But there was nothing. No dragon appeared in the clouds, only gulls that hovered about the mast hoping for a meal without having to fish for it. No silver-grey shape with chattering thoughts showed itself in the bow wave. He could stand no longer. He sank down by the gunwale, still trying to keep awake, and slowly rubbed his aching legs. Althak, who had just been relieved by Shelim, came and squatted beside him.
“Azkun?”
“I know, we need a course. The dolphin has not come to me. I do not know where the island is myself.”
“I thought you could just-”
“So did I, but I have spent all night trying to call it.”
“Perhaps it's far away.”
“Perhaps too far.”
“It's not like you to despair.”
“I am weary. Do not worry, Althak. I will think of some way. After all, the dragons want us to get to Kishalkuz.” As he spoke he asked himself ‘Do they? Do they want me there?’ but he did not voice these doubts to Althak.
He felt the Vorthenki’s friendly grip on his shoulder.
“You will, I know you will.”
Althak’s touching confidence was like ashes in his mouth. He watched the Vorthenki rise and cross the deck to the pile of sleeping furs that were spread under the canvas awning they used as a shelter at night. Just as he lay down a fuzziness stole into Azkun’s mind, like the buzzing of a bee or the distant sound of surf pounding on rocks. Sleep tugged at his eyelids. He felt his head lolling forward and jerked it up quickly. The fuzziness remained.
All at once a cascade of images flooded his mind. The dolphin laughed merrily as it raced alongside the boat.
“Dolphin-not-dolphin swim to dragons?”
Azkun let out a whoop of delight and bounded to his feet. Leaning over the gunwale he could see the streamlined shape of the dolphin skimming just beneath the waves, its dorsal fin sometimes cutting the surface like a knife.
“Swim, swim to dragons,” Azkun laughed back with relief. The dragons had heard him. They had done as he had asked, he was still the vessel of their power. “Swim to dragons. Guide us.”
The dolphin moved ahead of the boat and, as Azkun shouted instructions to Shelim on the tiller, led them a little more to the east than their present course. Then, wearily, he lay down on his sleeping furs and slept.
The dolphin led them faithfully for days, and Azkun spent many hours talking to it. As before it was always laughing. Guiding them to Kishalkuz was a joke, the boat was a joke, even itself was a joke. Sometimes Azkun tired of it, for it refused to take anything seriously. When he tried to tell it of the Gashans it simply retorted “land things, not dolphins” and carried on laughing.
Once, when Azkun had been watching the dull grey shape beneath the water carefully, he noticed a mark on its back that had not been present the last time he had seen the dolphin.
“Are you the same dolphin?” he asked.
“All dolphins are one,” it replied with a torrent of meaningless images and laughter. Azkun got no more sense out of it that day.
Meanwhile on board the boat the human members of the expedition passed their time as best they could. Sea voyages, even for Vorthenki, were often boring affairs.
Shelim, who was by unspoken consent master of the ship because he was the most experienced sailor, spent nearly all of his time at the tiller. He took his position seriously, carefully keeping the dolphin in view at all times. He was awed by Azkun, for he had seen him struck by lightning in the storm and had heard the tales of the other things he had done. He nearly always addressed Azkun as ‘M’Lord’ but once his tongue slipped and he called him ‘Lord Kopth’ much to Azkun’s consternation. But he was a gentle fellow and took Azkun’s rebuke well. After that he avoided all references to Kopth, even when sometimes, in the evening, they sat around the little ship stove and he told stories he had heard from his mother. They carried no lamps on this little boat, but the stove cast enough light to eat and talk beside. Shelim's tales aways featured Kopth as a central character in one of his many forms, a bull, a man, or a dragon usually. But Shelim referred to him as ‘The Great Dragon’, which made the bull stories somewhat confusing at times.
Azkun tried to imagine Shelim, a little boy on his mother’s knee in a Vorthenki long house. Would Thalissa have told him such stories he wondered as he looked at his mother in the light of the stove. The warm red glow from the dying embers softened her old face into something like it must have looked when she was younger. He supposed she must have been pretty, but he had no idea of such things. He felt cheated, he had known no childhood, no mother to tell him stories or soothe away his fears and hurts. He had known only the howling gale of the Chasm.
