“Can you not bind him?”
“We dare not. The man who bound him would surely be the next owned by the korolith.”
What happened next was always confused in Menish’s mind. The korolith had shifted his attention to Azkun. Suddenly his face writhed with pain and he leapt, but not towards Azkun. One warrior dodged from his path and the korolith ignored him. In two leaps he had thrown himself into the fire.
Before anyone could act Menish heard Azkun’s voice, a cry of sheer agony. He rushed forward, heedless of the fire, wading through it as though it were water. His clothes burst into flame but that, also, he ignored. The next moment he had dragged the korolith from the flames and was shouting, his clothes still ablaze and his new boots blackened and charred. Menish did not hear what he said. He was too busy calling for the priestess for he knew she would be a healer. Althak beat out the flames in Azkun's clothes.
Frethi came. She approached the korolith timidly, but he was no longer the korolith. He was just a man, and he lay still and quiet in Azkun’s arms. A hush fell over the room, a silence in which the crackling of the fire sounded like the noise of distant battle and each breath foreboded a storm. Azkun broke it.
“He is in pain. I cannot help him further.”
Still Frethi hesitated. Drinagish, who stood nearest to her, took her by the arm and led her to Azkun and the man who had been owned by the korolith. Gingerly Frethi examined the man. His feet, of course, were blackened and charred and a hideous, raw burn covered his chest where he had fallen in the fire. Menish was surprised that he was not hurt more, but Azkun had moved quickly. Frethi called for Seti to bring something from the women’s enclosure and she returned with a heavy blue jar. The priestess, her manner still hesitant, applied a thick, sticky salve that smelled of thyme to the burns.
Menish caught Azkun’s eye and saw that his face was clouded with pain. He wondered about the korolith, not that he gave much credence to Vorthenki tales, but something evil had afflicted the man.
“Azkun, are you hurt?”
The question seemed foolish. His clothes were smouldering rags, the dagger Omoth had given him was blackened by smoke. But, as Menish had expected, he shook his head.
“No, the hurt is not my own. It is his.” Menish nodded slowly.
“And what of the korolith?”
“It is gone. He is no longer troubled by it. The dragons have driven it away.”
In the dead silence his words reached the edges of the hall. There were whispers and one or two exclamations of surprise. A man called out, Menish recognised him as Omoth. “Didn’t I tell you? He's Kopth who walks among us! I saw him calm a storm and he was struck by lightning. Now he has driven out a korolith!”
This caused an uproar. Most of them had not understood Azkun’s words for they were spoken in Relanese, but they understood Omoth. Frethi and the rest of the women retreated hurriedly into the women’s enclosure again, fearing violence. Warriors argued among themselves, some approached Azkun, others held back, afraid.
“M’Lord,” cried Darven to Menish, “what have you brought among us?” Menish had no answer. He could not say that Kopth was a foul thing of their own devising. He turned to Darven and said “let him speak for himself.”
Slowly, so as to disturb the burned man as little as possible, Azkun rose to his feet. His burned clothing fell from him as he stood, leaving him naked for a moment until Althak wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. The moment, however, was long enough for all to see that there was no mark of fire on his body.
His voice rose over those of the warriors, silencing them instantly. “You are saying things about me. You are saying I am Kopth, or Gilish,” he nodded towards Hrangil. “Perhaps you are right. If there is a Kopth that does not know he is Kopth or a Gilish that does not know he is Gilish then perhaps I am he. But this much I know. I am a bridge, a bridge that leads you from corruption and death to the glory of the dragons!”
Menish was surprised that he spoke so well, for he had not been particularly articulate until now. Of course it was wasted on his audience who, for the most part, spoke little or no Relanese. However they understood some of it. A murmur of approval ran through them as those who understood his words passed the message to those who did not. Darven nodded slowly, a careful smile on his face. Even Hrangil smiled secretly, and Menish wondered if Azkun had made another oblique reference to the Mish-Tal.
Menish, as well as everyone else in the room, expected Azkun to continue. But he did not. He sat down and bent his head as if a great weight lay on him.
