The awful wind that had clawed and stung and howled at him for years stopped. For a moment he stood in the quietness, his ears still ringing and his eyes still squinting. But it was not a mere faltering of the gale. The wind had stopped, and it was replaced by a deep, brooding stillness. He could feel the presence of something nearby that he could not see; something evil.
Then he noticed the bones. Near the door of the Chasm lay a small pile of shattered bones. He had not seen them before because of the wind, and they were only just recognisable anyway, little more than a pile of broken fragments. A part of a human skull was discernible, and a longer bone, perhaps a thigh.
Bones, human bones, and the wind had stopped. He almost turned and fled from this dreadful place. But where could he run? To Gashan? He bent to examine the bones. Among them was entangled an encrusted piece of metal that might once have been finely worked.
“Your bones, Gilish,” sang a woman's voice.
He whirled to see who had spoken, but there was no one, only the tinkling of laughter. It sounded like water over rocks. If he had been anywhere but here it would have made him smile, but in the Chasm it made his skin crawl.
“Who are you?” His voice sounded flat and empty in the stillness. His own heartbeat seemed louder than the wind had been.
Again the laughter sounded. It was all around him.
“Do you not know me, Gilish, my love?” It was teasing, as a maid will tease a lover or a cat will tease a mouse.
“I am not Gilish! I am Azkun.” He tried to sound bold and defiant, but his voice shook with fear.
“No.” The voice sounded disappointed. “No, but you will suffice.” It sounded like a threat. “But do you not know me, my love? I am your wife, your Sheagil.” Again she laughed. “Have I not been a good wife? I saved you from the dragon fire and I taught you to speak. So many little things to make you happy, even though you wanted to leave me.”
The truth struck Azkun like a blow.
“I even followed you in my own way, my love.” More laughter. “For if you must be Azkun then I will be Tenari!” And she appeared before him in the entrance to the Vaults, no longer solemn but eyes alight with laughter.
“Tenari?”
She laughed again, and Azkun could see that hers was the voice.
“I could not often make it speak outside the Chasm, but at least I could be with you, my love, and I could see what you needed.” She seemed to see his injured arm for the first time. “Oh, I am sorry, Gilish. I could not protect you. The dragon was too quick for me.”
Was he Gilish after all? He was almost deceived by the words. But he could still see into minds. The mind he saw was boiling with malice.
“The magic? It was yours all along?”
“Of course,” she laughed. “It was always mine, my love. You have no magic of your own, you are not a Monnar like me. It was always mine. But I gave you the glory of it, for I am a good wife. I gave you the glory when I told them you built the palace of Atonir, when I told them you built the Lansheral. Always, always…” The voice was changing, and Tenari's expression began to writhe across her face. “But you, my love” the endearment was sarcastic now. “You wanted the power for yourself. You came to Duzagen because you were not satisfied with what I gave you freely! You wanted your own magic! Magic to use against me!”
“No!” shouted Azkun. “No. I am not Gilish. He died. These are his bones. I thought the magic was my own. I did not know-”
She was not listening.
“And you came here for magic to curse me to this Chasm, to howl my anguish in the wind forever!” Abruptly the anger returned to girlish laughter. “No, my love,” she said sweetly. “You cannot curse me and come back again. For I will kill you.”
“I am not Gilish!”
But Tenari had gone. Only the laughter and the boiling malice remained. It echoed off the cliffs.
“Gilish! Gilish! Gilish!” she sang.
“No!” The abrupt return of the howling wind snatched the word from his mouth. The wind shrieked with delight, still singing Gilish's name as the Gashan in his mind stirred. It whispered the way out, the only way. He had no magic, he had no way to keep his promises. Where was Tenari? She had saved him before, but there was no Tenari, there was only Sheagil and she was mad.
The Gashan's voice became more insistent. What else was left to him now? The spectres on the walls leered at him and the wind still screamed 'Gilish'. The blackness of the Chasm was an invitation to oblivion. With the Gashan in his mind gibbering with delight, he threw himself off the edge.
His final cry: “Tenari!” was lost in the howl of the wind of Sheagil.
Chapter 38: Summoning Dragons
The old Monnar stared sadly into the fire. The plan to free his daughter, Sheagil, had failed and Azkun was dead. It had taken more than a century to arrange the events that had produced Azkun, but it had all been ruined by that dragon attacking him when he first emerged from the Chasm. Stupid beast! It had wrecked everything.
