Summon Your Dragons Read online

  Summon Your Dragons

  Roger Parkinson

  Roger Parkinson

  Summon Your Dragons

  Chapter 1: The Chasm

  The howl of that infernal wind made it hard to even think. Menish, king of Anthor, hero of a dozen battles and many more songs, stood at the edge of the Chasm of Kelerish and shuddered.

  The cold was slowly eating into his aging bones. It never snowed on the high plains of Kelerish but winter here was more severe than in the lowlands. White clad mountains frowned down at the plains and the wind carried their chill.

  Sometime in ages past these plains had been snapped in two leaving a dark, misty pit whose depths raged and echoed with an insane wind. It was a sound that chewed at one's soul. He clutched his fur cloak tightly around himself in an effort to find comfort in what little warmth it gave in this hellish place.

  Hellish. The Vorthenki believed that Hell itself lay in the Chasm of Kelerish. The noise of the wind was the crying of imprisoned souls. It made him shudder again; the wind did sometimes sound like a cry of agony.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the pile of boulders that formed the ancient Tor of Gilish. It must have taken some days for his distant forebears to place those boulders there. He wondered how they had retained their sanity while they worked. For it was not just the eerie howling, nor the cold. There was something about the Chasm itself that made the skin crawl. One felt instinctively that there was some menace down there that would emerge if one did not watch.

  That was ridiculous, Menish chided himself. He did not believe in goblins and ghosts like the Vorthenki. That was why he was here.

  Deliberately he turned towards the Tor, placing the Chasm behind him. Beyond the Tor he could see his men, waiting patiently at a discreet distance. Hrangil stood by the horses looking towards him, but the other four simply huddled in their cloaks with their heads down. Althak had planted Menish’s standard in the ground near the Tor and it twisted in the wind, making the white horse device look as if it were galloping madly. Someone had tried to start a fire but the wind blew away any spark they made. The pile of sticks lay on the ground like a tiny replica of the Tor of Gilish that stood beside it. The wind would scatter it by evening.

  The morning sun rose in the sky, the wind continued to howl, and Menish continued to stand at the edge of the Chasm of Kelerish.

  No doubt his men were wondering what possessed him to stand here after he had impatiently led them through the mountains of Ristalshuz at a gallop. Several times he had made them ride all night. Hrangil, he knew, assumed he had turned to religion late in life. He had ventured to suggest as much to Menish but had received no answer. The Tor of Gilish was a holy place, so it was a natural assumption, if surprising. Menish was not given to religious display.

  He remembered how years before he had stood here with Hrangil surrounded by chanting priests. He had been just eighteen years old. The Emperor of Relanor himself had displayed the Eye of Duzral and initiated them into the ranks of the Sons of Gilish. It had been so mysterious, so impressive, so wonderful, and a few weeks later the Emperor was dead, the empire was in ashes and Menish knew it had all been foolishness. No one ever came here now.

  The other men, younger men than he and Hrangil, had never been near the place before.

  And what was Althak thinking? Althak was the only Vorthenki member of his escort. It must be disconcerting to believe oneself waiting at the edge of Hell.

  But they could all wait. Menish had not turned to religion. He had lost the faith of his fathers a weary number of years ago and he had no stomach for the ways of the Vorthenki. No. It was nothing like that.

  He had to sleep, and those accursed dreams had finally driven him here. It was against his instincts, against what he had lived by for so long, yet he had come. The weariness of the past weeks was like a weight across his shoulders.

  He had tried everything else; avoiding heavy foods in the evening, brisk rides every day, engrossing himself in work, even reading the Mish-Tal, but all to no avail. A sleeping potion had prolonged his sleep, but it made his nightmares worse, for he could not escape from them. The dreams haunted him until he was afraid of sleep itself.

  He could not discuss it with anyone, not even Adhara, especially not Adhara. But night after night he either lay awake in fear or woke screaming and reaching for his sword.

  For night after night he stood here at this very place.

