Chapter 3: The Pig
Menish woke with the sun. It had been a cold night and his face felt chilled to the bone. He rubbed it with his hands to restore the circulation. Sleeping on the ground had left him stiff and sore, and a sharp ache in his left leg reminded him of an old wound. Was it really fifteen years ago he had cracked the bone in the battle for the Ammuz bridges? Some Vorthenki oaf had tried to chop him in half with a battle-axe and he had taken the blow on his shield. Unfortunately the shield had twisted in his grasp and smashed against his leg. Vorish had cut down the Vorthenki before he could follow with another blow and, though the leg had healed in time, the cold always made it ache.
With an effort he clambered out of his blankets. That leg was so sore this morning! Everyone else was still asleep except Althak who had drawn the early morning watch. Hrangil lay flat on his back with his mouth wide open, snoring. Drinagish was sucking his thumb like a child. Grath had thrown his cloak over his head and was snoring like a pig beneath it. The cloak rose and fell slightly with each snore.
Apart from the snoring there was a deep stillness about the glade. The birds were not yet awake, and the gurgling of the nearby stream as it crept over the rocks and boulders in its path only emphasised the hush. It was a clear winter morning, with just a hint of pale mist through the trees, and the sun shone golden through it. Spider webs glistened with frost in the bare branches.
Menish smiled. This was a pleasant place, far better than Kelerish. It made him think of Adhara, made him wonder what she was doing. She had warned him his leg would be sore if he slept in the open but until now it had not troubled him.
Realisation suddenly struck him. His leg was sore this morning, it had not been so yesterday morning for then he had spent the night with the watch or tossing and turning in his blankets. Last night he had slept soundly and still, and dreamless.
No dreams, no eerie wind. No skeleton, and no prophecies. He looked at Azkun, sleeping still by the dead embers of the fire. His eyes were closed but behind those lids they were Thalissa’s eyes.
That was why he had gone to the Chasm, of course. To face out that dream. What did it matter if some wild man had climbed out while he waited? He was not a skeleton anyway.
Yet he could not silence a nagging voice in his mind that whispered he had been sent to meet Azkun. The eyes somehow confirmed it.
Shaking his head at his own foolishness he limped down to the stream where Althak leaned against a fir tree.
In the long war against Thealum Menish had used Vorthenki auxiliaries to fight against their own kind. Althak was one of these. Most of them had settled in Relanor but Althak preferred Anthor. Menish valued him while not understanding his choice. His garish clothes and other Vorthenki ways meant he was often snubbed. Few of the Anthorian women would even speak to him and he had no chance of ever finding a wife there.
“Good morning, M’Lord. Are you well?” He still referred to Menish as ‘M’Lord’ rather than ‘Sire’. To the Vorthenki folk ‘sire’, was not a particularly respectful address for they did not greatly revere their ancestors. His question was more than politeness, he had noticed Menish’s limp.
“Well enough, thank you, Althak. The cold has got into my leg, that's all. It will pass. And you? You played well last night.”
He smiled and bowed his gratitude.
“Thank you, M’Lord. Our new companion… Azkun, he didn't seem very impressed.”
It was true. Azkun had stared at the fire until Menish had rolled himself in his blankets to sleep.
“Did he have anything to eat? I didn't see him do anything but stare at the fire.”
“No, M’Lord. He did not eat or drink.” Althak hesitated.
“What is it?”
“I don't think he has eaten in his life. He didn't know what to do with the cake I gave him at noon yesterday and he ignored the food last night. He's a strange one, M’Lord.”
“Nonsense.” Menish frowned. “How can a man not eat and live?”
“How can a man stand in dragon fire and live?”
“Hmm. Well, you worship dragons. How do you say he did it?”
Althak looked pained for a moment, as if he wanted to correct something Menish had said, but could not.
“I don't know, M’Lord. At first I thought he might be a korolith, a spirit of the wind, but he is not.”