He lifted an object down from a shelf on the wall of the hut. It was a bronze figure of a dragon, about the size of his fist and worked with exquisite detail, and it had ears. He ran his finger down the back of the statue, feeling the roughness of the scales.
Gashan would meet the combined armies of Vorish and Menish tomorrow morning, and Gashan would destroy them. The Monnar was aware of Vorish’s plans, they were clever but they were useless against what drove the Gashans. They had the Duzral Eye.
His thoughts were interrupted by a fit of coughing which racked his body. He spat phlegm into the fire and resumed stroking the little dragon. The Eye had to be returned to its place in the Vaults of Duzagen, where it could do no more harm. But that was impossible with Sheagil still boiling in her own madness there.
The tiny bronze head swivelled suddenly and the little jaws bit into the old man’s finger. He cried out and flung it from him, but the little wings unfurled and lifted it into the air. It flapped jerkily about the room screeching while the old man sucked the wound on his finger. The noise disturbed the cow and the two goats he shared the hut with.
Irritated, the old man picked a tongue of flame from the fire and threw it at the wayward statue. The dragonet squealed as the fire splashed over it, then froze into its original shape just before landing with a thud on the dirt floor of the hut. He picked it up warily and replaced it on the shelf.
He felt responsible. Oh, it was not his fault Gilish had stolen the Eye from where the Monnar had hidden it, but they had made the Eye in the first place. Besides, if the Gashans won this battle his next attempt to free Sheagil would be made more difficult. With a sigh he picked up his stick and hobbled outside. The moon had not risen but the sky was clear, and it was cold. There was no touch of spring yet in his mountain valley.
There was a magic road, like the one he had led Azkun, Menish and Althak along, which led from his valley past the battlefield. Its final destination was Kelerish, but he had no need to go there tonight, not with Sheagil writhing angrily in her prison. She had always been the most powerful of them, and she was dangerous when she was angry. Well, she was dangerous at any time while she was mad. Freeing her was a delicate task if one wanted to stay alive.
Who would have thought she could have changed the wild man so much? He should never have been able to see into peoples’ heads the way he did. The old man was still trying to work out how that was done. And conjuring up the dumb woman? Oh, she was clever all right, even though she was mad. She had even made the thing speak at Atonir, but she had long ago left enough of her own magic in the stones there to assist her.
He had made use of the dumb woman himself, of course, sending the man a dream of her when Azkun was lost in Gashan. He was good at conjuring dreams.
But Sheagil could conjure spectres when she wanted them. That was real power. Such a pity she was mad.
It was still early evening when he arrived at the battlefield, he passed close to the watch fires of the Gashan camp, but
they could not see him. What he saw there convinced him he had made the right decision. The Gashans were a foul folk, it was his own people who had made them so.
He had to leave the road not far from the Gashan camp and make his way to the riverbank where he found tall bushes of fennel growing. He hummed a tune Menish and the others might have recognised as that of Althak’s tale of the foolish farmer as he cut bunches of fennel with a small double headed axe.
When he had gathered as much of the green herb as he could he carried it out into the middle of the battlefield. He had to stop on the way several times, pausing to cough or blow his nose on his clothing. The fennel stank, which did not help his progress, but he finally reached a point where the fires of Gashan were as far from him as those of the Anthorian camp. He knew Vorish’s men were hiding on the forested slopes that rose on either side of the plain. He even knew that Vorish was at his command post above the tree line, and that Menish and Adhara were making their way up through the trees towards him.
He dumped the fennel in a heap at his feet. The moon had risen by now. It was just past full and the painted eye on his forehead, the one that only Azkun could see, glowed in its light. He hummed his tune, coughed, spat, and resumed humming. He stooped down and took a frond of the fennel, crushed it in his hands and tossed it skywards. He took another and did the same, and another. The pungent smell became overpowering, his forehead glowed brightly, and still he continued to hum.
It was dusk when Althak rode into the camp at Gildenthal. Cooking fires flickered in the tents and smoke drifted upwards in the still of evening. He knew nothing of what had happened at Kelerish, no one did except for the old Monnar and Sheagil herself.
Two days after he had left Lianar came the darkness that blotted out the sun in the middle of the day, and Althak had trembled, wondering what it meant, but he continued his journey.
