He realised during the silence and the emptiness that the absence of Tenari had given him freedom from the Monnar’s gaze, freedom from their influence. He was afraid of the spectres on the first night, but they did not appear as they had before he had found Tenari. Perhaps he need no longer fear them.
The dragons filled his thoughts more and more. This country reminded him of the plains of Kelerish and how the dragon had flown down from the wide sky. He had relied on Tenari too much and had not remembered the glory of his masters. This he resolved to change.
The emptiness of the plains was not complete. The road on which they travelled was the only route from Meyathal to Gildenthal and was used by caravans. They met two of these but did not camp with them. Many times they saw distant thals surrounded by herds, but the thals rarely travelled the roads, they were looking for pastures.
Apart from people and their animals Azkun saw other signs of life. Birds soared above their heads continually. One had a high, keening cry that made Azkun feel that the world was nearly at an end. There were rabbits and hares hiding in their holes in the ground, and foxes and wolves hunting them. Several times in the nights Azkun woke with fresh death in his heart. But they were normally dulled by distance, reminders of corruption rather than an intolerable awareness of it. He had the dragons to protect him from such things.
On the fifth day Grath spied a herd of deer and suggested they hunt, for they had no fresh meat left. Menish overruled him. They could eat barley and dried fruit until they reached Gildenthal, he told him, there would be no hunting on this journey. Grath grumbled but Azkun was grateful.
When they were eight days from Meyathal they came to a small path leading away from the road. A cairn of rounded stones had been piled beside it as a marker. Grath, who was in front, turned down the path and the others followed.
It led down into a mossy hollow that was wide enough to contain a large pool. Sheltered from the wind by the hollow the water was clear and still, or it was until the horses bent to drink from it. Their snorting slurps caused ripples that washed out into the centre of the pool. Rising from the centre was a tall, grey stone.
Azkun drew back in fear when he saw it. It was a Monnar stone, he could see an eye chiselled on its face. But he could see no more. The eye was not looking at him. It was not alive. It was just a stone. Nevertheless he looked at it warily.
“This is the Kruzan,” Menish explained. “It's a place more ancient than we Anthorians. Our women-folk say it was placed here before the heroes crossed the mountains of Ristalshuz. This place is sacred to them.”
“In Anthor the men worship Aton while the women worship the old gods, Kiveli and Krith,” said Althak. There was a smile on his face and something that suggested amusement at the situation.
“We leave them to their tales,” added Hrangil. “Women have no place in religion.”
“Why not?” asked Azkun.
“It has always been so for the Relanese,” said Menish. “The worship of Aton is forbidden to women.”
“Why?”
“Because they're not men!” snapped Hrangil, disturbed by the suggestion that things could be otherwise. “You heard Keashil quoting from the Mish-Tal. It was disgusting!”
There was no answer to that. After they had filled their water bags and the horses had drunk their fill they returned to the road.
That afternoon, during a short break because Althak had to check a shoe on his horse, Hrangil spoke to Azkun alone.
“Forgive my outburst at the Kruzan, it was presumptuous of me. These things are… dispensational. We've been shown the way of the Mish-Tal, but the Mish-Tal is not the ultimate authority.” The way he looked at Azkun it was obvious that he believed he was speaking directly to that ultimate authority.
“It does not matter. I did not understand. You gave no offence. I thought perhaps I had offended you.”
“No, no, of course not. I sometimes forget, that's all. I forget who you are and I forget to hold myself away from the world.”
“You fear the world would corrupt you?”
Hrangil looked at him, puzzled, then said, “No, I didn't mean that. I must hold my wicked nature in check. You are surprised. But I say little. I do only what I must do. I dare not do what I want, I might find it evil.”
Once again Azkun could think of no answer to Hrangil. It seemed an appalling view to hold. He had made mistakes himself, but the dragons would deliver him from the corruption of the world. The corruption was not part of him.