Darven rose silently and crossed the room to stand by Azkun. He took him by the arm and led him to his throne. There he placed him and stood back and bowed before him.
“Hail, Lord Kopth.”
And Menish remembered his thought when Azkun first left the Chasm. Even a king must stand aside for a god, even a Vorthenki chief.
Menish and his company were largely ignored from that point as the Vorthenki proceeded to adore their god. To Menish Azkun was an incongruous Kopth, for the dragon god was usually portrayed as a flaming dragon or, when he took human form, a tall Vorthenki warrior. Azkun was hardly an example of either, but this was easily explained by the way Kopth often appeared in disguise in their tales.
They lavished gifts on him, food, weapons, women, and always their best. Darven offered him anything he asked that was his to give, which, since he was the chief, included the entire village. Others brought out painted shields with the images of dragons, swords etched with dragon designs and fresh fennel. The place quickly reeked of fennel, for they crushed it and rubbed it on themselves as a way of honouring him. Menish did not know why.
Azkun refused to accept any gifts except a new pair of boots to replace the ones he had burned and some new clothes. Food, he said, was of no use to him. This astonished them but Omoth confirmed that he had never seen him eat. As for their weapons and women, he rejected them all. He did not kill so he did not want the tools of death about him. This appeared to include the women as well, which puzzled Menish. Frethi, however, insisted that, since she was dedicated to Kopth, she would sit at his feet beside Tenari. Tenari herself was ignored.
When their excitement was diminished to the point where he could be heard again he spoke to them. He promised them happiness and an end to fear and death by the power of the dragons. Again Menish was surprised at his eloquence. For the first time he realised that his ideas about dragons were not particularly Vorthenki. Their Kopth was an evil, bloodthirsty god, but Azkun made him sound like the Relanese Aton, god of the sun. Hrangil whispered in his ear, “see how he wins even the Vorthenki?”
Menish became aware of a subtlety that possibly none of the others were. Azkun spoke in Relanese of the dragons who would rescue them from something. The Vorthenki words for ‘dragon’ and ‘Kopth’ were nearly synonymous. Menish could understand both Azkun and the Vorthenki around him who knew enough Relanese to translate for their fellows. They understood him to be making promises that he, Azkun, would fulfil.
It was all nonsense anyway. Kopth, Aton, Azkun’s dragons, whatever, nothing had saved the Emperor when the Gashans attacked. Nothing had saved Menish but his own wits. He found a quiet corner of the hall and went to sleep.
Chapter 13: Sacrifice
The next day the squalls had dropped and the wind blew steadily southwards. Menish took an early morning walk along the pebbly beach to look out across at their ship and the other that lay in the bay. The waves were still tossing this way and that in confusion from the winds of yesterday. They were a muddy, green colour.
The shingle crunched under his feet as he stepped over driftwood and other flotsam that was cast up on the beach. The stones were grey and so was the sky. It was like a bowl of iron over the earth, studded with clouds. A pale sun peered dismally through it. So much for Aton, he thought, kicking at a small log and sending it rolling across the shingle. The waves frothed up and engulfed it, carrying it away. He did not see it again.
&n
bsp; This was the domain of Kopth and Yaggrothil, the Vorthenki dragon gods of the sea. The sun of Aton was pale and helpless against the power of the waves, and across the waves they must pass. The men were already at the lighters taking bags of something out to the other ship. They battled their way across the waves, and their Vorthenki laughter and singing found him even across the noise of the sea.
Damn! Why did Azkun have to convince them he was Kopth? It smothered Menish with contradictions, for he hated Kopth, although he did not believe in him. It was in the name of Kopth that the Invaders had laid Relanor waste and murdered his sister. Thealum had worshipped Kopth with an evil fanaticism.
At least there was a goodness, a wholesomeness, about Aton. If he could not worship him himself he did not blame others for doing so. Hrangil’s insistence that Azkun was Gilish was only foolish, not repugnant. And now the Vorthenki would cling to him and adore him. It made Menish sick.