At Deenar Darven had rejoiced to see him, but Althak told his story with a heavy heart. Shelim remained at Deenar. Althak continued, in spite of Darven’s offers that he could remain there. The dragons had failed Menish, but Althak would not. He hoped he would be able to return in time for the battle. So Darven had given him a horse and he had taken a road to Golshuz and then to Anthor. Much of the time he travelled through the wild with no road at all, only a direction he knew from the sun and stars.
And he rode into Gildenthal six days after the battle.
People did not recognise him, or were too busy with their own affairs. Perhaps they assumed he was one of Vorish’s army. The first person who knew him was Neathy.
“Althak! Althak! You've come back!”
“One, at least, welcomes me.” He smiled through the grime of weariness and travel. “I've had no news. Why aren't you further north by now?”
“You're welcome, Althak, very welcome. Menish… was asking for you.” Althak slipped down from the horse.
“What's wrong? Is he ill?”
“He's dead, Althak. He died two days ago. He took an evil wound in the battle and didn't recover. He lies in his tent, ready for the last journey to Gomol-thal.”
“Oh, Menish!” Althak sank to the ground and covered his head with dust. Neathy understood, she had seen enough of Vorish’s men lamenting their fallen comrades in this way after the battle. But many of the Anthorians who passed were embarrassed by this display of grief and hurried on. He cried the Vorthenki words of passing. The words were Vorthenki, which Neathy did not understand. She stood and let Althak’s grief run its course as he wept at her feet. It was not the Anthorian way to offer comfort to any but the most intimate of friends, but as she stood beside him a tear ran down her face.
“Take me to him.”
Neathy led Althak’s horse between the tents to the one that had Menish’s standard flying over it. It was ripped and torn from the battle where it had been trampled underfoot by horses and Gashans. Drinagish and Vorish were outside the tent. Althak had never seen Vorish look weary, but now he looked thin and ill. There were lines on his face Althak did not remember seeing before, and grey in his hair, though that might have been dust. Drinagish looked older, more responsible. His arm was in a sling.
Vorish was not normally given to display but when he saw Althak new tears brimmed in his eyes and these two, who had been like brothers as children, embraced. There were no words to be said until Althak had entered the tent and looked upon Menish.
He was dressed in a new battle jerkin, his curved sword in one hand and his shield strapped to his other wrist. His head was bare and his hair was neatly combed into the ponytail clasped with gold. There was no sign of any wound, his face was peaceful, although pale. His eyes were closed as if asleep.
“Vorish and Adhara stayed by his side until the very end,” said Neathy behind him. “Before he died he told Adhara she had to look after Drinagish, and Anthor. We could all see she wanted to follow him when he went. But she didn't. She's taken it badly though. You might be able to cheer her a little.”
For a long time Althak sat beside the body. He refused food and all comfort until well after the lamps were lit. Adhara came in and the sight of Althak made her break down with fresh grief.
“If you had only stayed,” she said. “But then the dragons would not have come and all would have been lost. As it is we only lose our dearest and our best.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“We went into battle. There were not so many of them, we would have won if they had been just what they seemed. But they had fire, so much fire. So many riders never struck a blow before they were burned up. It was worse for the ones further back. They threw the fire into the midst of us, and the leading edge mostly escaped it. Vorish lost many of his cavalry too.
“For those of us in the front… I can't describe it. It was, for a moment, as if we wanted to die there. We wanted the Gashans to hack us to pieces. I felt it and,” she placed a hand on Menish's body. “He felt it too, he told me afterwards. He said it was the Eye.
“Then it passed. The sky was suddenly filled with dragons. They swept across the Gashan ranks and incinerated them. But by that time Menish had already been wounded. We thought it was not too bad, he seemed able to travel. Whether he took ill suddenly or he wouldn't speak of his pain I don't know. He didn't have much pain at the end, anyway. One of the Vorthenki priestesses who came with Vorish gave him something to drink to make it easier.
“He left a message for you, though he didn't think you'd return.”
“No one has ever returned from Kishalkuz,” said Althak, “until now.”
“He wanted to tell you and Azkun that you were right. You fought them the best way, and you won the battle. He said that Azkun’s dragons have proved themselves gods after all.”
“Of course,” said Althak. “He would think that.”
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Summon Your Dragons Page 46