Hrangil glared at him.
“You would track him like an animal?”
“I would fetch him back,” he said gently. He would have added that Hrangil should curb his passion until more was known of the man from the Chasm, but he knew Hrangil would only hear such a suggestion as an echo of blasphemy.
Presently the others returned with their kill slung on a pole between Althak and Grath. Drinagish walked beside them with the arrogant swagger of one who had dealt the killing blow. It was a sizable animal and they were pleased with themselves. There would be plenty of meat for their voyage south to Atonir. The Vorthenki were inclined to eat too much fish for the Anthorians’ liking.
“Where is Azkun?” asked Althak.
“He ran away,” said Menish simply. “Grath, we need your woodcraft to track him. Go with him, Althak, he may not fear you. Bolythak, too. Drinagish can parcel this fine kill.” Althak did not ask the question that was written on his face, why did he run? Menish did not answer because he had no answer. Hrangil assumed it was because of Menish’s manner, Menish thought he might be mad, and if he were mad he might even be Gilish.
“That direction, he's not been gone long, but be swift.”
They set off, Althak still obviously puzzled by this development and the other two unquestioning. For them Menish’s brief explanation was enough.
Once they had gone Menish began furiously rubbing his leg, trying to restore it to use. The pain had eased considerably thanks to the fire. He could put his weight on it. But it still ached when he tried to walk.
Meanwhile Hrangil glared at him silently and Drinagish, quite unaware of the tension between them, chattered away blithely about the kill. He was anxious to show his uncle the gaping hole in the pig’s throat. Menish listened half-heartedly while he massaged his leg.
“It was hiding in a thicket, Uncle, barely large enough to cover it. I think I saw it first but Grath pointed it out to Althak, he had seen some droppings a few paces away. Anyway, I rushed in with my dagger, this one, Uncle, you gave it to me yourself.’ He held up a curved hunting knife that Menish knew well. It still dripped blood. “Grath chopped it across the neck but it dodged and he missed it. Althak caught it on the flank with his sword, silly to try with a sword really, but I grabbed it by the shoulder and stabbed it under the throat. I’m covered in blood, of course. Bolythak said it was not the cleanest kill he had ever seen but I don't care. I killed it anyway.”
Menish wished Drinagish were less arrogant. Last year, on his sixteenth birthday, Menish had declared him to be his heir. He had left the matter too long as it was, but the heir had to be a member of the royal house and Menish and Adhara had no children of their own. There were few enough to choose from because the battle with Gashan had almost wiped out the Anthorian royal family. Drinagish was his choice, for better or worse. It would have to be ratified by the clan council in the event of Menish’s death of course, and Menish had until then to make a king of him. He was not entirely pleased with his progress, but not entirely disappointed either.
“Well, since you killed it you will now have to butcher it. I'll not ride into Lianar with a pig trailing in the dust behind us in triumph.”
At that Drinagish looked disconcerted. He did not mind patches of blood on his tunic to show the triumph of his kill, but to be delegated the messy business of parcelling the meat had no attraction whatsoever. It was no use protesting, however. Anyone could see that Menish was in no mood to be disobeyed. Drinagish set about cutting up the pig.
He was almost finished when the others returned. Azkun was not with them.
“You lost him?” Menish was incredulous. His leg was no longer concerning him and he paced back and forth by the fire.
“I’m sorry, Sire,” said Grath. “I came upon a place where he stopped and rested but he must have heard me coming and ran off.”
“Heard you coming? You? What were you doing blundering about like a randy stallion? You can be as quiet as a ghost.”
“I was quiet, Sire, quiet as I can be. I was able to follow him some distance. He made for a stream and I thought he would confuse his tracks in the water.” Grath grinned. “He left a clear footprint on the far side of the stream, an old trick. I spent precious minutes looking for the real path. But there was no trick. He had gone the way of the footprint.
“I followed as quickly as I could and chased him across a hillside. I don't think he knew I could see him. I was trying to force him in Althak and Bolythak’s direction, but he must have seen them and went for the river.