Yet it was part of Hrangil. Hrangil had to eat.
Beyond the Kruzan pool the plains became both colder and drier. Up until now they had crossed streams every few miles, but now the ground became stony and the tough, desert grass began to replace the lusher pastures. Two days after the Kruzan pool the flatness of the plains was broken by a distant line of brown hills that marched from the west towards them. The wind had changed by now from the damp east wind to a dry westerly.
Azkun did not get a close look at the hills until a day later when their road ran right past a great tongue of sand that reached towards it. The hills were sand dunes, piled there by the wind that blew forever across the plains. Tiny avalanches of sand spilled down their slopes. He had seen dunes before when they had sailed along the Relanese coast towards Atonir, but these were much larger. They were as high as the walls of the palace of Atonir.
“They shift closer to the road every year,” observed Menish as they passed the edge of the tongue. “One day they'll cover it.”
“Then we'll move the road,” said Althak.
“No doubt, but it makes me feel at the mercy of the desert. It decides where we can and cannot go. We can't easily cross those dunes.”
“We Vorthenki have a saying: ‘We are all in the hands of Kopth.’ Perhaps you would change it to Aton or Krith but the sentiment is the same. The point at which we imagine ourselves as a power over such things is the point at which they defeat us.”
“You're right,” said Menish. “We'll move the road.”
The line of dunes was the mid-point of the deep desert. Beyond them the dryness of the country diminished. The grass became taller and eventually flecked with green. Streams began to appear again. At first these were tiny, but on the third day beyond the sand dunes they had to cross a sizeable river. Two days beyond that lay Gildenthal.
The flat plain had turned to rolling hills with groups of trees dotted over it. There was even more wildlife here than they had seen in the south, but Menish still refused to allow them to hunt. They were making their way down a winding ridge when Menish halted and pointed to the valley floor below them. Azkun could see the white Anthorian tents surrounded by tilled fields. In their centre was what looked like a small palace with a high tower beside it, but there was something peculiar about the buildings. He could not see what it was from a distance.
Menish had Althak unfurl his standard. They did not want to be mistaken for raiders.
When they reached the valley floor their view of Gildenthal was blocked by trees so it was not until they were quite close, crossing the tilled fields, that Azkun was able to see the place clearly.
The town was almost exclusively made of tents. Two or three small, stone houses had been built among them, but the northerners clearly preferred their felt tents to cold stone. In the centre of the tents lay the palace and the tower, and Azkun was able to see what was odd about them.
They were ruined. There were wide cracks in the palace walls with creepers growing through them and the tower, which might once have been quite a size, was crumbling into rubble. Azkun was about to ask what had happened here when they were greeted by a group of people from Gildenthal.
“Sire, it's good to see you. We didn't look for you in the north at this time of year. I'm Vangrith of the Thonyar clan. I have five hundred yaks.” She smiled at them. The northerners were a direct folk, she said who she was and how rich she was. It simplified matters, thought Menish. In the south they liked to see if Menish would r
emember their names and standing and became annoyed if he was unable to. In fact he did remember Vangrith, she was one of the most important people in Gildenthal.
“My journeys have taken me far from home this year. I've heard there were floods in the north.”
“The pasture land near the river was flooded two months ago, it often is in summer.”
“Then the tale I heard grew in the telling.”
Vangrith, it transpired, was a distant relative of Grath’s. She offered them food and hospitality in her tents, she had several. They ate a light meal of tsamba, for there would be a feast tonight. Azkun steeled himself to feel death again. Menish had been thoughtful to spare him from it on their journey, but he could not forbid these folk to feast on their own cattle. Even so he took a moment to have a quiet word with Azkun.
“I hope you're not too distressed by this?”
“Nothing can be done. Not yet.”