One good thing came of it, however. After Menish had watched the other ship unfurl its sails, catch the breeze, and move off southwards he returned to the village. When he entered Darven’s house he found Azkun shouting at his worshippers. It appeared that they had wanted to offer him a sacrifice. A young girl, no more than ten or twelve years old, stood among them in the white sacrificial gown stained with old blood and fennel in her hair. Like Frethi she wore a metal spiral. Frethi held her odd bronze knife. The handle curled about her wrist like a snake.
Menish had heard that the victims of Kopth usually went quietly and a glance at the girl told him why. Her eyes had that dreamy look that is only achieved by too much ale or, more likely, a dose of a concoction commonly used to relieve the pain of wounds.
The Vorthenki were confounded and confused. Azkun stood up on Darven’s throne so that he could speak over their heads.
“Have you heard nothing I have said? You must not kill. Murder begets murder, death begets death. Because you kill, so you must die. That is the price of corruption!”
So he went on while the Vorthenki shifted from foot to foot and hung their heads like errant children. Menish was sure that they did not understand what he meant. Only one thing was plain, the girl was not to be killed. Menish saw relief in Frethi’s eyes.
It was some time before they were finally able to leave. The Vorthenki implored Azkun to stay with them longer. More gifts were offered along with their pleas. Would he not, at least, lie with one or two of their women? For the children of Kopth were especially blessed, as were the women who bore them.
Azkun grew angry at this suggestion and repeated his admonitions not to kill, which no one understood. Confused, some of the women began to display themselves shamelessly before him. He cried to them to stop it, but their men cheered them on, this was surely why Kopth was angry, he thought the women were too reserved.
But they were wrong. Azkun fled from them, flinging away those who tried to cling to him. Menish ran after him, he was pleased enough to leave the disgusting display in the house. He ran out of the palisade and down to the water’s edge, and there Menish caught up with him. The Vorthenki had not followed, they feared that they had angered Kopth, Menish supposed. Only Tenari could be seen walking towards them from the gateway.
“We must leave, we must leave now,” panted Azkun. There was a madness in his eyes. “I cannot remain with… I cannot stay here.”
“I understand, we can leave at once. Wait here, I'll fetch the others.” He turned to Tenari, “Look after him.” But she gave him no indication that she had heard.
Menish quickly summoned the others and told Darven to make sure the women did not follow them down to the beach. The men would be needed to row the lighters. In a way he was pleased with Azkun, he had stopped the Vorthenki sacrifice and he had rejected their women. He seemed genuinely offended by their offers. It was an attitude any Anthorian would sympathise with.
He wondered if Keashil and her son would prefer to stay here. Darven had seen that she had new boots and some better clothes. But he saw her walking across the beach to the lighters holding Althak's arm and obviously ready to depart.
The sailors were delighted to see Azkun again when they boarded their ship. Omoth was not slow in recounting the events of the night before, and he was pleased with the prestige his account gave him with his fellows. It was apparent from their talk that there was no possibility of their ship sinking while Kopth was aboard. They took to addressing him as ‘Lord Kopth’ as Darven had done, and plainly considered him above both Menish and Althak.
Even so Menish gave orders that the other slaves they had rescued from the pirates should go back with the lighters. They were from these northern coasts and they would be useful to Darven. There was no point taking them away south. Althak saw it done and Menish retreated into his sea retch.
No sooner had the sails unfurled than the weather deteriorated. Thunderclouds rolled down from the north east and darkened the sky. The wind rose and began to whip up the waves again. Awan bawled orders to his men from his position in the stern, the sails tightened in the wind, ropes creaked suddenly taut and the ship began to furrow through the waves on its way south.
This time there was no danger, for the storm was not fierce enough to make the monstrous waves that had threatened them before. Shelim explained that this was largely because the wind now blew south along the coast rather than directly from the east and the open sea. Although they saw flashes of lightning far off in the north none of it struck near them. Instead they were drenched with icy squalls that lashed across the decks from time to time making the Anthorians utterly dejected. The sailors did not seem to mind the rain very much, what did it matter that they were cold and wet when Kopth himself rode on their ship?
