“If you die tomorrow I'll be at your side. My life is over when yours is.”
“Don't say such things! If anything happens to me you must carry on. Drinagish will need you. Anthor will need you. If we're not destroyed you must be there to help rebuild.”
“Perhaps,” she said noncommittally. “But you must be there too, my love.”
The next day Gashan was arrayed before them across the plain. They were too distant to see any one of them clearly, but Menish remembered the murder in their eyes. The scouts had reported back, and the news was encouraging. A mere thirty thousand infantry and there was no possibility of a reserve force hidden under cover, the trees were thin at that end of the valley and the scouts had scoured the surrounding heights for hiding places.
On those numbers, by rights, the cavalry would hack the Gashans to pieces. The news rippled through the Anthorian ranks and Menish could see them looking both eager and relaxed. This would be easy meat, they would mow down these Gashans and then brag to the Relanese whose swords would be left unbloodied.
The scouts said the Gashans were poorly armed, carrying simple short swords and wearing nothing but their painted body designs. They did not even carry shields. It should have been encouraging, but to Menish it seemed that the Gashan army were perhaps so confident of their victory they had not bothered to arm themselves. The scouts had also seen the strange engines that Menish remembered from the last battle, the ones he thought threw fire. They were on wagons pulled by teams of Gashans, the scouts had counted eighty of them. Vorish had laid ten gourds of pitch.
And now Gashan was approaching. They came leisurely, silently, a walking pace, no faster. The wind shifted, blowing the stink of Gashan over them. They had brought the reek of their swamps with them, a rottenness that caught in Menish’s nostrils. There was also a smell of burning. Plumes of grey smoke rose over the Gashans as they prepared their machines for battle.
Menish looked up to Vorish’s command post on the hill. The signal to charge would sound soon. The Gashans approached the place where Vorish’s engineers had prepared their gourds of pitch. He glanced towards Adhara, reached for her hand and pressed it. She smiled grimly back at him, then turned her face towards the Gashans. Drinagish and his guard lay in front of them like a protective wall. But there were only seven of them. Bolythak was on his left, holding Menish’s standard studiously vertical, lest a small movement be misinterpreted.
The trumpet! It sounded from Vorish’s command post. Menish nodded to Bolythak. The standard dipped and Anthor began to move, slowly at first, building to a gallop. War cries and yak horns sounded from left and right. The Gashans continued their walking pace as if nothing was happening.
They were heartbeats from the Gashan front line when there was a deafening clap like thunder. Fire exploded in the Gashan front ranks. There were screams and burning, several Gashans were thrown into the air. Another explosion over to the left, and another. Menish saw one horse at the front of the Anthorian line shy, then it and its rider were lost under the hoofs of the horse behind. Their first casualty.
“Drinagish’s fire!” cried Menish. “Now show them Anthor’s mettle!”
But his words were cut short. A low rumble sounded, like distant thunder, there was a flash, a second’s blindness, and most of Anthor’s left flank disappeared in an inferno. At that moment Menish lost all hope, at that moment they struck the Gashan front ranks.
Chapter 37: The Vaults of Duzagen
Azkun and his companions landed at Lianar one hundred days after sailing from Atonir. They had had less distance to travel from Kishalkuz to Lianar than from Atonir to Kishalkuz but they did not have a following wind and had to tack this way and that to travel home. Although they did not realise it, this was the same day Menish and Vorish set out from Meyathal.
During their voyage Azkun had become haggard and worn, though he did little work on the boat. His dreams tormented him and there was something like madness in his eye, but his mouth was grim with resolve. Ever since Kishalkuz his dreams had been infested with the Gashan demanding blood.
Lianar looked the same as they had left it. Small fishing boats bobbed by the great stone pier and mist surrounded the small cove. Gulls cried above, gliding in and out of the mist, fighting over scraps of fish left on the docks or floating on the sea. Astae's inn stood where it had done for so many years.