When evening came a huge fire was lit before the dark walls of the ruined palace and the folk of Gildenthal gathered around it bringing freshly killed beasts. They proceeded to prepare the animals for roasting in the light of the flames. Azkun watched them with mounting horror. It had been days since he had tasted death so intimately, he had forgotten how much it appalled him.
To take his mind off the gore he turned to Althak.
“What are those buildings? Why are they so broken?”
“Grath can tell you better than I,” said Althak. “All I know is that they're very old.”
“Yes, they're old,” said Grath. “That's obvious, I suppose. But they are about the same age as the palace of Meyathal. This palace you can see was destroyed when the ground shook. That sometimes happens here in the north. The women say it is Kiveli, the earth goddess, angry at us men for worshipping Aton. There's a tale I can't remember of an old king who refused to leave the palace even though it was crumbling around him. I can't remember his name either, but it was his grandfather who built the palace.
“The fire tower was built much later, though it, too, is very old. Yes, it is a fire tower, or it was meant to be. I think it was never lit. The Gashans attacked Gildenthal and smashed it. That was hundreds of years ago.”
“The Gashans actually came here?”
“Oh yes. That was before one of the Relanese Emperors drove them back, Gilish III he was called, or was it Gilish II? I'm not sure. His name was Gilish anyway, but he wasn't the first Gilish.”
Azkun was about to ask more about the ruins when he heard Hrangil’s voice raised in indignation.
“What is this man doing in our midst? Begone, vermin! You have no place here.”
The man he spoke to crouched near the butchers picking at the scraps they threw away. His hands and mouth were red and slick with blood. He was not Anthorian. Even in the shifting firelight Azkun could see that. His hair was long and matted and he had a full beard like a Vorthenki. But he was not tall and his hair and beard were black. He wore rags that were torn and filthy.
When Hrangil spoke to him he winced like a kicked dog. He slithered away into the shadows with a leering scowl on his face. Hrangil spat onto the ground.
“What is it?” asked Menish, he had been talking with Vangrith and had not seen the man.
“Monnar filth,” said Hrangil. “They were letting him eat by the fire.”
“Oh, that's old One-ear. He does no harm,” said Vangrith.
“He's a Monnar! You allow him by your fires?”
“Well, we don't exactly allow him. But he manages to fight with the dogs for his share of the scraps.”
“You should turn him away, cast him from you. Don't you know what he is?”
“Of course. He's a Monnar. But he's old and harmless. Master Hrangil, you don't expect me to be concerned with old enemies of your Gilish, do you?”
“To harbour such as he is wickedness! He mustn't live among you!”
“It's not our concern, Hrangil,” said Menish. “We're guests here.”
Azkun looked into the shadows where the old Monnar had gone and shuddered. He had seen blood around the man’s mouth, blood dribbling into his beard. He was a Monnar. Azkun remembered the ring of stones and felt suddenly cold. He wanted to move closer to the fire, but the butchers were still there.
The fire roared higher as someone piled on some more branches. Sparks flew up to the black sky like tiny, orange stars. He stared at them, remembering the dragon fire. He did not have to be afraid of the Monnar, the dragons had given him power over such evil. He did not eat. The dragons sustained him. They had not abandoned him. He would be dead if they had.
While the yaks were roasting on the fire the Anthorians called for entertainment. First was a wrestling match. It was not a duel so there were few formalities. The two contestants bowed to each other to show there was no quarrel between them and proceeded to thrash each other for all they were worth. There were some other differences from a formal duel and Althak explained them to Azkun. Head blows were forbidden and body blows were frowned upon. Biting, which was legal in a formal duel, was also forbidden here.
The two put up a good fight and, after throwing his opponent for the third time, the winner helped him to his feet. They bowed to each other and retired into the crowd.
Another match followed, much the same as the last, except that two women fought. Like the men they stripped to the waist and greased themselves. Althak mentioned that men and women rarely wrestled each other. Not in public anyway, because it was considered unseemly. He seemed to think this was funny.