Althak began to avoid Thalissa less and less as the voyage lengthened. They had exchanged their harsh words and Althak’s hatred of her had been shown to be of Menish’s making. She was a sad person. There was a weight of past sorrow on her that showed in her eyes, and Althak could only respond to such sadness with comfort. He began to coax her into eating more, saying gruffly that she ate less than a gull. At first she returned his interest with a scowl, thinking he mocked her, but Althak’s grin was too infectious for her to sustain that. So began a guarded friendship. They worked together when necessary, adjusting the sail under Shelim’s direction and preparing the meals.
Their diet consisted mostly of oat porridge, dried meat and water. From time to time they caught fresh fish and occasionally they snared a sea gull. But as they left land further behind them the gulls became rare and hard to catch. There was not much meat on them anyway. Fish also became less plentiful as they moved out into the great ocean towards the edge of the world.
Tenari had quickly resumed her blank manner when they left the comforts of Atonir. As always she was at Azkun’s side, her solemn stare fixed on him. Thalissa tried to speak with her but she was wary. Tenari ignored her.
For Azkun the voyage was a happy time. The deaths of fish and birds did not bother him, just as the death of the snake had not. The dolphin’s continual and infectious laughter drove out his sombre feelings of guilt. The dragons had heard him and, through the dolphin, were guiding him to them.
When they were fourteen days from Ramuz they saw an island in the distance but the dolphin did not lead them towards it. Twice more on their journey Shelim told them they were near land though they could not see it. He could tell, he said, by the clouds and by the fact that sea birds circled their mast.
But on the thirty-seventh day, when there was some concern about how long their supplies of fresh water would last, Azkun saw a dark spot on the horizon. The dolphin was guiding them directly towards it.
Chapter 32: The Emperor's Plan
That winter in Anthor was severe. For three months the North wind swept across the plains, freezing everything that lay unprotected in its path. Meyathal was sheltered from the worst of it, located as it was in the valley. The cattle were herded off the higher country into the low lands. Even though they enjoyed a winter covering of heavy fur they were only too pleased to leave the wind to ravage the ridges and the wide plains further north. Many of the northerners migrated south for this season, though the toughest simply waited it out. None of the Relanese caravans ventured north of the Lansheral before spring.
It was a time for craft and handiwork for the Anthorians rather than the hectic raiding and herding of the summer. Raiding was legal in winter, but few had the inclination. There was enough to do inside, a hundred repairs and alterations to make to the herdsmen’s equipment, and new gear to fashion. Everyone had to have something new for the spring games, and this year it was to be a real battle rather than just games. Hides and fleeces had been stored over the summer in anticipation of this confinement. Wool was spun and woven into blankets and clothing. New weapons were made. The smithy was a popular place to meet because it was always warm and always busy.
It was also a time for tales and song. Those veterans who had fought beside Menish forty years ago were in constant demand. Many
of them had been haranguing people with their accounts of the battle for years, but now they were listened to avidly. People wanted to know what the men of Gashan looked like. Did they use curved swords like the Anthorians or the straight swords of the Vorthenki? Did they ride horses? Did they wear armour? What cattle did they have that could be raided once they were vanquished?
Keashil was also in great demand, for she knew more songs about the battle than anyone had heard before. Menish gave into requests for those songs that exaggerated his victory. It gave them hope and they needed to hope. But he became more and more grim. He knew they were expecting a glorified cattle raid, not the destruction of Anthor and probably Relanor as well. But how could he tell them? There was no hope in battle except for a brave death. Even Vorish with his sticks for armies arranged on a board would have no answer to that evil Eye he had seen in the city of the Gashans.
As for Kiveli, Adhara told him afterwards that none of the women at the rite expected it to be effective. He had simply made a fool of himself, and for some reason most of the women had disliked him ever since. So much for giving them hope. And Azkun and Althak had gone chasing after dragons when they could have offered something they could use against Gashan.