It was strange to stand on solid ground again when Azkun stepped onto the pier. He remembered the circumstances in which he had left here, the spectres that Tenari had made irrelevant by her presence. Those spectres had retreated from reality now, but Tenari could not save him from the Gashan. The dragons could not save him either. They were just beasts. He could only save himself.
After Althak and Shelim had fastened the boat they went to the inn. Azkun wanted to see it again. He wanted to see the pictures on the walls.
“Welcome, welcome, M'Lords,” beamed Astae as they approached his door. It was mid morning and the inn was deserted. “You're back from the southern lands, it was my ale that brought you back-” he stopped when he saw Azkun's face. It was plain that Azkun wanted neither ale nor friendship. The look in his eye was alarming and Astae stepped back as he shouldered past him into the inn. Tenari, clinging to his arm, was pulled blankly after him.
“My friend is… unwell. We've travelled far, further than I ever imagined,” said Althak by way of apology.
“We have been to Kishalkuz,” said Shelim in a lowered voice. “It's Kopth himself who walks in your inn.”
“Kopth? Kishalkuz?” The innkeeper laughed. “And you are Yaggrothil, I suppose?”
“It's true!” said Shelim.
“It doesn't matter, but for your own sake, Astae, be careful of what you say to him. He's not what he seems.” Althak spoke so seriously that Astae's humour evaporated and he nodded dumbly.
They entered the inn to find Azkun staring at the picture of Gilish throwing himself into the Chasm of Kelerish. He glared at it as if it were a personal threat.
“Do you still want to do this?” asked Althak, placing a gentle hand on Azkun's shoulder.
“I have never wanted it, but I must do it.” He turned to Tenari. “Look at her, Althak. She is under a spell, she is trapped by the Monnar. I do not know how to free her. Gashan will destroy Anthor and probably Relanor; I promised them help, but I do not know how to save them. In Kelerish I will find out or I will die.” He nodded at the picture on the wall. “I hoped I would learn something from the pictures. They only show me how to fail. I do not want to fail.”
“And you will still journey alone?”
“Yes.” Tenari, who clung to his arm showed no sign that she understood him. Her blank expression was unchanged.
Althak sighed.
“I wish I could think of something else you should do instead, but all I can do is help you to your doom. You'll need a horse to take you to Kelerish. I have some gold. We should be able to find one here, though we'll not be overwhelmed with choice.”
Leaving Shelim at the inn Althak sought out his cousin Akarth. He had a household across the road from the inn and to reach it they had to pass the dragon post. Azkun had not seen it on his previous visit but now it confronted him: a thick, wooden post rammed into the ground with a carefully carved dragon’s head on its top. The sides of the post were black with old blood and the mud around its base was a dark shade of red.
He stopped before it. The dragon's head seemed to leer at him like a spectre and he instinctively clutched Tenari's arm. He would have to leave her soon, what would he do if the spectres came upon him when he was alone?
“Althak, what is this?”
Althak hesitated,
“It's the dragon post. The place where the sacrifices are offered.” Deaths unnumbered paraded in front of Azkun. Sacrifice after sacrifice, oblivion opening and swallowing life after life into darkness, throat after throat opened. He felt a burning in his own throat, he remembered the sacrifice he had been unable to stop. The Ga
shan deep in his mind stirred. If he had let it it would have made him burst into gleeful laughter.
They entered Akarth's house. It was dim inside, much like Darven's house with its cauldron and animal pens. A similar wickerwork screen covered the women's quarters at the far end. But this house was made of rammed earth bricks. The smells were much more pungent than in Darven's wooden house. Akarth was not at home, he and most of his folk and his animals were out in their boats or their fields. But there was a priestess there and a middle-aged woman supervising a group of children.
“Althak!” said the priestess. “Unexpected but welcome. Akarth will be pleased to see you again.”
“It is good to see you, Tari.”
“Have some stew, Althak,” said the other woman. “Who's with you? Is that Tenari?”