“I assumed you would say… well, surely he's escaped from Hell, has he not?”
Again Althak looked pained.
“He has escaped from torment, he said so himself. But no one escapes from Hell, M’Lord. Yaggrothil, the Dragon of the Deep, guards it. But some are released.”
That made Menish uneasy. It made him think of evil dreams and strange coloured eyes. But it hardly mattered what Althak thought. He was a Vorthenki. Menish could not think why he had asked him.
There was a grunt from under Grath’s cloak, then a loud groan as blanket and cloak appeared to erupt from the ground, falling away to reveal the heavily built northerner. Grath came from the lands beneath the Ristalshuz Mountains where the folk were nearly as big as Vorthenki. He stood there for a moment, shaking his head and muttering. Menish saw Althak grin. Grath was like an ox and sometimes the resemblance was all too obvious. Still half asleep he stamped across to the edge of the glade, treading on Hrangil’s blanket as he did so. He urinated noisily for what seemed an age and then stamped his way over to Menish and Althak. He favoured them with a brief grunt then he knelt down by the stream and thrust his head under the water.
Althak grinned, “Too much ambroth again.”
With a bellow he raised his head, water dripping down his tunic. “Oomph! That water is cold.” He stood wringing his hair. “There is no rest gained in sleeping armed. That should be in the Mish-Tal.”
Hrangil was awake now, disturbed by Grath.
“It is, indeed, in the Mish-Tal, oaf,” he said as he rolled up his blankets. “You should read it. There is much about allowing your fellows to sleep as well.”
“A good day to you too, Master Hrangil.”
Hrangil ignored him.
“Good weather again, Sire,”
“Yes. Cold but no rain yet.”
“I thought it always rained here in the north.” That was Drinagish.
“No,” said Grath. “The north is cold and bracing, but we have crisp, clear days in winter.”
“But rain on the coast,” put in Althak. “And we head for the coast today.”
Azkun was awake too, but he was silent. Menish saw him look around himself in confusion for a moment, then his eyes lighted on Althak and he smiled.
“Yes, we head for the coast. How far is it, Hrangil?”
“We could reach Lianar by this evening, Sire, if we make good speed.”
“Lianar? The Vorthenki fishing town?”
“Yes, it was the place the imperial retinue always landed. I remember there used to be a Relanese inn there years ago.”
“It's still there,” said Althak. “I passed through Lianar on my way north two years ago. The building is Relanese, at least.” There was an awkward silence as they remembered just why Althak had travelled north.
“And how is our new friend this morning? Are you hungry?” Menish walked over to Azkun and squatted beside him.
“No, not hungry… thank you. But…” he hesitated.
“Yes?” prompted Menish.
“The fire is gone.”
“Of course, it's burnt out.” Was he a half-wit?
“But there is a fire that does not burn out.”
Menish noticed Hrangil’s ears prick up at that.
“There's a fire in Am-Goluz that is always alight. It's been burning ever since Gilish lit it, nearly a thousand years ago.”
“That is where we are going?”
“We are going to Atonir. It's not so far from there.”
“Drinagish!” called Grath. “Stop combing your hair and give me some help with these horses.”
“Some of us,” replied Dri
nagish testily, “require more than ducking our heads in the nearest stream.” He resumed combing his hair with the little silver comb he always carried. “This place we hope to reach today, is there any chance of a bath there?”
“The inn used to have a Relanese bath with a hypocaust, but that was long ago,” said Hrangil.
“I didn't go inside the inn,” said Althak. “But no doubt we can contrive some hot water. We Vorthenki do bathe sometimes.”
“We'll never get there unless Drinagish finishes combing. Here, let me help-” offered Grath.
“No, get off!” Drinagish gathered his hair back in the characteristic Anthorian ponytail and fastened it with a gold clasp.
Menish sat on a log and pulled his own hair back while the others packed up the blankets. He too had a gold clasp. It was a mark of royalty.