  And night after night the skeleton clawed its way over the lip of the Chasm to face him with its empty eye sockets and its tattered rags. The strange violet eyes were no longer there, but he did not even need the ragged remains of the court gown to know her.

  Thalissa.

  Her name was a byword for treachery and malice. For nearly twenty years he had slept easy in the knowledge that she was dead, but no longer.

  The skeleton spoke with her voice, blaming him for her death and prophesying his own in lurid detail. Another battle with the men of Gashan, the ones who had killed the Emperor forty years before, and Menish would fall with fire in his flesh just like the Emperor had. They were coming, they would attack in the spring.

  He had hardly slept for five weeks now.

  But Menish was determined. He was no ignorant Vorthenki who saw goblins in the woods and gods in the dragons. He was Menish, King of Anthor, and he did not believe in ghosts and premonitions. That was what had brought him here at last, in spite of the cold and the howling wind and the creeping terror of this place. He would see for himself that this was no more than a wind-blown hole in the ground with a pile of rocks beside it, and nothing would climb from those shadowy depths. Just a few hours and he would convince the dream to go away. There was no skeleton, there was no prophesy and there would be no attack from Gashan. Then he would be able to sleep in peace.

  But no matter how he denied it he could not shake off the creeping terror of the Chasm. The feeling that something was down there, lurking evilly, was intense. He thought of the hundreds who, like Thalissa, had been hurled from this edge. The Vorthenki were not above helping their enemies into Hell, lest their bloodthirsty dragon gods misjudge them. The unseen bottom of the chasm must be cluttered with bones. His dream stirred in his mind and he wished he had not thought about that.

  A piercing scream sliced through the howl of the wind. Menish turned, looking for the source of the cry. It sounded again. His nerves were on edge and it seemed to come from all around him. He saw the horses jerk their reins in fright and his men leap to hold them. One of them, Drinagish, pointed towards the sky.

  A dragon was swooping down towards them. It let out another cry, sounding like chalk scratching on a board. Menish winced. Even as he yelled to his men to arm themselves Althak was lifting his great spear towards the sky over the horses.

  Only then did Menish realise that the dragon was not hunting the horses, it plunged straight towards himself, talons outstretched.

  He ran. The Tor was not far away, if he could reach it he could find cover. The dragon cried again, a bellow this time. It sounded angry, it sounded close. Breathless, he slid to a halt at the edge of the Tor. There was a space between two adjoining boulders. He wriggled into it. Like a rat in a hole, he thought, but one does not argue with a dragon when one only has a sword.

  He peered out from his hiding place, but the boulders blocked most of his view. All he could see from here was the Chasm edge where he had been standing moments before. The dragon screeched as it back-winged to land.

  Then something made his blood freeze. A gnarled hand reached over the lip of the Chasm and felt for a handhold. The dragon bellowed again. It was just above him. Slowly a dusty head raised itself above the edge of the Chasm. Menish held his breath and stared. The dragon must
be on top of the Tor now, he could tell from that last bellow. The figure from the Chasm lifted itself over the rim and sat on the edge.

  Menish found his senses as soon as he saw that it was not a skeleton.

  “Get down, you idiot!” he bawled, but his call was lost in another bellow from the dragon. The figure stood up and walked towards Menish, the Tor, and the dragon. Menish swore.

  Sure enough, the great head of the dragon thrust into view above him, its jaws darting towards the man from the Chasm. The warrior in Menish was stirred. He had drawn his sword instinctively when he had run to the Tor and now he gripped it and searched for a weak spot in the neck of the beast. It was just possible…

  But before he could act the dragon let out a gurgling hiss and a torrent of blue flame erupted from its open jaws. The heat stung Menish’s eyes; he threw his hands over his face and retreated into his hiding place. The acrid smell of scorched earth drifted to his nostrils. Shielding his face with one arm he ventured a look to see if the man had somehow escaped.