Azkun saw the two women exchange a look.
“Yes, it is,” said Althak. “And this is Azkun. He was here with us last time but he didn't come to your house.”
Tari peered through the dimness.
“Oh, yes, I saw him go with you on the boat with Awan. Come and tell us your news.”
“Have you seen Loreli?” the other woman frowned in thought. “She said she used to call herself Thalissa, said she knew important folk away south.” She shrugged, “Told us she had to make sure they didn't find her, then chased off after Tenari when you'd gone. I never could fathom her.”
“Yes, Moreni,” said Althak. “She sailed with us but… there was an accident. She died.”
“Well, some here will miss her, but not many.”
“She was my mother,” said Azkun.
“Oh, you're the son she always talked about? The one she thought should be emperor?” Moreni frowned. “I take it you're not the Emperor, then?”
“No. I am… someone else.”
“Azkun needs a horse to get him to Kelerish.”
“What do you want to go there for?” Tari grimaced. “Entrance to Hell and all that.”
Althak forestalled him from answering.
“My friend has a great burden. He hopes to leave it at Kelerish. Now, about this horse.”
“Akarth will be happy to loan you a couple of horses, Althak.”
“Only one, and it needs to be more than a loan. I've some gold for it.”
“All right, let's have a look at the horse paddock.”
There were several of the stocky beasts common to this part of the country, none of them in very good condition, but Althak selected one he liked the look of and they agreed on a price with Moreni, who seemed happy enough to sell it cheaply to Althak.
“That's the business done, now, about that stew. I could use some gossip.”
“I have what I need,” said Azkun. “I can go now.”
“Aren't you hungry?” asked Tari
“No. But thank you.”
“You'll want something for your journey at least.”
“It's all right, Tari,” said Althak. “Azkun… actually neither of them seem to need food.”
Tari stared at Tenari.
“She hasn't eaten all this time? I knew she didn't eat when Trian first found her but that was only a couple of days. She ought to be dead by now.”
Azkun would once have assured her it was the power of the dragons but now he had nothing to say.
“We don't understand it either,” said Althak.
“I must go,” said Azkun. He could feel a weight of promises on his shoulders.
Althak folded him in his arms and wept.
“I hope we'll meet again, but I fear for you.”
“Tell Menish I was wrong about the dragons, and that I am sorry. If I do not bring you aid then I will be dead. Do not search for me if I do not return. Look after Tenari.”
When it came to it, Tenari would not be separated from him. Neither he nor Althak were prepared to force her and she clung to Azkun's arm as dumbly and as blankly as ever.
Azkun tried to explain the danger, why she could not come with him, but it was like talking to a stone.
At last he gave in and let her climb onto the horse behind him. He hoped he would not be her doom, but she was a small comfort to him. And he had not forgotten the times she had helped him. He told himself the first thing he would do was rescue her from the Monnar spell.
As they rode off the last he saw of Althak was a backward glance at the Vorthenki standing in the road looking after him with one hand raised in farewell.
He rode as fast as the horse could tolerate. He did not need to stop for food, and he feared the Gashan that haunted his sleep. But he could only force the horse so fast. It had to stop, and during those stops he had to sleep. His dreams were filled with the Gashan and the old Monnar calling the dragons.
His burned arm still troubled him. He had to hold it bent to ride the horse and that cracked open the remaining scab painfully.
They came to the bridge built by Gilish to reach Sheagil and Azkun stopped for a moment to gaze at it. He was weary and he remembered his thoughts when he had first encountered it. A bridge to the dragons, that was what he had called himself. A bridge to rid the world of corruption. He had hardly known what corruption was then, he had only witnessed the death of a pig. The dragons were beasts, what good was a bridge anyway? He looked down into the gorge below. What good was he? He could end it all now, he could go where the Gashan could not reach him. It would take little effort to make the leap into the void and be swallowed by oblivion. And he felt the Gashan urging him, lusting after his death.