“There was a swiftly flowing torrent, cold as the mountain snows. I tracked him to the edge and… well, he seems to have jumped in.”
“Jumped in?”
“We searched the banks downstream, but there were rapids and then the water ran over a cliff. He either drowned in the river, was crushed in the rapids or he reached the other side of the water before he was swept over the falls. But the water was very cold, Sire. He would not have survived long.”
Althak nodded slowly, confirming Grath’s story.
“Damn!” said Menish. But he did not think Azkun was dead. How could a river kill a man who could stand in dragon fire? This one was made of sterner stuff than that, although he acted like a fool.
If he had survived they could search the wild land for weeks and not find him. Perhaps he could be made to find them instead.
“Grath, you did well. We have other means of fetching Azkun back. See if you can help Drinagish parcel that meat, he is making a foul mess of both it and himself. Bolythak and Althak can gather more wood for the fire. At dusk I want a roaring blaze going that he can see for miles if he is alive.”
Althak grinned and nodded his approval of Menish’s scheme. Drinagish looked disgruntled at the description of his labours, but he accepted Grath’s help cheerfully enough. Menish, deciding that exercise was probably the best thing for his leg, accompanied Althak on his search for firewood. Hrangil remained by the fire. He looked older than he had done this morning.
Their search for wood did not take them far. A fallen tree lay a few paces through the woods.
“You wondered why he ran,” said Menish.
“M’Lord?”
“Of course you did. It was written all over your face. You wondered what we did to make him run.”
“M’Lord, I-”
“Hrangil thinks I insulted him by saying something about Gilish,” continued Menish. He felt that Althak, the only one who was not awed by Azkun, deserved an explanation. “But I don't know. He leaped to his feet suddenly, clawing at his throat and jerking like one in a fit. Then he cried out something unintelligible and ran. Hrangil tried to call him back, but he just ran off.”
Menish paused, wondering whether to ask his question.
“What do you think, Althak? I asked you this morning, and I ask you again. You're the only one who can look at the matter clearly. If he is mad, could he be Gilish?”
Althak stopped breaking off branches from the fallen tree and stared at Menish in surprise.
“M’Lord, I'm hardly a reliable judge of these things. I know little of Gilish. Hrangil-”
“Hrangil would condemn me of blasphemy, the others would give me fables I already know. At least I do not already know your fables.”
Althak hesitated for a moment then spoke.
“I have seen a man take a shaking fit once which sounds like the thing you describe. He was not mad, but a korolith would take his body at times and abuse it. Some tried to make him speak while the korolith had him, hoping for wisdom, but the korolith wouldn't speak. Mostly, though, they were afraid. But after such a fit the man would need rest. He was never capable of running off as Azkun did.”
Menish nodded slowly. He had seen such a fit himself once. But he was not sure that Azkun had suffered the same thing either. Althak was right. He should not have been able to run off afterwards.
“So perhaps he was simply mad, as Gilish was.” Perhaps Hrangil was right. But what could
they do with a mad magician?
“If it's madness it's sudden. He's acted strangely since we met him, that's to be expected. But I wouldn't have said that he was mad.”
“He threw himself into the river.”
“We both know of sane men who have thrown themselves at death, M’Lord.”
“But only at great need! Surely he was mad to do such a thing.”
“Unless he knew the river held less danger to him than we suppose.”
Which simply brought the whole question back to Azkun himself. The man was a walking riddle, if he was still walking and not drowned.
They had enough wood and the sun was dipping. Grath had kept the fire going even though he had been busy. Drinagish had changed his clothes and washed himself in a nearby stream. All there was left to do was to wait.
“I had hoped for a hot bath this evening,” complained Drinagish, “but here we are still in the wilds waiting for a madman who is probably dead.”
“Yes,” murmured Grath, “and we sleep armed for yet another night.”
A look from Hrangil silenced them both and Menish bade them build up the fire.
