Summon Your Dragons

by Roger Parkinson

  “He was bitten by a centipede,” said Menish, pointing to the bite on Althak’s arm. But the old man’s attention had shifted back to Azkun, peering at his face. He ran his fingers over the bite marks there, then he grasped Azkun’s cheeks in his palms and peered closely at the bite. He had to reach up to do it for he was quite short, and he thrust his face close to Azkun’s. Azkun wrinkled his nose. The man stank worse than the mire.

  He released him quickly and began to cough. He said something else in his own tongue and waved his arms in a strange gesture that might have represented the curves of a woman. Then he shrugged and turned to Althak.

  Neither Azkun nor Menish saw where he produced a tiny knife from, but before they could stop him he had made two slashes across Althak’s arm where the bite marks were. They welled dark blood. It happened in a flash of silver and the knife disappeared somewhere in the man’s clothing. He bent over the wounds and placed his mouth over them.

  “He… he is drinking his blood. He is a Monnar!” Azkun recalled the Monnar he had seen in Gildenthal with blood around his mouth. He had not forgotten the ring of stones, he had not forgotten what Hrangil had said of them.

  “Wait,” said Menish. “I think, yes he's drawing out some of the evil from the centipede.” The man lifted his head and spat on the stone of the causeway. He sucked at Althak’s arm a number of times then he washed it with the clean water that ran beside the causeway. He seemed very satisfied with his work, grinning all the while and displaying his bloodied teeth, though Azkun could see no difference in Althak.

  The man noticed Azkun’s dissatisfaction. He looked from Althak to Azkun several times, shrugged and walked off. A few yards down the road he stopped, turned and spoke to them, obviously telling them to follow him. Azkun made no move but Menish picked up one end of Althak’s litter so he had to lift the other. But he did not trust this Monnar.

  The old man proved to be a curious person. He muttered to himself or sang almost continually in his own tongue. When they tried to speak to him he shrugged and spat and Menish began to think he was a little mad. Although he looked frail he set a good pace, and Menish’s initial heartening at finding the causeway ebbed away with the day. The water had helped but, without food, his strength was gone and he was still burdened with helping Azkun carry Althak’s litter.

  By evening he was feeling light-headed, and he began to wonder if the water he had drunk by the causeway was as clean as it had appeared. He felt as if a fever were brewing. When they stopped at dusk the old man lit a fire and produced an evil-smelling lump of cheese from his dirty robe. He offered some to Menish. Menish was revolted by it but forced himself to eat some. As for the fire, he was curious about it. Neither of them saw the old man gathering wood or lighting it, they were too weary to watch his every move. It blazed up suddenly when they were not looking at him.

  But Menish was too tired to wonder much about it. He told Azkun to stay awake as long as he could and to wake him when he could no longer watch, then he sank down on the causeway stones to sleep.

  Azkun and the old man sat by the fire for a time, and the eyes of the forest, the furtive rustlings and the gurglings of the mud drew around them. Azkun shivered and the old man, seeing he was afraid, spoke to him. But Azkun could not understand him. He shrugged then he stood up, bent over, and emitted a long, noisy fart that seemed to be directed at the forest in general. He hawked and spat again and lay down to sleep, snoring in a few moments.

  Surprisingly, the forest noises appeared to subside. Azkun wondered wryly if it was the fart or the snoring that frightened the creatures away.

  That night a thick fog rose up around them and the stench of the mire hung in it. To Azkun it smelt like death. But the old man’s snoring was comforting in an odd way. It was regular and predictable, not random like the forest noises. Although the fog and the darkness thickened so that he could not see his hand before his face and the glow of the fire was dim and far away, lost in the whiteness of the fog, he could still hear the old man’s snoring.

  Sometime in the night he felt sleepy enough to wake Menish but he did not. Menish was exhausted so he let him sleep on. But he held himself from sleep. He did not trust the old man, even though he appeared to be asleep.

