Summon Your Dragons

by Roger Parkinson

“He's gone mad-” even as he spoke Menish caught his breath, for Gilish had been mad.

  Azkun panted, still backing away from Hrangil. They would kill him too. They would send him into the blackness he had seen. Terror gripped his heart. He flung himself into the trees, up a bank and ran for all he was worth.

  Chapter 4: Corruption

  Azkun ran blindly. He clutched desperately at the pain across his throat as if he expected his lifeblood to gush from it. Shouts from Menish and Hrangil only added to his desperation. They were ghouls on his heels. The pig's pain was his own and the oblivion beyond filled his mind with the darkness of the Chasm. That alone would have driven him to run from the horror, but there was more.

  He had seen the lust of his friends, even Althak, to inflict pain and darkness. Such ferocity appalled him.

  Yet the evil he had seen was somehow consistent. He understood part of it. The weapons they carried, the way they controlled the horses, their deference to Menish, it began to make sense. Their whole lives were but re-enactments of the murder of the pig.

  Trees flicked past him in his desperate run, some loomed over him like spectres of evil and he lurched away from them, still clutching his throat. His lungs were now gasping, and his chest ached with exhaustion. He did not know how far he had run, but it would never be far enough.

  Only when exhaustion totally overcame him did he realise that they were not chasing him. He had not considered any other possibility. What other evil were they engaged in now? With a moan of pain he sank to the ground and sprawled panting and helpless among the leaf litter. Where were they? He cast his senses about him but he could not detect anyone. The pain in his throat ebbed away slowly, as if it were reluctant to lose its hold on him, while the glimpse of darkness beyond still made him want to scream.

  But he could hear his own heartbeat, alive and strong, beating out its reassuring rhythm in his temples. Slowly, so slowly, his panic subsided into something less desperate and vented itself in quiet sobbing.

  He must have lain there under the trees for some time. It seemed as if hours had passed. Certainly the angle of the sun had shifted when he slowly raised his head from the forest floor. He had heard the noise of something moving nearby. Trembling, he reached his senses in that direction. The undergrowth hid whatever it was but his mind found it.

  It was only a deer. He could feel its watchfulness, its tenseness as it considered the faint scent of man. Azkun was still, hardly daring to breathe now. He had no experience of this kind of animal, although it reminded him of the horses. This one was all quivering fear. It picked its way through the undergrowth and now he could see it.

  It was a tall, stately animal. He had been right, it was like a horse, but more delicate, more vulnerable. He understood its habitual tenseness, its continual sniffing for dangerous scents. Its ears were large enough to detect the sounds of enemies approaching, its eyes were placed to give it a wide angle of vision, and its long, slender legs were perpetually poised for flight.

  He wanted to reach out and touch this creature, to reassure it. But he had no answers to the death of the pig. Horror he knew, but the threat itself now seemed secondary to the sadness that he could do nothing to aid this creature.

  A whimper of despair escaped from him and instantly the creature was gone. It turned and bounded gracefully through the thicket. He could feel it leaping through the trees up the hillside beyond. Running, ever running, even as he had run from the death of the pig. He wept for it.

  As he felt it run he detected a sudden change of direction, it avoided something else it was afraid of. Azkun tensed, casting his senses in that direction.

  It was Grath.

  The northerner was still some way off, Azkun could not see or hear him yet. But he knew where he was. His senses had been driven to acuteness by the pig’s death. He was also aware that Grath could not detect him in the same way. But he was following Azkun’s trail unerringly. He would find him in a few minutes.

  Cold fear gripped his heart. The deer had escaped, but Grath was not hunting deer, he was hunting man. The blood lust in his heart was abated but it was still there. It still ruled the way he thought. Azkun had no way of knowing when that evil would seize him again. And Grath was coming for him.

  His legs still trembled from their previous exertion, but he willed them into use. Some instinct told him to climb a tree, but he overruled that urge. Grath was following his trail as if he could see his footprints. To climb a tree would be to wait for death. No, he could only run like the deer, alone and desperate.

  But this time he was not driven by panic. He was careful to avoid making too much noise, he tried to leave as little sign of his passage as possible. But he did not really know what signs Grath found to follow so he had little gauge of his success, or failure.

  He found himself moving down the forested hillside. Twice he slipped on the leaf mould and despaired at the clear marks left for Grath. At the bottom of the hillside ran a tiny freshet that spilled and gurgled over moss covered stones. The sun sparkled through the trees and caught in its waters, flickering and dancing. But he had no time to enjoy the spectacle that yesterday he might have looked at forever.

  He leapt across the stream easily, but his foot landed in mud on the other side, leaving a deep print that shouted that he had passed this way.

  Azkun looked at it for a moment, debating with himself whether he should attempt to cover it, or keep ahead of Grath. He decided to keep moving. Grath would find other signs to follow anyway, one more could make no difference. Grath would catch him in the end.

  But when Grath reached the stream he hesitated. Azkun could feel his confusion and did not understand it. His trail was obvious. Why did Grath stop? He did not stop long, however, and when he resumed his pursuit he was somehow smug and confident. Azkun’s fear mounted. He felt as if he had missed some opportunity, but he did not know what.