  What he saw he did not believe. The man stood in the flame with his arms raised, facing the dragon. A look of wonder sparkled in his eyes. For a fleeting moment Menish supposed that he, too, would feel wonder if such a thing happened to him. But this simply could not be. He looked again; the heat was intense, especially when followed by the biting cold of Kelerish. It was true. It was impossible, but it was true.

  Above the noise of the dragon and the howl from the chasm Menish heard a war cry from his men. They must be attacking the dragon from behind. He wondered how Althak felt about that. The dragons were gods to the Vorthenki.

  As quickly as it began the dragon’s fire flickered out, its roar and heat replaced by the shouts of his men and the chill of the wind. The dragon sprang aloft and bellowed again as it beat the air with its huge wings. Menish looked helplessly from the man to the dragon as the latter climbed higher and higher.

  The dragon flew on, eastward towards the sea following the Chasm. The high plains of Kelerish spread out below it, blotched and brown with the straggled tussock and lichens that grew there. The jagged line of the Chasm lay black across it.

  It flew over the coast close to the roaring mouth of the Chasm where the howling wind blasted out from a great crack in the tall cliffs. Water churned and foamed in and out of the gap, waves ever battling the wind. It was a place men feared and shunned, but today there was a small boat near the Chasm mouth.

  Curious, the dragon wheeled to look longer. Its sharp eyes made out a man picking his way over the rocks at the base of the cliffs towards a splash of blue. When the dragon dipped lower the blue shape resolved into clothing on a body.

  It was not interesting enough. The dragon was anxious to return home to the Isle of Kishalkuz, which lay far beyond the horizon in the great sea. It wheeled once more then resumed its journey.

  Chapter 2: A God Before a King

  Menish watched from his hiding place between the boulders of the Tor. His face still stung from the heat of the dragon flame, and the man from the Chasm still stood unscathed by the same fire. He was surrounded by a circle of blackened earth, with his arm raised in a gesture of farewell to the dragon and his face shining with joy.

  He looked like a wild man. Menish had heard of children who had been raised by wolves and wondered if this was such a one. He was tall and gaunt with long, unkempt hair and beard. Like the wolf children he was naked, though his body was as hairy as a Vorthenki’s. Even so Menish wondered how he could be so apparently comfortable in this numbing cold.

  The sound of horses and men running interrupted his study of the man, and he felt suddenly foolish hiding in a hole now that the dragon had gone. He wriggled out of his refuge and stood up. His men were already approaching and he wondered how much they had seen.

  Drinagish reached him first. “Uncle, are you hurt?”

  “No, I hid in a hole while you drove it away.”

  “We can't take credit for that, M’Lord,” said Althak, who was on Drinagish’s heels. “It flew off while we were still wondering what to do.”

  Indeed, thought Menish, he could guess at the source of that hesitation for Althak. But anyone would ponder what to do when confronted with a dragon.

  Hrangil was walking towards the man from the Chasm. The others fell silent when they saw Menish watching him. When he reached the man he fell on his knees and kissed his feet. There was a nervous murmur from Drinagish even as Menish realised what Hrangil was doing.

  Gilish!

  Menish felt suddenly old and tired. Hrangil was his oldest friend. He had been with him at the battle with the Men of Gashan, he had seen the Emperor fall and the Duzral Eye taken, yet he had never lost faith, he had never forgotten the promise that Gilish would some day return.

  The King of Anthor sighed; so the man was unscathed by fire, so he came out of the Chasm where Gilish had died a thousand years ago. His much vaunted Duzral Eye had failed Relanor when they stood against Gashan forty years ago. Menish refused to trust magicians, even fireproof ones.

  And yet who could not wonder at it? He stepped forward, intending to greet the man from the Chasm in a less extravagant manner. The man gazed about himself as if he had been blind and had just learned to see. He noticed the King of Anthor and their eyes met.

  Menish froze.

