Summon Your Dragons Read online

“I dreamed it”

  “You dreamed of Gilish?”

  “No. I dreamed of… of something else. He came instead.” Menish did not want to tell Hrangil any more than that. He swung himself onto his horse. “Hrangil, he made no claim to be Gilish.”

  “He has forgotten. It has been so long.”

  “Could Gilish forget who he was?”

  Hrangil’s enthusiasm was suddenly checked. His usual reserve returned. “Perhaps not,” he said slowly. “But, again, perhaps.”

  “Then before we fall down and worship him we might try and add some certainty to the matter,” said Menish coldly. He did not want to hurt Hrangil but he was so weary the words slipped out. What did it matter? Hrangil was being a fool.

  Hrangil’s lips thinned as he suppressed a retort.

  “Where are we going now, Sire?”

  Menish sighed. Through his weariness came several clouded thoughts.

  “Atonir, I suppose. We must go to Atonir.” Hrangil’s old eyes sparkled as if Menish had just declared the man to be Gilish after all. To Atonir, to the city Gilish had built in a day and a night.

  But Menish was thinking of something else entirely. He had faced out his dream, and while the reality was different, there had been truth in it. What, then, of the prophecy? How much truth lay there? His answer was Vorish, and Vorish was in Atonir. Vorish would be able to make some sense of this man from the Chasm. But Hrangil was speaking again.

  “The fastest way to Atonir from here is to take the old road to Lianar and then sail down the coast. I have been that way long ago, before the Vorthenki came.”

  “By sea?”

  “I don't like it either, Sire, but by horse would take more than twice as long.”

  Menish nodded. “Tell the others then lead us.”

  By this time Althak had supplied the man from the Chasm with a spare jerkin and a pair of breeches. They made him look even more Vorthenki, for Althak’s clothing was garishly coloured, unlike the sedate garments of the Anthorians. Althak had no spare boots, so the man went barefoot. They had provided him with one of the spare horses, a quiet mare, and he sat on it as if he had never seen one before. Surely Gilish would not forget horses!

  The others had mounted too and Hrangil sat waiting for his signal. Menish nodded and Hrangil spurred his horse, leading them away from the howl of the Chasm and eastwards across the plains of Kelerish. Menish could feel relief in the rhythm of his horse’s stride; it was glad to escape that howling wind and, no doubt, it was still shaken from the dragon’s attack. Hrangil held up his arm and deliberately slowed their pace. It would not do to spend the horses on a mad dash that would last half the distance they should travel today.

  In the familiar rhythm of the horse’s canter he let his mind turn to the man's eyes. Anthorian eyes were inevitably dark and almond shaped. Vorthenki eyes were blue, or sometimes green, and always rounder. It was because they were a sea people, obviously. Just sometimes they were violet.

  Thalissa was such a one and the Vorthenki considered her beautiful. It was only a matter of time before Sinalth, the Invader, had summoned her to his bed.

  At noon they stopped to rest themselves and the horses and to take some food. Bolythak passed around some of the honey cakes and dried fruit he carried in his pack. Menish noticed that Althak was explaining something to the man from the Chasm, but he paid little attention. He was in no mood for riddles. He was more concerned with the way the others looked oddly at the man, they were bothered by what they had seen and their questions were unresolved. Even Hrangil seemed uncertain of what to do with him. All but Althak kept their distance.

  There was a partial solution to that problem at least. He beckoned to Hrangil who came and sat beside him on the ground.

  “He must be given a name.”

  “We know his name, replied Hrangil.

  “We do not,” snapped Menish. “There is too much doubt for anyone to insist that he is Gilish. He must be given another. It will ease everyone.”

  Hrangil said nothing.

  “Did you see him ride? Would Gilish sit on a horse like a tent sack? Watch him ride off with us, then tell me he is Gilish.”

  Hrangil paled as if Menish had just damned himself. But the man from the Chasm was clearly no rider. When they had finished their short meal he had to be helped back into the saddle and, although Menish had seen Althak explain its use, he seemed to have no idea what to do with the harness. Fortunately the mare he had been given was the sort of beast that ran with the rest. Althak had seen to that, of course.

