway giving orders that he was obviously used to having obeyed.

  “Greetings, Menish. It's good to see you again.” He smiled and his sternness vanished in a maze of wrinkles.

  “Holdarish, I'm glad to see you so well.”

  Drinagish appeared in the doorway behind him with a woman who was a similar age to Holdarish. She had her arm across Drinagish’s shoulders and Drinagish seemed uncomforta
ble about it.

  “Come inside and be welcome. There's meat and bread for you.” Corith, a lad who looked a lot like Drinagish, held Menish’s horse until he dismounted, then led the animal away.

  Inside the house they found a hall faced with stone and a big fireplace along one wall. Something was turning on a spit over it and Azkun looked away. The stone walls were largely hidden by woven rugs that hung on them. Most were plain, woven wool dyed one colour, usually brown or yellow. But on the north wall was a patterned rug, or a tapestry. It showed figures with swords and beasts. Azkun could not make any sense of it in the dim light but it plainly depicted something.

  The floor of the room was laid with skins and straw and a few of the large Relanese cushions. On these Mora, Holdarish’s wife, bade them sit. Servants brought them food and Holdarish poured ambroth. This was Anthor, there was no talk of ‘medicinal purposes’ for ambroth here.

  “How is Sonalish?” asked Mora as they ate.

  “Still keeping up her sword practice she told me,” said Menish through a mouthful of meat. “Though she was making some embroidery as well.”

  “Does she still ride?”

  “Not often. Remember the Relanese never did approve of women riding horses. They had some idea they would lose their virginity.”

  “But she's married! She has four children!”

  “Yes, but they always thought it unseemly for women to ride anyway.”

  Mora looked concerned.

  “Is she happy? Menish, is she really happy?”

  Menish laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “Mora, your daughter is happy. You should go and see for yourself.”

  “No, it is she who left us, it is she who must return. I'll not go chasing after her into Relanor. Especially if they're going to frown at me riding a horse.”

  “It's been eight years,” said Menish.

  “What has Drinagish been doing?” asked Holdarish, changing the subject.

  “He's acquitted himself well,” replied Menish with a smile. Drinagish fidgeted with his drinking horn. “We were attacked by pirates on our voyage south from Lianar. Drinagish’s sword put the fear of Anthor into them. It was he who found Keashil and Olcish on the pirate ship.”

  “Don’t drink it so fast, boy,” muttered Holdarish, nudging Drinagish when he took a mouthful of ambroth.

  Menish carefully ignored the parental rebuke and reached for more food. There was tsamba, a favourite of all Anthorians: butter rolled in toasted barley flour. He kneaded a bite-sized piece of butter between his finger and thumb and dusted it in the bowl of flour.

  “How are things here? I feel I've been away for so long it seems all summer has passed away.”

  “We've had little trouble with the wolves, though it's hardly cold enough to send them south yet.”

  “Many raids?”

  Holdarish shook his head. “Not my herds, and I've other things to do than go raiding myself nowadays. I leave that for the younger ones. It's forbidden to Drinagish now, of course.”

  “That's true, the king and his heir may not raid herds, and no one may raid theirs.”

  “Hmm, perhaps we could gift our herds to Drinagish now that he's your heir. Then we'd be immune from raiding.”

  “Then you'd be beholden to him for your income-”

  “Do I hear you correctly?” interrupted Keashil. “You're talking of raiding cattle aren't you? Stealing each other’s cows and sheep?”

  “And camels,” said Holdarish around a mouthful of tsamba.

  “Yes, that's right,” said Althak. “They do it for sport in Anthor. I was surprised when I first found out too.”

  “Not merely for sport,” Mora corrected him. “Raiding is a way of getting rich.”

  “Or getting killed, of course,” said Menish.

  “Any venture that may produce profit will have an element of risk.”

  “Rumour of this came to Golshuz, but no one believed it. It is lawful, then, to steal cattle in this land?”

  “Of course. Anyone who does not have the wits to guard his animals would lose them to the wolves anyway,” said Mora.

  “There are rules,” said Althak. “No more than half of the breeding stock may be taken. The camp itself may not be raided and only those actively involved in defending the herd may be attacked. Otherwise there would be a danger to children and the infirm.”

  “How… civilised,” said Keashil. “But those defending the herds may fight and kill each other?”

  “Oh yes,” Menish said, speaking like the father of an unruly child that he indulges in spite of himself. “They fight, they duel, they feud. Every small matter must be resolved by violence. There are families that have been at each other’s throats for generations over some trivial matter. That absurd feud between the Rithyar and Romarbol clans has been going on for more than a hundred years as far as I can tell. It started when one sold the other a sick sheep which died the next day.”