  At last daylight stole through the fog, turning it from darkness to bright whiteness, but it was still thick and wet. Drops of water grew on his face and clothes, and still the old man snored.

  Just as the fog began to thin enough for him to make out the shapes of the others in the whiteness, Menish stirred and the old man stopped snoring with a sudden grunt. He sat up, peered through the fog at Azkun, and then sniffed loudly and spat. He spoke some words of greeting in his own tongue, but Azkun did not reply. He watched the old man warily.

  Menish sat up.

  “You didn't wake me?”

  “You were tired, I watched all night.”

  Menish muttered thanks and checked Althak.

  “He's no better and no worse. His breathing is very shallow. Only his size saves him from the poison, but that can't help him for much longer.”

  In spite of his rest and recent food, when Menish tried to lift Althak’s litter it was too much for him, and Azkun had to hoist the Vorthenki across his own back, leaving the litter behind. Althak’s swollen arm hung down in front of his chest, he could feel it throbbing with poison.

  Azkun walked with his back bent under Althak, his eyes on the flagstones in the road. But from time to time he raised his head to see if the fog was lifting. He could hear Menish walking beside him, stumbling with fatigue. The old man ambled on ahead, they could hear the tap-tap of his stick as he hobbled along.

  Azkun was uneasy at following him and said so again to Menish. But Menish was adamant. The man must have a home somewhere with real food. It was likely that he would be able to lead them out of the forest. Besides, they had to follow the causeway. The old man was travelling the same way they were whether they liked it or not.

  They had not travelled more than an hour when Azkun became aware that he could now see the trees through the fog. But they were different, they were the wrong shape. Yesterday they had been twisted, claw-like things that hung over the road, today they were tall and straight.

  “Have we left the marsh?” asked Menish. “The smell has gone.”

  “The trees are different here,” replied Azkun. “Perhaps we have.”

  The fog cleared more and more and they found themselves on a road, not a causeway. The lifting curtain of whiteness revealed that they were making their way through a valley whose sides rose in sheer cliffs to snow-covered mountains. Waterfalls tumbled down the cliffs from high above the valley and a wide stream meandered across the valley floor.

  “But we couldn't have left Gashan so quickly,” said a puzzled Menish. “We couldn't see mountains yesterday and we haven't walked so far today.”

  Azkun said nothing, but he remembered the old man’s fart at the forest. At the time it had seemed no more than a rude gesture. But he could still see faint traces of a painted eye on his forehead. Was this Monnar magic? Had he taken them from the forest to some more subtly evil land of his own?

  Chapter 27: Healing

  At about noon the old man led them off the road and through the trees, where they found a sod hut thatched with straw in a grassy clearing. It was a crude-looking dwelling, and when the old man pulled back the skins covering the doorway they found it stank of animal dung and old sweat.

  The hut was tiny inside, but somehow two yaks and a goat were stabled there, which accounted for the stink. Azkun placed Althak on the rough cot of old hay and dirty rags that was either the old man’s bed or the animals’ hay store. The Vorthenki was heavy and Azkun was weary with carrying him. Menish sank down on the floor, leaning his back against the wall.

  Again, while they were not watching him, the old man started a fire. There was a small fireplace, a pile of embers in a ring of stones, in the centre of the room. From an old, wooden chest in a corner he pro
duced a bowl and several earthenware jars. Muttering away to himself, he shook the contents of one of the jars into the bowl. It was powdery stuff and it hung in the air like smoke. The old man coughed and spluttered as he opened the next jar.

  Azkun watched him like a hawk. They were safe from the forest now, but they were not safe from this Monnar. And Althak was still in deadly danger from his bite. He lay on the hay as silent as death, but Azkun knew that he had not died. He could still feel the throbbing pain in his arm. He did not want Althak to die. It was not just that he feared that darkness he would feel when Althak passed into oblivion; Althak was his friend. But there was nothing he could do. He had not saved Hrangil, and he could do nothing for Althak.