They were swept before the winds for two days down the long coast of Golshuz. For most of that time they lost sight of the coast entirely, for it curved westwards while they travelled south east. In the middle of the second day Azkun caught sight of high cliffs rising black behind the curtains of rain. They marched back from the west, forming a great wall against which the waves threw themselves in a wild frenzy of foam.
As soon as these were sighted Awan changed course to run parallel with the coast. Azkun felt that the violence of the waves against the cliffs was somehow ominous. The cliffs were like a wall of night through the rain, like a home of spectres, or a cliff wall of a chasm.
Shelim told them that people who lived on these rocky shores lived in caves and he shuddered as he spoke of it, as if they were mad or evil. Azkun could not tell which he meant.
Drinagish was, by now, very ill indeed and so was Hrangil. Menish spoke to Awan about finding a place for them to rest the night on land.
A few hours later as night was falling they came to a break in the cliffs. The shore curled back into a rocky bay where the sea was sheltered from the wind. Awan steered them towards a rubble-strewn beach of black sand and black boulders. Beyond it, through the rain, Azkun could see buildings similar to those in Deenar, but without the palisade. As they drew closer he noticed that the beach was not strewn with rubble as he had thought, it was crowded with people.
“Kopth, Kopth, Kopth!”
He had thought it was the pounding of the surf, but now he could hear them chanting on the beach. There must be hundreds! Surely they did not live in those few houses he could see on the beach.
“Kopth, Kopth, Kopth!”
He could feel their earnest expectancy in his mind, their chanting thrummed in his brain, calling to him. How intensely they believed! He ran to the prow and leaned towards them. Their yearning for him touched him with its misguidedness. He wanted to go to them, to tell them that he was only the bridge. It was for the dragons they should yearn.
Even as he reached the prow he was aware of a fuzzy, clouded mind on the beach. He had seen this before. He had seen it at Deenar. There was a victim on the beach, a victim waiting death. He could feel the inner despair of the priestess, a bronze knife in her hand, waiting to do what she had to do. He knew that the mo
ment he stepped ashore the sacrifice would be made.
“They've heard of you already. The other boat that left Deenar before us would have stopped here.” It was Althak. He stood beside him. “They must have summoned the whole countryside to meet you.”
“Althak, they are going to…” He turned a pale face to the Vorthenki and stopped. Would Althak understand? Was he not Vorthenki? He had not tried to stop them at Deenar. Menish appeared from his shelter demanding to know what was happening.
“They've heard that we carry Kopth aboard,” said Althak. There was a smile in his voice as if he did not quite believe it himself yet, but was indulging the belief of others.
“Not another village of fawning idiots and shameless women! Awan! Turn the ship! We'll not land here!”
Awan hesitated, looking from those on shore who chanted for Kopth to Azkun. Azkun also looked at the beach. They were close enough now to see the figures through the rain. Among them he could make out the white-robed victim. For an instant between the noise of the sea and the voices ashore there was silence and Azkun spoke. “Turn the ship!”
Now Awan did not hesitate. He hauled on the tiller and called orders to his men. The main spar swept across the deck and the ship heeled around and moved away from the beach.
A dreadful hush descended on the chanters and Azkun felt their dismay. He ran the length of the ship and leaned over the stern where Awan held the tiller.
“I have not deserted you!” he cried. ‘I will come back to you! But do not…” A shrill cry sounded over the waves and the blackness of death washed over him like a wave of evil. They had killed her anyway. He sank down onto the deck and wept.
For a long time he simply lay on the wet deck and remembered what had happened with horror. A young girl, no older than the one they had been ready to kill for him in Deenar, her mind sluggish with the drugs they had given her, had slipped into the aching darkness that leered at him from every sharp knife, from every large wave. She was not so drugged that she did not scream when the knife had ripped her flesh and her blood had poured out onto the beach. She was not so drugged that she did not fear the oblivion that swallowed her.
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