  “And they raid each other all the time?”

  “Not all the time,” said Drinagish. “No one raids or feuds a month either side of the spring games.”

  “And of course at the spring games you will see members of the Rithyar clan and the Romarbol clan buying each other drinks and swapping stories,” put in Holdarish.

  Keashil laughed. “You are a strange folk.”

  “And formidable fighters,” said Mora.

  “Those that survive are,” muttered Menish.

  “But, Uncle,” said Drinagish. “Most duels are fought with wrestling nowadays.”

  “Most are, that's true. But the rest are fought to the death, and raids often get someone killed.”

  “You can't cool hot blood, Menish,” said Mora. “Anthorian blood has always been hot.”

  “Too hot for our own good, I fear,” said Hrangil grimly.

  “And what's that supposed to mean, Master Hrangil?” asked Holdarish.

  “Our hot-blooded warriors are of little use when it comes to a war.”

  “We beat Thealum not long ago!”

  “We didn't. We trained Vorthenki allies in the ways of Relanor. They beat Thealum.”

  “With Anthorian help.”

  “Yes, some of our own folk were not so hot-blooded that they wouldn't submit to training in how to obey orders. They had to fight with the tight discipline of Relanor, not the mad charge of Anthorians.”

  “It's true,” Menish took some more tsamba. “We don't like to admit it. Our folk are bred to wild raids and duels. They don't take orders easily. In any large battle they will spend their all on one massed charge. It's very brave but it's not a tactic that works well.”

  “I've heard it said that Vorish fights his battles beforehand on a table with sticks for armies,” said Mora.

  “Yes,” put in Althak. “I've seen him.”

  “So have I,” said Menish. “He plans a battle beforehand because he knows that his own folk will do what he says. Although…” He hesitated.

  “What is it?” asked Holdarish.

  “Sometimes I fear that Vorish thinks his armies really are only sticks. They can be thrown away without a thought when the need arises.”

  “So what would you have?” frowned Mora. “The Anthorian way of glory and death, or Vorish’s coldly planned wars?”

  “I'd have peace,” said Menish quietly, and as he spoke his eyes met those of Azkun. Perhaps they had something they could agree on.

  Chapter 20: The Caravan

  The next morning when they resumed their journey the ground was dusted with frost. It fled when the sun peered over the mountains they had crossed the previous day, but the air was chill and the breath of the horses steamed from their noses.

  Kronithal lay on the banks of the great river Cop-sen that they had seen the previous day and their first task was to cross the river. The water flowed sluggishly here and it was dirty yellow with desert silt carried hundreds of miles from the wide plains of Anthor that stretched far to the west. There was no bridge, but moored on the
near bank was a barge large enough to carry their whole company. Two ropes stretched from a post on the bank beside it out into the water and away to the far side where, presumably, there was a similar post holding the other ends. It was too far away for Azkun to see.

  The horses allowed themselves to be led onto the barge but they were clearly unhappy about it. When they were all aboard the ferryman untied his barge from the post and pulled the boat out into the stream.

  It was not an easy way to travel. They all hauled on one of the ropes and so the barge moved. But the river was more powerful than it appeared. The yellow-brown water swirled about them, tugging at the barge, trying to pull it away down stream. This was the purpose of the second rope, it was slipped through the framework of the barge and held it on course. The rope they pulled on was knotted for better grip while the other was smooth so that it would slide through the barge.

  The barge itself was a curious affair. A wooden platform with a rough railing around it appeared to be all there was to it at first glance. But Azkun noticed curious balloon shapes tied beneath the platform. Drinagish cheerfully informed him that they were the inflated skins of cows, the odd protrusions that poked out from beneath the deck were the stumps of legs. Azkun felt bile rise in his stomach.

  He felt as if he had unwittingly eaten meat. He could refuse food, but by floating on the dead hides of animals he had taken on part of the guilt for their deaths. He did not realise what his boots were made of, nor the skins he had slept on the night before. But this he did know. For a brief moment he wanted to throw himself into the water, to reject the guilt they would lay on his head. Was this what Vorish had meant when he had told him that just by living he was guilty of murder? But he calmed himself. Throwing himself in the river would achieve nothing. He had tried that path before.

  On the far side of the river the road wound back up into the hills and an icy wind found them with its chill fingers. They spent the rest of the day wrapped in their cloaks, grateful for the warmth of the horses between their knees.