  The old man finished mixing his potion and, as Azkun watched him, he reached into the fire and grasped one of the flames. He pulled it out and it twisted and writhed in his hand like a living thing. Somehow it did not look strange, the old man simply held a tongue of flame in his hand. He muttered something to himself and poured the flame into the bowl where it hissed and bubbled alarmingly.

  With sudden swiftness he grabbed Althak’s swollen arm and poured the potion over the two puncture marks where the skin was darkest. It was black and vile-smelling and it hissed virulently as it ran over the Vorthenki’s arm. Althak’s body went suddenly rigid, but he did not regain consciousness. The skin around the bite, where the potion had touched it, turned from black to red and then to a weeping rawness. But the waxy texture of Althak’s skin diminished and the throbbing pulse in his arm grew calmer. Azkun had felt no pain when the potion had touched Althak’s arm.

  The old man coughed and went back to his wooden chest to replace his jars. The mixture he had made filled the room with an acrid smell that blended with the animal stink and made Azkun’s eyes water. Their host also appeared irritated by it. He produced another jar from the old chest, scooped out some red powder in his hand and tossed it into the fire.

  With a roar the fire exploded in the tiny hut. A ball of fire erupted into the thatching above. Somehow it did not catch on the dry straw there and, when it died away, the acrid smell was replaced by a drowsy sweetness. Azkun took one breath and found himself slipping irresistibly into sleep.

  It was a strange sleep. At times he woke, or dreamed he woke, and saw the old man spooning something into Althak’s mouth or binding his arm. Once he saw him feeding Menish. He wanted to warn them, but he saw these things as if he were looking down a long tunnel, as if he were not part of the real world. One thing he dreamed was unlike the others. He saw the old man standing in a field with bundles of greenery in his arms, crushing them and casting them about his feet. The eye on his forehead was freshly painted.

  When he finally awoke he had the feeling that several days had passed. The old man was gone and Althak was sitting up on the hay. Menish was asleep near him.

  “Althak! You are well? You look much better.”

  The Vorthenki grinned and lifted his arm. His wrist was wrapped in a dirty cloth but there was no sign of the swelling.

  “I'm much better. My arm's still stiff and I can't bend my fingers properly, but I'm well. Do I remember your carrying me through the forest?”

  Azkun nodded.

  “Then I thank you. I would've died if you had not brought me here.”

  For a moment Azkun said nothing, then he burst out, “I should have been able to heal you! You and Hrangil. Hrangil died and I did nothing. All I could do for you was to carry you. Why could I not heal you?”

  Althak shrugged. “Some hurts are greater than others. Hrangil took more than a knife wound, Azkun. He was a dead man before you reached him. And perhaps you're not proof against poisonous bites.”

  “The man in the knife fight was as near death as Hrangil, and what is this?” he pointed to the bite on his cheek.

  “It's not for us to command the gods. Kopth, Aton, or your dragons, they'll do what they will.”

  “But the dragons are compassionate, how could they deny help?”

  “You ask me of dragons? I only know of Kopth, and he's not compassionate.”

  Azkun would have shouted at him again, but he remembered that Althak was still sick. He had no right to tax him with such questions.

  When Menish woke he too was better. But he was concerned about what they had seen in the land of Gashan.

  “It was the Duzral Eye, there's no doubt of that. There are things I learned of it long ago, things I thought I'd forgotten. I know what they were doing to the stone.”

  “Hrangil said it drove men mad and they killed themselves. Was that what was happening?”

  “No, I don't think so. The more I think of the Eye now I wonder about it. I wonder why the Sons of Gilish had so many secrets, especially about the Eye.” He paused, thinking. “I remember hearing of an emperor of long ago who tried to pour blood over it, he said it gave it power. He was prevented and forced to abdicate.

  “But perhaps he knew more about the Eye than we do. Perhaps the reason it was kept so secret is that it is so evil. Perhaps Telish IV died because he did not pour blood over the Eye. I don't believe it had anything to do with his not being descended from Gilish.”