  In the afternoon the tussock plains gave way to low scrub land and then to small trees which gradually turned to forest. Hrangil found the old road that the imperial retinue had used in the days of the Sons of Gilish and, though it was overgrown, it was still passable.

  Just before dusk they halted at a grassy glade beside a small stream. It had once been a camping place for pilgrims on their way to the Tor of Gilish. Many emperors had pitched their pavilions here in days gone by. Hrangil explained all this as Menish dismounted, for he had never been here before himself; his only other visit to the Tor had been via the direct road from Anthor.

  Hrangil’s words made him think of those emperors: Telish IV; Telkun VII; Azkun V who was murdered; Gilish III, surnamed the Warrior because he had fought the Men of Gashan long ago; the names stretched back hundreds of years to the first emperor, Gilish himself, who was said to have come from the sun as it rose out of the sea. He had learned the names as a child and had never forgotten.

  The man from the Chasm knew nothing of emperors and Gilish. It was as if this was the first day of his life. The discomforts Menish had experienced standing on the edge of the Chasm were as nothing compared to the horror that lay within. The eerie wind howled with nerve shattering force in the blackness, and the creeping terror that Menish had felt a mere shadow of had left his mind numb. It filled every fibre of him until there was nothing more to live for but fear, nothing to gain but another toehold of the cliff face. Above was nothing but grey mist, below lay the blackness that both called and menaced at once.

  And then came the dreams.

  Whether they were dreams or visions he did not know. In the Chasm there was little difference between waking and sleeping. They were half hearted, wispy things, merely an after taste and a sense of loss that there was nothing more than the wind and the darkness. Mere gaps in the emptiness that opened behind his back and snapped quickly shut when he turned to look.

  Once, and only once, he thought he had seen it clearly. He glimpsed a power, an awful, all consuming power that would have terrified him if he had not seen beyond it to a deep well of sadness, something that in all his terrors he had never seen before. The thing was so vast, so powerful and yet so sad that the mere glimpse he was given changed him.

  He had seen more than terror and darkness. He could no longer cringe and clutch the cliff face. There was something else, something wonderful.

  Today he had fought off the numbness at last, thrust away the paralysing fear and climbed upwards. So high the cliff rose! Many times he had told himself it was folly. Did he expect the cliff to end? Surely it went on forever, there was nothing more. But he drove himself on, remembering that brief glimpse of wonder and forcing aside the terror.

  His perseverance was rewarded. As he struggled over the lip of the Chasm the great dragon was there to meet him in all its glory. Here, at last, he could see clearly what he had seen in shadowy form. Here was wonder clothed in flesh.

  The dragon had bathed him in gentle fire and, incredibly, he had felt speech on his tongue. Words flowed into his mind for the first time, for the Chasm had no language but terror. More than words. His chasm-dulled senses sprang to life. He could see the golden sun in the sky and the wide plains of Kelerish made his head spin. But most of all he could see the dragon.

  It was so perfect. Its silver green scales flickered in the sunlight and its great jaws gave him the kiss of dragon fire. Everything sang with beauty. The
round boulders of the Tor and even the far off mountains seemed to glorify the dragon with their own echoing perfection.

  But the dragon could not stay. Rather than continue to awe him it had flown away. He was touched that he should be allowed to experience the attention of one so magnificent. He instinctively knew there was more than one such creature, the same way he knew what it was called. And he knew that they had made him, he knew that they had called him from the Chasm.

  When he first saw these men from this New World he assumed that the dragon had sent them. They looked like dragons in a way, especially the one called Althak with his shining breastplate and his cloak that blew about him like wings. But when the one named Hrangil had kissed his feet he had seen into his thoughts and sensed the awe he had felt; and the other man, Menish, had been troubled by him and asked him strange questions. The others had been afraid of him. In fact, they had all been afraid of him.

  All except Althak.