No, he would not placate the Gashan. He strengthened his will with the memory of the promises he had made and carried on.
When he emerged from the foothills onto the barren plain of Kelerish he forced the horse into a gallop. The beast was tired, but he ignored its complaints. He wanted to reach his doom quickly. Power or death, he wanted to get it over with.
The Tor waited for him at the edge of the Chasm like a sentinel of warning. The place where the dragon had flamed him was still blackened, for there was little rain in Kelerish to wash it away. When he dismounted he put the horse's reins into Tenari's hands.
“Wait here. Hold the horse. But when I come back, if I seem… ill… get on the horse and ride away.”
But she let the reins fall from her grasp and clutched his arm. So he took off its tack and let the horse roam. If he did not return it could run free. It was a death he would not be responsible for. The beast ambled away, looking for something palatable in the tussock.
The Chasm of Kelerish lay before him, a gaping slash in the plain, as if some great wrong had been done to it. And out of the Chasm howled the wind, like a chained demon imprisoned within its shadowy depths.
Did Tenari remember her time in the Chasm? She showed no sign of it.
He peered down into the sunless gloom. It was said to be bottomless. Hrangil and Althak had both agreed on that. Azkun had never been to the bottom. His life had been spent clinging to the walls of the Chasm in small caves, or so he thought. The years spent in the Chasm were a dimly remembered numbness.
And he had to re-enter that numbness or break his promises. Warnings cried in his mind. Gilish had been driven mad. What could Azkun do? But he could not listen to them. To do so would be to invite the Gashans into Anthor, and he could not live with that.
Tenari, at last, showed some reaction to the place. As he went to lower himself over the edge her grip on his arm tightened, holding him back. Well, that was to be expected. She was trying to protect him as usual. As gently as he could he prised her fingers from his arm and she made no move to renew her hold. It shook him, though. It was as if she was withdrawing her help. Did he have any chance of success?
Summoning his determination, he eased himself over the edge and began working his way down the cliff face, leaving her standing impassively on the lip above him. The wind-borne sand peppered his face and the howl filled his mind as he clawed his way down. He made himself remember the people of Atonir singing to him from the pier, and his promises. But the wind at
e into his mind. He could feel something lurking here, a presence. It shifted as he reached for it with his mind. At first it felt like the well of sadness he had, long ago, thought was the call of the dragons. Then it was like the Monnar's standing stones. No, it was like Gashan. Something in the wind was thinking of murder.
But it was hard to think in the Chasm. The howling wind and the tedious handhold by handhold climbing drove these things from his mind. A numbness that was threateningly familiar slowly engulfed him. Only the pain in his arm, aggravated by climbing, kept him from falling into it completely
Hrangil had once said that the entrance to the Vaults of Duzagen lay directly below the Tor. That was all the guide he had. As he descended the howl of the wind grew worse. Once he missed his footing and caught himself in time to see a loose rock sail out into the abyss and out of sight into the darkness below. If it ever found the bottom of the Chasm the sound was lost in the noise of the wind.
The way was not very difficult for him to climb. If the wind and the evil he could sense had not been there it would have been a simple task, for he was bred to climbing in the Chasm.
It was midday, the sun shone directly into the Chasm, when he found what he sought: the entrance to the Vaults of Duzagen.
There was a narrow ledge. On one side was the drop into the shadowy depths far below; and on the other, surrounded by strange beasts carved into the rocks, was the awesome entrance. Nothing but blackness could be seen beyond the rough opening in the rock, and the carvings around it looked like the spectres he had seen so many times. Diamond eyes glared at him from the stone, and above the doorway was carved a double-headed axe.
He stood looking at the entrance, willing himself to go on, but he was afraid. The wind buffeted him, clawing at him. He felt small and weak, a tiny thing blown by the gales.
But he had to go on. All those promises he had made urged him forward. And he took a step.
As he did so the wind stopped.
Summon Your Dragons Page 45