“You need not concern yourself with sleeping armed, Grath,” Menish grinned half-heartedly. “You'll be on watch most of the night to see if Azkun returns.” But his grin faded quickly. He was too beset by mysteries to be cheerful.
So they watched and waited. Menish and Hrangil by the fire where Menish was careful to keep his leg warm, and the others on watch among the trees around their camp site. Menish had warned them to be careful that Azkun, if he came, was not harmed. There were too many things he might be capable of. And as he sat and stared into the fire, listening to it crackle and pop, he remembered the look of ghastly terror on Azkun’s face just before he ran away. It was not the look of a blasphemed god. It was the look of a hunted animal.
Two hours after sunset Menish heard a scuffle and a cry. It came from the direction Drinagish had gone, but it was not Drinagish’s voice. He heard the heavy footsteps of Althak plunging through the trees towards it. Grath’s silent shadow slipped through the camp, Bolythak crashed through the trees from the other side. Another scuffle.
Menish fretted. What were they doing? Hrangil regarded him as if he had ordered the execution of his only love. But before he could clamber to his feet Azkun emerged from the shadows of the trees.
He entered the firelight as one caught in a trance. He was hurt. A gash snaked across his forehead like the brand of a victim and his left arm hung limply at his side. One side of his face was swollen with bruises. But he made no acknowledgement of his injuries. He approached the fire as if there were nothing else in the world. Althak was on his heels. He did not have to compel him forward. Azkun ignored them all.
But he was hurt. Menish was on his feet before Azkun reached the fire.
“Hrangil, pass that ambroth.” Menish examined the gash on Azkun’s forehead even as he sat and resumed his dumb stare into the fire. The cut was not deep, something had grazed away the skin. He poured some of the liquor into it, washing away the blood-caked grime. Crimson drops oozed from it.
His arm was more serious. Menish felt it carefully and could not find any broken bones, but it hung so limply that he was not sure. Hrangil produced a spare shirt from one of the packs and Menish improvised a sling. All the while Azkun was biddable but mute. He stared at the fire.
Menish checked him for other injuries. Apart from bruising, he seemed whole enough. But he was cold to the touch, and in that chill Menish saw danger. A man could die of cold in these mountains, and Azkun had the look of one who held his grip on life loosely.
“Grath, we need hot food quickly, get some ambroth warmed first. We'll see if he will drink it.” Meanwhile Althak stripped off Azkun’s damp clothing and wrapped him in blankets.
Hrangil hardly moved. He sat across the fire from Azkun and stared silently. Menish understood. He so wanted this man to be Gilish, but who could accept a maimed god? His indecision was furrowed on his brow.
Presently Grath had heated ambroth over the fire while Drinagish and Bolythak saw to roasting some of the meat. Menish held the bowl to Azkun’s lips but he ignored it. The fire held all his attention. Menish gently forced his head back and poured it into his open mouth.
That restored him. He was jerked from his trance by the necessity of coughing. He choked and spluttered so violently that Menish thought he had done him more damage. But after a moment he came to himself; he resumed his stare at the fire, but something in his eyes told Menish that he was now aware of his companions.
“Why did you run?”
Azkun turned towards him slowly, as if he were reluctant to admit to Menish’s presence. A vague smile had stolen across his face, but it faded when his eyes fell on Menish. He swallowed awkwardly, as if what he were about to say were something he would rather keep inside himself.
“I ran from you, from all corruption. But there is corruption everywhere. The river is corrupt, the mountains, all of you.” He spoke calmly and quietly as if he were a priest revealing a great truth to simple folk. Then he turned back to the fire. “But the fire is pure.”
“‘ With my eyes I behold corruption, but in my heart I remember the fire, for fire is pure,” echoed Hrangil. Menish recognised one of the early passages of the Mish-Tal and groaned inwardly. But Azkun had not answered his question.
“In what way are we corrupt?”
“You killed the pig.” Still he spoke calmly, but behind his voice lay the scream of anguish and the look of horror before he had run away. Menish noticed something else.