After they mounted their horses and resumed their journey his leg was better for a time. The winter sun shone through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the road and sparkling on the stream that ran beside it. In places the road was choked with bracken or blocked by fallen trees, but no serious obstacle presented itself. Once they had to wade the horses into the stream to pass a place where the road bank had collapsed across their path. Menish noticed that Azkun controlled his horse well, even when it began to paw the water with its hoofs as horses inevitably do when forced into streams. He wondered how he had learned that in so short a time.
As the morning wore on Menish’s leg began to hurt again. The movement of the horse jarred it and he found himself clenching his teeth with pain.
When they stopped at noon Hrangil, who had just passed him a honey cake, looked at him anxiously.
“Sire?”
“It's my leg, Hrangil. The cold crept into it last night.”
Hrangil nodded. He had been there when Menish received the injury and he knew the trouble it could give him.
“You look ill, Sire. Shall we rest a while?”
Menish was about, to snap at him but he clenched himself. He was in pain. It irked him, though, to see Hrangil, who was two years older than he, in no discomfort. But Hrangil had had an easier life than Menish.
“Perhaps,” he said. “If I could only get some warmth into it.”
“We could make a fire.”
Menish shook his head. “It would take too long. I would rather we pressed on and reached Lianar by this evening.”
“Lianar is still a long way off, Sire. The road has deteriorated since I came this way. We'll have to spend another night in the wild I fear.”
Another dreamless night, thought Menish.
“Then we might as well make a fire here. We can use the daylight to get fresh meat.
“Grath! Drinagish! You are going hunting while I rest my weary old bones. But build me a fire before you go.” Painfully he eased himself off his horse and found he could hardly stand. Althak took his arm and helped him limp over to a log to sit on. Drinagish and Bolythak piled some bracken near him and started a fire. Grath used a little axe he carried on his belt to chop a fallen branch into convenient sized pieces.
When Azkun saw the fire he reacted much as he had done the previous evening. He sat beside it and stared into it, seemingly oblivious to all else.
“Well, it seems Azkun is not interested in hunting,” remarked Menish. “I'll not be left entirely on my own.” He looked at Azkun, feeling more pity for him now than anything else. The man was simple, he needed care.
“I'm staying with you, M’Lord.”
“No, Althak, you enjoy a hunt. Let us old men stay here and rest.” Hrangil sat on the log beside Menish and loosened his coat.
“As you wish.”
The four younger men decided on the most profitable direction to take and set off on foot. Azkun did not even turn his head. The fire held all his attention. It was different in daylight, but it was still fire. The heat warmed his face.
He was vaguely uneasy about something, but he did not know what. There was something in the thoughts of Althak and the others that he did not recognise. But the fire claimed most of his attention. They were gone now anyway. Menish and Hrangil were talking, but he was not interested in them.
This morning the whispers from the minds of his companions were faint and fuzzy. He could control the horse well enough, although he was starting to use the harness sometimes. Yesterday he had caught snatches of thought from Menish and Hrangil, but today all he could sense was the pain in Menish’s leg. It echoed as a dull throb in his own leg.
It was Grath who had made the fire. Or, at least, he was the one who had held his hands in the bracken and flame leapt from it. Perhaps he had breathed fire into the bracken like a dragon. But Grath did not like dragons, he had felt that yesterday.
Menish and Hrangil’s conversation became more animated and he looked up from the fire. They were talking about him.
“… and I say he's a victim of the Vorthenki, thrown into the Chasm. You know how they treat invalids. He's clearly simple-”
“Sire, he stood unharmed in dragon flame!”
“Yes… yes, that's true. But it proves nothing. Telish was supposed to able to do the same thing, but he died in the fire of Gashan. I have my doubts that Gilish could do anything of the kind. The fact that this wild man did does not make him Gilish.”
“Sire! Remember we may be sitting before Gilish himself! Is it right to speak so?”
