“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.