  On the other side of the stream the ground sloped steeply upward. He found himself using both hands and feet to climb. The leaf litter was more slippery. Panic began to lurk at the edge of his mind.

  The hill rose before him interminably. The vegetation was changing. The trees were shorter. Azkun ran on, blindly hoping that Grath would grow weary of following him before he himself grew weary of running.

  His path led him out from the trees. He was suddenly standing on a rocky outcrop that formed the summit of the hill he had climbed.

  The world as he knew it spread out before him like a vision of creation. Far below he could see the wrinkle in the forest where the little stream ran. Somewhere down there Grath was following him, but his urge to keep running was stilled by the panorama before him. This was but a low hill compared to the others that surrounded it. Great blue giants thrust their massive pinnacles to the sky. Many of them were white with snow that gleamed and dazzled in the autumn sunlight. Their grandeur reminded him of dragons. He clutched at hope. Surely the dragons would save him from Grath. But when he searched the skies for this hope to be answered he saw only an eagle flying, high and remote with death in its heart.

  Death and violence surrounded him. It was in the skies, behind him it followed in the shape of Grath. This was not the purpose of the dragons. They had not made the world for this! Was all their creation, then, fallen from their purposes?

  Yet the majesty of the mountains looked grandly down at him. They were not tainted by violence. They were serene in their beauty. He could see no murder in the snows. But, while there was no evil there, there was also no help, no compassion. As if sleep were the only way they could prevent themselves from rending the world and ridding it of the offences that crawled on their slopes.

  And there were no dragons in the skies. Were they also afraid to right wrongs lest they destroy everything?

  Azkun had little time to ponder. Every moment he stood here Grath drew closer. He could also sense Althak and Bolythak searching for him across the valley on the other side of this hill, ahead of him. He ran on.

  As
he moved down the slope he veered away from the place where he knew Althak was. He did not wish to be driven from one killer into another. He had thought Althak was his friend.

  At the bottom of the slope a swift torrent flowed between high, rocky walls; foaming and crashing over great, grey boulders. His fear grew. The freshet had been easy to cross, but this was an impassable barrier. The other side was at least twenty feet away, he could not hope to leap it. And climbing down the slick, rock walls was treacherous even for one so used to clinging to rock faces.

  There was even more amiss. He had been mistaken about Althak’s position. He and Bolythak were on this side of the stream, and not far away. Grath was still picking his way down the slope, following Azkun’s trail. Althak and Bolythak were following the line of the stream down towards him.

  Where to escape? The easy way was downstream. He could not move back up the slope or up the stream. But Grath’s confusion at the freshet gave him hope. He had to try and cross the torrent. Clenching his teeth, he lowered himself over the edge of the rock wall and clung to the mossy surface. He could feel the chill spray of the thrashing water below and all sound was lost in the roar of the stream.

  It was like the Chasm.

  Handhold, foothold he made his way down. But the roar of the water below and the slick rock he clung to brought back his old, habitual, numbing fear. He forced himself to remain alert but he felt himself slipping away. He could feel his pursuers approaching. They had seen each other now. The numbness of the Chasm threatened to engulf him, to reduce him to a quivering thing that could do no more than cling to a rock face.

  He would not go back, not to that. Even the dark oblivion was better than the Chasm. He did the only thing he could do. He let go of the rock wall and threw himself into the torrent.

  The water boiled coldly about him and the current sucked him under. It buffeted and wrenched him, driving him against boulders that blocked its way. His leg was hurled against a rock and his back thudded painfully against another.

  He was drawn down into the boiling depths. The current jerked and thrashed his limbs as if he were convulsed. His chest began to ache for breath. He hit another rock. Only his jerkin saved his back from being scored by its sharp edges. Another slammed against his elbow and he lost his feeling in that arm. His lungs became more desperate.

  With a shock of reprieve he was suddenly thrust to the surface just long enough for a gasp of air and water before he was swept under again.

  Heartbeat after heartbeat he was drawn down. The torrent roared in his ears and all he could see was the white of the water swirling about him. Then it was up again, but he did not break the surface this time. The current swept him over a precipice and followed him, crashing down around him as if it sought finally to bury him.

  When he regained consciousness he was lying at the edge of the stream. The torrent had spent its fury in the waterfall and he lay in the shallows of a deep pool. The falls were still crashing down behind him and, at the other side of the pool, the water raced away in more rapids. But here it was calm.

  For what seemed ages he lay there, not even sure that he was alive. The river had tried to kill him. Its fury was mindless but its intention was clear. He was yet to be convinced that it had failed. He was yet to be convinced that he wanted it to fail.

  But he had seen the death of the pig. He had seen the darkness beyond the thrusts of the knife. The oblivion beyond the pain. He did not want to die.

  Every part of his flesh felt bruised. He could not feel one arm. Blood ran from a cut in his forehead into his eye. His right arm ached when he moved it, but with it he dragged himself from the water and climbed onto its rocky shore. There he was able to examine the damage that had been done to his body.