There were two more matches and, though the Anthorians were tireless of them, Azkun began to find them dull. Did these people do nothing else for fun?
His question was answered after the fourth match. Two women stepped onto the wrestling ground, each armed with a curved sword and wearing heavy jerkins. This time there was a flurry of betting.
One of the women began to sing. Her high, clear voice rang out over the crackling of the fire. The other joined her as they circled each other, holding their swords vertically before them. Azkun did not understand the words of the song for it was Anthorian, but the singers were skilled and he enjoyed their music. It made him think of Keashil, though these two sang without any accompaniment. Suddenly the song changed. The singers lowered their swords and moved towards each other like fighters. With a clash the swords met. One singer shifted aside and forced the other’s sword to the ground. All the while they kept singing in unison. It was a stylised sword fight. At first they moved slowly and gracefully, keeping time with their song. The song picked up speed and so did the dance, becoming wilder and more violent. The swords rang and the dancers whirled in a predefined sequence that looked impossibly complicated. Surely they would not keep up the pattern with no mistake. Thrust, parry, slice, thrust, it went on and on, faster and faster. At last one dancer missed her footing. She did not meet the other’s down coming sword with a deflecting slice and it hit her shoulder, knocking her to the ground.
A cheer went up from the crowd. Vangrith remarked that they had put on an excellent performance tonight. The loser was not hurt, for the swords were blunt and her thick jerkin had protected her from the force of the blow. She dusted herself off with a smile and bowed to the winner.
“There's nothing like the sword-dance for teaching skill with the weapon. We'd be easy meat without it. Speaking of meat, those yaks must be cooked by now.”
They were indeed. The meat had been sectioned and placed on rods over the fire. Althak said that meant it cooked faster than leaving them whole but Azkun was trying not to listen. They lifted the rods off the fire and placed them on the ground. Then, as at Meyathal, with no speech making, they cut the meat they wanted and returned to their places to eat it.
This had a curious effect on Azkun. He had watched the wrestling with interest and he had been fascinated by the sword dance. But, when he saw them cutting at the dead yak, he remembered that all these people knew was to fight and kill. Their diversions were mere practices of their e
vil arts. Murder was their way of life. Cattle raids, duels, slaughter of their animals, it was all corruption. They did not know the dragons.
But they should know them. He rose to his feet. They were all stuffing meat into their mouths, talking and laughing. He remembered the Monnar with blood around his mouth and felt ill.
“People of Gildenthal!” he called in a loud voice. Most turned to look at him. Althak had said something to him about guests having a traditional right to speak at a feast in Anthor. Menish, however, looked up, startled. “I have come to tell you of my masters, the dragons. What you are doing is evil in their sight. They do not wish you to fight and kill, not even to kill your own cattle.”
There were murmurings of “what's he talking about?” and “doesn't like the food?” But, although he spoke Relanese, most of those present could understand him.
“The dragons can deliver you from this evil. I am the bridge to the dragons. Believe me, I have stood in the fire of a dragon.”
“What's this talk of dragons?” called someone, one of the wrestlers, Azkun thought. “There are no dragons here, we're too far from the sea.”
“Not enough fennel about,” called another.
“Not enough Vorthenki,” laughed the first.
“Do not laugh at him!” shouted Menish, rising to his feet. In the firelight his face was stormy with anger. “How dare you laugh at a guest? Are these the offspring of the heroes of Ristalshuz?” Menish’s voice was quiet now but all eyes were on him. Even the fire seemed subdued. “We accepted your hospitality in good faith. My friend wishes to tell you something, he has the right of a guest to speak. If you disagree then tell him so, but don't laugh at him.”
Menish sat down and Azkun was left alone, wondering what he should tell them next. But they had laughed, they were not ready to hear more about dragons. He had been wrong to speak.
“That is all I have to say,” he said lamely and sat down. But he did not forget that Menish, although he had not endorsed what he said, had defended his right to speak.
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