  “It is an evil thing,” said Azkun. “I saw it. It is the source of the Gashans’ evil.”

  “What else did you see?” asked Menish. He remembered how Azkun had echoed the words of the woman with the snakes. “We must know if they are really planning an attack on Anthor.”

  “Of course they are. How could you think otherwise? Could you not feel their hatred at all? That… rite that they were performing, they were worshipping the Eye and the Eye was speaking to them through the women with the snakes. It was instructing them…” Azkun was pale as he spoke and his hands trembled. He rubbed at his wrists involuntarily, remembering the snakebites.

  “And what was it telling them?” asked Althak gently.

  “There was much about murder and death, that is what delighted the Gashans.”

  “Yes, but was there any information about when the attack will come? Will it be before or after the winter?”

  “They have not gathered their people together yet. They will attack when the lake, Lake Kel I think, when the lake is no longer frozen. They will wait until it freezes and then wait until it thaws.”

  “It'll freeze over soon when winter sets in, then it's difficult to cross because of the shifting ice. Do you mean they won't attack until spring?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  Menish felt a coldness in his spine. Thalissa, or his dream of Thalissa, had said the attack would be in the spring. She had also said he would be killed.

  “Then we have time to get help from Vorish, provided we can find our way home.”

  “But what good will that do you? They have the Eye. You saw it yourself.”

  “We will fight them the best way we know how.”

  The old man had been out gathering herbs, and he returned with a basket of fennel and sage and a rabbit he had caught. The day was fine and warm and they sat outside while he roasted the rabbit. Azkun remembered the Gashan he had murdered with his own hands as he watched them eat it. He could no longer afford to despise others. This was corruption, there was no answer to it but the power of the dragons. Somewhere in the depths of his soul he could still feel that Gashan. It watched the others eat with relish.

  When they had eaten the old man left them and went inside his hut. “Who is he?” asked Althak.

  “He found us in the forest,” said Menish. “I'm not surprised you don't remember. Unfortunately he doesn't speak any tongue I know, although once or twice he has gabbled something that sounded like Anthorian. I could make no sense of it.”

  “And does he always smell that bad?” Althak grinned.

  “Yes, so far he has anyway. I don't know who or what he is, though.”

  “He is a Monnar,” shuddered Azkun. “He is evil. There is an eye painted on his forehead.”

  “A Monnar? I suppose he could be,” said Menish. “What ey
e?”

  “You must have seen it. It is painted in blood.”

  “I've seen no eye,” said Althak. “I don't care if he's a Gashan at the moment. We owe him much, I think.”

  “Hrangil told me they were the ones who sent Gilish to Kelerish to get the Eye. I do not trust him. He is preparing us for some evil. We should leave here as soon as Althak can travel.”

  “That would be a good plan if we knew where to go,” said Althak. “I think we must rely on our host for directions at least if we're to find our way home. Don't think too harshly of him, Azkun. He saved my life. Besides, the story I heard was that Gilish forced the information about where to find the Eye from them. They didn't give it willingly.”

  “I would have thought you, of all people, would know that,” said Menish.

  “You mock me because of what I told poor Hrangil. What else could I do for him? I could not heal him. I tried, but I could not. You think I did not want to? Do not look at me like that. I lied to him and I murdered a Gashan the next day. I am evil too, but I am not a Monnar. I had a dream before we reached Meyathal. It warned me against the Monnar. Tenari is in their power, they were watching me through her.”

  “A dream?” asked Menish, suddenly interested. “Dreams don't always show all the truth. I had a dream. It led me to the Chasm and you emerged. But in my dream something else came out of the Chasm.”

  “What?”

  “The ghost of Thalissa.”

  Althak looked at him sharply for a moment then he said, “Those eyes, I wondered where I'd seen them before. But she died when they threw her into the Chasm, and good riddance. Why should you dream of her?”