Keashil’s songs did cheer him a little. Although she, herself, was often seen to be downcast when she thought she was alone, she was always cheerful when she spoke to Menish. It was as if she did not wish her personal fears to be the concern of anyone else. She was also intelligent and he began including her in the discussions he had with Adhara, Bolythak, Neathy and Drinagish. Once, after one of their meetings, he asked her if anything was troubling her. Was she uncomfortable in Hrangil’s old chamber? It was nothing, she said. When he asked Olcish the boy told her his mother missed Althak.
But winter did not last forever. The North wind grew less bitter, the cattle became less careful of their sheltered valleys. The days began to grow longer again and the land took on a green mantle as spring grass pushed through the warming earth. The clan leaders arrived, as was their custom, to meet with Menish before the spring games.
With spring also came Vorish.
The Emperor had set out a month before with his cavalry. The baggage train had been travelling much longer, but he had caught up with it at the Lansheral as planned and travelled with it to Meyathal. It had taken them several days to cross the river at Kronithal. Holdarish and Mora had shown their son-in-law hospitality while his troops made the crossing.
They were first seen by a rider who was checking one of Menish’s herds to the south of Meyathal, everyone knew the Emperor would arrive any day now. He galloped into Meyathal calling his news to anyone who would hear. The Emperor was coming with his armies, they covered the whole plain like the shadow of a storm cloud. The wealth in horses alone had left the man dazed.
Menish organised an escort to ride out to meet Vorish. He took Adhara and Drinagish with him of course, and Neathy carried his standard since Althak was no longer with them. Menish noticed the pride in Neathy as she rode with the standard unfurled above her. She was one who had liked Althak so she would not be gloating over his fall from favour. But Menish wished he still had Althak to carry his standard again. He was growing more certain that he would die in this battle, and Althak who had rescued him a dozen times would not be there. He missed the Vorthenki’s garish armour, and he missed his ready smile in these grim days.
By the time he reached Vorish he was quite morbid, rather than pleased as he should have been. Even the sight of Vorish’s vast army did nothing to cheer him. But the others of his escort gasped at the size of the Emperor’s army. They had no way of estimating the actual size, though Menish told them there were approximately five thousand heavy cavalry and another ten thousand more lightly armed horsemen, as well as a huge number of wagons light enough to negotiate the Anthorian roads.
Few of the Anthorians had ever seen heavy cavalry before. Their own fighting methods, developing from raiding, required lightly armed horseman who could move quickly. But the Relanese had always used large horses capable of carrying a warrior covered in armour. When they charged they made the ground shake.
Vorish’s forces looked to be under the command of four Drinols, judging by the standards displayed, and Vorish had brought his personal guard with him as well. It was a humbling experience for Menish, reminding him that he was but a vassal to Vorish. Any of his Drinols were as powerful as the King of Anthor judging by the size of the force they could muster.
But none of his Drinols were the Emperor’s father. He could not help looking at Vorish afresh. Was there a resemblance? Vorish’s eyes were like his own, or he thought so. He could not remember exactly what Vorish looked like now. His nose was like Drinagish’s, but that was nonsense. Drinagish was only related to Menish through Adhara.
Vorish greeted him warmly, but his smile quickly faded. “You went to Gashan in spite of my orders.”
“I had no choice, you know that.”
“All would have been lost if you'd died there. Althak said you almost did.”
“He almost did. I expect to live a little longer.”
Menish signalled his escort to fall in with Vorish’s personal guard while he and Adhara rode beside the Emperor.
“Did Holdarish and Mora treat you well?”
“Yes, they made me very welcome. Mora was not so warm, but she tried to hide her thoughts from me.”
“She'd like to see Sonalish again.”
“And she will not go to Atonir. Sonalish will not go to Kronithal either. Anthorian women are so stubborn!” Vorish laughed. “Perhaps I can arrange for them to meet at the Lansheral. They could clasp hands through the gate in the wall, neither leaving their own lands.”