  Althak was untroubled by him. It was Althak who had given him clothes and Althak who had placed him on the horse. Althak was different from the others in many ways. He was taller, compared to the others he was a giant, his hair was yellow brown and his beard was thick. His clothing was bright and he wore a bronze helmet with spreading wings. The others were short and dark-haired with wispy beards and almond shaped eyes. Their clothing was dark and sombre and they wore no armour, not even helmets. Furry caps covered their heads, though there was metal in them too.

  Some of them seemed to not quite trust Althak.

  He liked the horse. She had been afraid of the dragon, he knew that, but he also knew that she was an ignorant beast and should be excused for such foolishness. He reassured her as best he could by touching her mind with his own, and he soon found her to be a helpful animal. He could touch her with his thoughts and she would turn from side to side or change her pace as he directed, although she mostly wanted to just keep with the others.

  At noon when they stopped Althak handed him one of the little cakes and he gave it to the horse, for he knew she wanted it. Althak had rebuked him, laughing as he did so. The cakes were for men; the horses could eat grass, he had said. But the man from the Chasm did not understand, he had never seen food before.

  When they continued in the afternoon his awe at his new surroundings abated enough for him to wonder about his companions. They all carried swords and shields, he knew the words for the objects but not their use. Althak’s shield was big to match his size and a dragon in flight was painted on it. The others’ were much smaller and carried no device. They seemed clumsy things, difficult to carry.

  He also wondered why they bridled their horses. When they had stopped he had taken the opportunity to look at the bridle of his own horse. A leather thong stretched through the mare’s mouth and was attached to metal plates on either side. His reins were attached to these. Althak explained to him how to pull on the reins to control the horse but it seemed unnecessary when all he had to do was to touch his mind to the beast’s. A brief tug at the reins brought an instant response from the horse when he tried it, as well as a peeved complaint, so he did not try again.

  When they entered the forest he had no more time to wonder about such things. There was so much life there. Trees, birds, squirrels and mice, all were a source of amazement to his so recently opened eyes. Yet not only to his eyes. He looked into the minds of the small animals and felt their thoughts. The bird was singing with delight at the sunshine. The squirrel was hungry and searching for food.

  As dusk gathered he became uneasy. He had never seen night before, for the Chasm was always gloomy. Yet as the night descended it was as if the Chasm were re-enfolding him. He shivered, though not with cold. The world was changing, it was no longer a place of light and air. He could no longer see clearly.

  By the time they stopped he was glancing fearfully around him. The air felt close and thick and the darkness threatened him. Was this another dream? Would he wake now back in the Chasm? But he had never had dreams like this. He would have asked Althak what was happening, for he rode beside him, but fear caught his tongue. What if this was what the upper world was really like? He did not want his fears confirmed into facts.

  “What's the matter, my friend?”

  It was Althak, he had dismounted and had motioned the man from the Chasm to do likewise. But he sat there, frozen with his fear of the unknown. He could not see the ground clearly. Was it still there? Or was there a chasm waiting for him to leap into?

  With an effort he groped for words. Were the words real? It was like a slippery handhold but he had to use it.

  “I… can’t see,” he choked.

  It seemed meaningless but Althak nodded as if he understood. He reached his big arms around him, lifted him bodily from the horse and set him down. The ground was there after all.

  “You're cold. The fire will be lit in a moment.”

  Fire! The word kindled joy and comfort in his heart. It made him think of dragons.

  The rest of the company had been moving about in the darkness and he could now make out a pile of something they were building in the middle of the glade. There was a sudden gleam of orange in the centre of the pile, which flickered and grew, casting shadows all around.

  The man from the Chasm walked towards it, heedless of everything else. Here was his dragon in the darkness. It grew into a blaze, crackling and sparking in the branches the others had placed on the pile. Surely a dragon had done this.

  He bowed down before it then sat entranced, staring at the flames, unaware of the murmuring of the others. Someone sat down beside him. He knew without turning that it was Menish, Althak stood not far away and Hrangil was near too. Menish was exhausted. He wondered why.