“You were gone by then. How did you know about the pig?”
“I saw them kill it.” His stare at the fire was something determined now, as if he could burn away pain. “I saw them,” his voice dropped to a whisper. Words such as these would not be spoken out loud. Menish strained to hear him over the crackling of the fire. “I saw their knives and lust in their hearts. A stab,” he winced, “in its side and another,” he pointed to his throat, “and it died.” His hand covered his mouth even as he said the word.
Menish had hunted pigs and other animals since he was old enough to ride. The feelings of the pig had never concerned him.
“But it was just a pig, we hunt them for food.”
Azkun winced again.
“Only for food?”
“Of course…” began Menish, then he stopped. “You don't eat. Is that what you mean? We appall you because we kill for food. To you it is a thing we do for pleasure. Am I right?”
Azkun nodded dumbly.
“It's not what you think. We kill because we must eat. Sometimes we must kill because if we did not we would be killed ourselves, sometimes we kill because of pride or greed, these things are regrettable. But today we killed because we must eat.”
“Therefore,” he shuddered as he spoke. “Therefore I ran from corruption.”
Menish was both exasperated and aware of Azkun’s pain, though he did not really understand. He had tended his hurts with his own hands and in return he had received only an accusation of the crime of eating flesh. His irritation made him want to force answers from the man with his sword, but he could not do that. Hrangil would never forgive him for one thing and, besides, one does not hold a guest at sword point when he has committed no crime.
And he really was aware of Azkun’s pain. He had said that they were corrupt, he had run from them, had risked the river’s violence to escape. And he had returned to the fire. Broken and weary, he had been drawn from the night to the fire he loved. Such things touched Menish. Azkun had already paid a price to return, and he had Thalissa’s eyes. Menish felt he owed him something.
There was nothing more he could do for Azkun just now, he was content with his fire. He did not any of want the meat they were roasting. But Hrangil ached beside him. Menish wanted to do something to ease his friend.
“Did not Gilish renounce flesh at one time?” he asked him in a low voice. Hrangil turned worried eyes to
wards him.
“Indeed, Sire. At the building of the Lansheral he declared he would not eat meat until it was completed.” Hrangil replied warily.
Menish laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Tell us, then, of the building of the Lansheral.”
Hrangil hesitated as if he no longer trusted Menish, but he rose to his feet and stood before the fire. He hesitated again, looking at Azkun as if to ask his permission. But Azkun would not look away from the fire. He began.
“In the third month of the eleventh year of the reign of Gilish I of Relanor, the Emperor decreed that a wall was to be built to seal off the lowlands from the wild men in the western mountains of Anthor…”
It was a familiar story to Menish. He had heard it first as a child from his father. The Anthorians loved the tale of the Lansheral. Hrangil told them how Gilish had encountered the wild tribes in the mountains that even his magic could not defeat. They were not afraid of horses, as the Monnar had been when he overran them. Though they ran from his blasts of fire, they returned to fight again. They were cunning and, where their cunning failed them, insanely brave. Although Gilish hated them for raiding his precious empire, he marvelled at them in battle.
They were, of course, the ancestors of Menish’s folk.
So Gilish, unable or unwilling to crush this valorous people, walled them off from his empire. They called the wall the Lansheral, for it was more than four hundred miles long, and there were watchtowers and keeps and garrisons all along it. Now, after nearly a thousand years, it was broken in many places where the Anthorians had attacked it, but it was still formidable, a stamp of the might of Gilish across the borders of his empire.
The Mish-Tal did not relate exactly how Gilish built the wall, not even where the great blocks of stone were quarried. Popular folklore held that he had built it by magic, it was impossible to believe that mere human toil could accomplish such a massive undertaking. Magic and fasting, for Gilish declared that he would not touch meat or wine until the wall was complete. Hrangil stumbled over that reference in the Mish-Tal, for Azkun had not mentioned wine, and he had submitted to Menish pouring ambroth down his throat.
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