  The arm he could not feel hung limply at his side. He could not move it. There was a painful area on his left shoulder where he had been caught on a rock. His chest still burned from holding his breath, but his legs seemed to have escaped the worst of the rocks. He could walk without much difficulty.

  He wondered how much more he would have suffered if he had not been wearing Althak’s jerkin and trousers.

  Remembering his pursuers he looked around anxiously, casting his senses widely. Had he been seen? The cliffs rose about him on all sides here, confining the wrath of the torrent. They could be up there watching him. They would have their daggers drawn. He whimpered with fear.

  But he could detect nothing of them. Some distance away there was the deer, but no people were about. As his awareness cleared he realised that he was still on the same side of the river, the same side as Grath and Althak. It made him feel cheated. Even so, he was safe, for the moment.

  It could only be a temporary reprieve, though. They would have followed him to the river and to search the bank downstream would be obvious, even if the water confused Grath. He had to leave this place.

  Above him the rocky cliff face loomed like despair. How could he climb with only one arm? The river had caught him, damaged him, and now it trapped him. He felt evil crowd around him: the mindless evil of the river, the deliberate evil of his friends. It stifled him.

  Still, he lived. He refused the darkness that had swallowed the pig. He was determined to face this evil. The dragons knew of these things, they would not let him die, and he would not despair, he would not disappoint them.

  Forcing his legs against their pain, he made his way to the cliff edge. It was not so high. Perhaps three times his own height, no more. Its grey walls were wet with spray from the waterfall, but they were cracked and wrinkled, offering handholds and footholds.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder he gripped a hollow in the cliff and pulled himself up to a foothold. His left arm was still limp and numb, useless, but although his other limbs protested, he was able to reach his toes onto a ledge. Encouraged he hauled himself to the next and the next. He slipped once, catching his fall with the tips of his fingers and raking the skin off them. At last he grasped hold of a tree that clung to the cliff edge and pulled himself up to the top.

  He was tempted to lie there for a while, to let his wrenched limbs recover from their exertion. But he gathered his resolve and climbed to his feet. He had to get away. They would be following him. The feeling was slowly returning to his left arm, and that brought only agony.

  He could not run as he had done before. His legs were too bruised. He limped his way along the cliff edge, trying to avoid scraping his feet on the leaf litter. So he made his way down the riverbank, broken and battered, but determined to avoid death.

  He still did not know why they had killed the pig, but something in his mind connected it with food. That thought revolted him. Surely they could not be that evil. For food was a novelty to Azkun, an unexpected and unnecessary pastime they indulged in. To take the life of another for mere food was incomprehensible.

  And the river in its mindless attack was a manifestation of the same corruption. The work of the dragons was maimed with it. The only pure thing was fire.

  He wondered why, then, had they called him to this place. He had expected paradise, but he had found horror and death. He had thought they called him from darkness into light, but this was not what he had hoped for. This was not what the dragons intended for him.

  For the dragons were light. They were purer than the fire and more powerful than the mountains. He had glimpsed the little they had shown of themselves in the Chasm and it was awesome. His heart gladdened even to think of them. This world was tainted but it had not always been so, it need not always be so. For there were still dragons in the world.

  But he did not understand why the corruption continued. Why did they not sweep down and cast out the taint on their works? Was it, perhaps, too deeply ingrained in the pattern of their creation? Could it not be so easily rooted out?

  Somehow he felt that this burden was his own. The evil in the world could not be removed by power alone. It would require something more profound, something that, perhaps, they had c
alled him from the Chasm to give. If so what should he do? He hardly understood the abomination, he had no answer to it. It surpassed him.

  With night came terror.

  The sun slipped behind the mountains and plunged him into gloom. The evening gathered about him like spectres that knew his name. Darkness crowded in like thick, black smoke. He felt it constricting his throat until he could not even cry out.

  Blindly he began to run. But both ahead and behind the spectres loomed. Part of him cried out for fire and dragons, but most of him simply ran in terror. In the darkness he missed his footing and sprawled headlong. A tree caught his shoulder, twisting him so that he fell on his injured arm. The spectres seemed to pounce on him.

  But he could not move. Arrows of pain raced up his arm. His legs had endured too much torment already. He could only release his terror in a stifled cry and cringe in the darkness.

  In the enforced stillness of his fear he saw his answer. Fire! It twinkled like a fallen red star across the hillside, only just visible through the trees. Fire, pure fire! The mere sight of it drove back the spectres, though they still haunted the gloom around him. In the fire there was power over terror.

  Still trembling from fear and pain and the distance that separated him from the fire, he clambered stiffly to his feet and limped towards it.

  Menish cursed the pain in his leg that rendered him immobile as Hrangil dashed after Azkun. He could hear him shouting apologies to the man he thought was Gilish, pleading with him not to take offence at Menish’s attitude. Hrangil was too arrogant in his certainty. But Menish could not reach him to prevent him from making a fool of himself.

  When Hrangil stumbled back into the small clearing around the fire his eyes carried a look of broken hope. He sat where Azkun had sat, across the fire from Menish, and avoided his gaze as if his King were his betrayer.

  “He outran me,” Hrangil said at last.

  “Grath will find him. We won't lose him.” Menish had to know the answer to those eyes.