  Menish was indeed exhausted. His lack of sleep, along with so much activity, was telling on him relentlessly. Would he sleep tonight? Or would the dreams haunt him still? Perhaps the dream was awake now? These questions had been going around in his head all day, and now, as if to taunt him, the man had bowed to the fire, as Gilish might have done.

  “Friend.”

  The man turned and looked at Menish, but he did not take his eyes from the fire for long. Menish muttered. Did he not realise who was speaking to him? Even if he were Gilish he should be courteous to the King of Anthor. Yet his own men would forgive any insolence if he were Gilish. They would forgive Gilish anything.

  But would they? He wondered grimly. Would they forgive him for losing a war with Gashan?

  He sighed.

  “Friend, I have to ask you again. Who are you? Who are your people? How did you come to be in the Chasm?”

  “This is fire,” he answered irrelevantly as far as Menish was concerned.

  “And your folk? They had hearths? Where did they live?”

  “The fire is all. The fire is of the dragons. I am of the fire.”

  The expression 'of the fire', especially the way he used it in his old fashioned Relanese, was near enough to 'Azkun'. It was not a common name nowadays but it had been once. Several Emperors had taken that name.

  “Is that how you wish to be called? Azkun?”

  His attention had wandered back to the fire again and he did not turn to Menish when he replied.

  “Must you call me something? Oh, I see that you must. Then I am Azkun, I am of the fire.”

  Hrangil let out a sigh as if he had been holding his breath. He caught Menish's eye and nodded slowly. The man had made a subtle declaration only someone versed in the mysteries of the Sons of Gilish could understand.

  Menish stepped close to him. He knew the others would not have understood the meaning.

  “Say nothing, not until we are sure. See? He claims this name.”

  He turned to Althak and said in a louder voice. “We should make Azkun welcome with a song. Fetch your harp and sing for us, Althak. Something Vorthenki.”

  Althak looked at him in surprise, then nodded his understanding. He always carried his harp, it had been his father’s, it was said. They
sometimes asked him to play when they sang Relanese or Anthorian songs. Menish had never specifically asked for Vorthenki music before.

  But Menish did not want them singing ‘The Lay of Gilish and Sheagil’ or ‘The Death of Gilish.’ He sat down on the blanket by the fire and Drinagish passed him some food, some more cakes and a leather flask of ambroth. There was a pot of mein simmering on the fire now, under Bolythak‘s watchful eye. Menish hoped he would not overdo the pepper again tonight. Beside him sat the man, Azkun, staring at the fire again. Althak began to tune his harp.

  Menish worried about his men. It was not that they were disloyal. He had always been popular with his people, first by returning as a war hero from the battle with Gashan, then by protecting his kingdom from the Vorthenki Invaders. He had tried to be good to them, it was a king’s duty to love his people, not to oppress them like the Vorthenki chieftains who hunted their peasants for sport.

  There had been many interesting incidents in the long wars against the Vorthenki, but they were forever making up tall tales about him and putting them in songs. Once, at the spring games, he had publicly castigated a bard who had attempted to entertain the gathering with a particularly ridiculous song. But still they made the songs and sang them when he could not hear.

  He looked at Azkun. A god comes before a king. Gilish, if this was Gilish, was all but a god. If he could climb out of the Chasm after a thousand years the difference was too subtle for Menish, too subtle for his men.

  Althak started to sing. It was a Vorthenki tale of a foolish farmer and had a bawdy chorus. No Anthorian would have sung such a thing a few years ago. Even now, Menish thought, an Anthorian lady would quite likely deem it sufficiently offensive to draw her sword on Althak without the formality of challenging him to a duel. But among men alone in the wild he was safe enough, and they all thought it uproariously funny. Soon they were all singing and laughing, and Menish noted how tactful Althak was. Most Vorthenki songs had a dragon in them somewhere, a fact Menish had overlooked when he asked him to sing one. Either Althak had found one that had no dragon, or he had left that part out. Azkun did not sing. Most of the time he stared at the fire, but sometimes he gazed around himself and Menish saw joy in his eyes.