  For several seconds he stood and stared at the man. He felt his face pale at the sight. The man’s eyes, they were her eyes! Vividly he saw the eyeless sockets of the skeleton from the Chasm. This figure wore no tattered court robe, was not even a woman, but his eyes were her strange colour. He felt the wind howling behind him and his skin crawled with sudden sweat in spite of the cold.

  Yet this was not Thalissa, this was a wild man from the Chasm. Thalissa was dead and there were no ghosts. This was not a skeleton, this was flesh and blood. Flesh and blood? What flesh and blood could stand in dragon fire and live?

  The man seemed to sense his distress, for his elated expression clouded with concern. Menish snapped himself out of his fright and signalled the man to follow him. Conversation was difficult with this howl from the Chasm, and Menish led him behind the Tor where they could speak.

  While they walked Menish put his cloak around the man’s shoulders before he froze to death, although he still seemed comfortable in spite of the cold. It made him look a little more civilised anyway.

  “Greetings,” said Menish when they were out of the noise. “You must tell us how you learned the trick of standing unharmed in dragon fire. You've deeply impressed my men.” He nodded vaguely at Hrangil but he spoke with a grin; not making too much of the feat, yet not dismissing it. Keeping his options open.

  The man smiled, then he laughed. He had good teeth for a wild man, thought Menish, and he wondered if he had chosen the right language to greet him in. He spoke Relanese as his own native tongue and had used that, but the man looked more or less Vorthenki. He was about to try some Vorthenki gabble when the man replied.

  “There was no harm in the dragon. He breathed speech into my mouth, sight into my eyes and strength into my limbs. Before the dragon,” he glanced in the direction of the Chasm, “I was numb, but now I am alive!”

  His speech was odd. It was Relanese, but he spoke it in a strangely formal way, as if he were reading from the Mish-Tal. This was surely how Gilish would speak, for Gilish himself had written the Mish-Tal.

  As for his explanation of the dragon flame, that would have to do for now, odd as it was. To Menish it sounded suspiciously Vorthenki, hardly the sort of thing Gilish would say.

  “You are alive,” echoed Menish, still amazed at the fact. “You are speaking with Menish, King of the Anthorians.” He waited for a reaction. In the days of Gilish the Anthorians were enemies of Relanor. But Gilish, if he was Gilish, merely looked at him, smiling. Menish began to find that smile irritating. It made the man seem like an idiot.

  “And you? Do you have a name?”

  “A name?” The smile vanished and he looked confused. “
I have said the dragon gave me life. Is there more?”

  “A name,” repeated Menish. “You must have a name, and kin folk. Were you thrown into the Chasm?” Menish could feel an intensity behind him from Drinagish and Hrangil. What name would he say?

  “I… I don't know.”

  That was no use at all. If he would outright claim to be Gilish then they could discuss it, argue about it perhaps, although arguing with Gilish himself was perhaps best avoided. Menish pressed him further.

  “Your people, your kin folk, where are they? Did they not give you a name?”

  “My… people?”

  “Parents, wife, children, where are they?”

  “There is only myself.”

  “Flame of Aton! You must have had a mother!” Menish regretted this as soon as he had spoken, but he was weary and the man raised more questions with every answer. Vorish would get more out of him, but Vorish was not here. He felt Hrangil’s disapproval. A man, even a king, should not shout at a god. He stepped back from the man, wondering for the first time if this was just another dream. He felt so tired. How could he feel tired if he was asleep and dreaming?

  “Get him some clothes, Althak. Bring him with us.” He turned and stamped off towards his horse.

  Hrangil was at his heels.

  “Sire?”

  Menish turned to look at him. He realised that it was not disapproval in his old friend’s face, it was awe. It was awe at Menish himself. “How did you know, Sire? How did you know it would be today?”

  “You really think he's Gilish?”

  “It is written ‘…and I will walk among you again, when I return. Some will know me, some will not.' He walked in fire. It is a sign. But how did you know?” A touch of resentment. Hrangil the faithful had been passed over and the knowledge given to Menish who cared nothing for Gilish.

  Menish shrugged and then shivered.