“If he takes offence let him speak,” replied Menish, looking at Azkun with cold defiance in his voice. But Azkun merely looked back at him with mild interest. Menish shrugged.
“If he is Gilish he's content for us not to know it.”
“But the sign. ‘Some will know me for my name is written in the fire.’ Whenever he opens his mouth he quotes something from the Mish-Tal, or sounds as though he is.”
“Yes, he speaks old Relanese. Grath’s phrasing is sometimes archaic. We are in the north, after all, though not very near Grath’s country.
“Azkun.”
He looked up from the fire again. “Yes?”
“We need to know who you are and where you come from. I've asked you before but you were, perhaps, not quite yourself at the time.” He paused, waiting for Azkun to speak, but he could think of nothing to say. Speech was still new to him and he could feel something strange in the forest around him.
“If there is some… danger in telling us be assured we can protect you from any enemies you may have made. You need have no fear.”
“No… no I am in no danger. I was in the Chasm, but you know that.”
“Yes, but where were you before that?” asked Menish with forced patience.
“I only know the Chasm. There is nothing else.”
“Did you ever see a belt, a golden belt, in the Chasm?” asked Hrangil.
“A belt?” Azkun looked back in his memory of dark mists and terror and shuddered. “No. I have never seen such a belt. Is there one in the Chasm?”
“There may be, I suppose it is still there.”
“Hrangil, it's only a story,” said Menish wearily.
“It is in the Mish-Tal!”
“It was not written there by Gilish, then.”
“Of course it was.”
“How could he write of his own death?”
“It was prophecy at the time.”
“Little use is prophecy if a man knows his own death and cannot prevent it.”
At that Hrangil glared at him.
The strangeness of the forest was growing more acute to Azkun. It was like being watched. He felt uncomfortable and shifted his position.
“Are you saying you were born there?” Menish pursued his line of questioning.
“I do not remember my birth.” Azkun glanced over his shoulder. A tremor of fear ran through him.
“I expect not,” replied Menish sarcastically, “but you must have had kin folk who did.”
“I have told you that I have none.” Again he felt the fear, as if something lurked in the trees, something evil.
&nb
sp; “Then what became of them? Are they dead? Were you cast out from them?”
“I… I remember nothing but the Chasm. You were the first person I saw when I left it.” The evil was moving closer. He looked about, but there was nothing.
“What about your mother? You must have had one.”
Azkun suddenly realised that it was not his own fear he felt, but that of something else. It was neither Menish nor Hrangil. Something not very far away was afraid and he did not know what it was, nor why. Menish and Hrangil did not show any sign of being aware of it.
He turned his thoughts back to Menish.
“I do not know. Must I have?” ‘Mother’ was a word like many words he knew, his mind had a vague meaning for it but his understanding was fuzzy. Besides, he was distracted.
Menish muttered something and turned back to Hrangil.
“What is it?” asked Azkun, meaning the fear he felt.
“What is what?”
But he could not explain. He did not have the words. Instead he felt out the fear of the thing. Trying to find its source.
Suddenly a blaze of clarity struck him. He felt the blood lust of Grath, Drinagish, Althak and Bolythak as they fell on their prey. Felt it, and recognised the minds from which it came.
Yet, far more acutely, he felt the terror of the pig. His body whirled and jerked, echoing the animal’s frenzied attempts to escape. A stab of pain raced down his side, another across his throat. Pain, searing pain, blackness and death. A dark chasm opened and shut, taking the pig into oblivion. He screamed and slumped to the ground.
But he was not dead. Heart pounding, he stood up and backed away from Hrangil, who was reaching towards him with concern on his face. He was not deceived. These were not servants of the dragons, they did that to the pig.
“Azkun? What's wrong?”
“You… you…” but he could not say it. The horror of that dark chasm welled up inside him and he screamed again. Hrangil tried to catch hold of his arm, but he span out of reach, glaring wildly about him.
Summon Your Dragons Page 3