“Are they coming to the battle?”
“Holdarish and Mora? I think so. Holdarish would prefer to stay and count his wealth, Mora wants to kill Gashans.”
“Sonalish didn't want to come?” asked Adhara.
“No, Relanese women don't fight,” said the Emperor.
“What if Atonir is attacked?”
“It's well defended. Angoth remains in charge of twelve thousand men there. Let's hope they will not have to fight Gashan at their walls.”
“You have hope?” asked Menish. “Surely you're not waiting for Azkun’s dragons.”
“No, neither am I waiting for help from Kiveli.” He grinned at Adhara and Menish realised that he had even gained access to the secrets of the women of Anthor. Was anything hidden from him? “I didn't bring all these with me to watch dragons or whatever defeat our enemies for us.”
“But the Gashans have the Eye.”
He shrugged and they rode towards Meyathal.
Vorish’s men set up a vast camp on the flat area on the other side of the river from Meyathal. Their tents intrigued the Anthorians. They were made of canvas rather than felt, and they were square, which was absurd. These Relanese or Vorthenki, or whatever they were, did not know how to make a tent that would survive a northern winter. Did they really know how to fight? There were comments about their horsemanship, how they did not sit properly, and why did that one scowl at everyone?
But Menish was, as always, impressed with Vorish’s tight organisation. Tents were going up everywhere, but there was a disciplined pattern to it all. Those that were not setting up tents were unpacking wagons, starting cooking fires and digging latrines. Oxen were being slaughtered for the evening meal down by the river. All was going smoothly, with hardly an order given.
It was not until that evening that Menish learned more of Vorish’s plans. A council of Vorish’s Drinols and Menish’s clan chiefs was arranged to meet in Vorish’s tent.
Menish was surprised when he entered the council tent. He had lived in similar tents during the campaign against Thealum and he expected them to be Spartan inside. But Vorish had every luxury. There were bright hangings on the walls, rich floor coverings scattered with embroidered cushions and low tables of wood inlaid with shell. There were also wrought
bronze candle holders suspended from the roof and their flickering candles set shadows dancing on the walls.
Vorish’s Drinols, Treath, Athun, Theyul of Kromere and Haramath of Azmere, were already seated when Menish entered with his clan chiefs. Treath and Athun Menish knew well. Haramath looked familiar, and he was polite enough to greet Menish as ‘Sire’. He looked about Darven’s age so he had probably been in the war with Thealum. Theyul was younger, probably too young for Menish to have met before. He seemed very Relanese in his dress. Where Haramath wore finely worked bracelets and embroidered trousers, Theyul wore little jewellery and the flowing court robes of the Relanese.
The clan chiefs, of course, were old friends, and old enemies, of Menish. He met them every year before the spring games where they discussed disputes between the clans, of which there were many. Sometimes the debate was amicable. Sometimes it was not. Menish had authority over them, but only because they permitted it. Often he thought they only allowed him to be King so that they could pass their most difficult disputes to him. There were five clan chiefs. Barvolin of Elarybol, Oramol of Gratha and Amralen of Rithyhir were all men a little younger than Menish. Barvolin had fought in the last battle with Gashan in Menish’s company. Yarva of Thonyar was too young to have fought, but she claimed she remembered the battle. Krithyol of Romeryhil had taken up his chieftainship two years before and Menish still did not know him well.
As well as the clan chiefs Menish had also brought Adhara, Drinagish, Bolythak and Neathy. As he looked around the table he reflected that Hrangil, Grath and Althak would have been here. But they were dead. Grath and Hrangil were, definitely. And Althak probably was by now. No one had ever returned from searching for the dragon isle. It made him weary. They were planning the battle he would die in, and many of his old friends were already dead.
He shook off these morbid thoughts. He still had Adhara. He still had Vorish. He was pleased with Drinagish, he would make a passable king, perhaps even a good one when he was used to it. But there might not be an Anthor for him to be king of, even if he survived the battle.
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