“Hrangil thinks I insulted him by saying something about Gilish,” continued Menish. He felt that Althak, the only one who was not awed by Azkun, deserved an explanation. “But I don't know. He leaped to his feet suddenly, clawing at his throat and jerking like one in a fit. Then he cried out something unintelligible and ran. Hrangil tried to call him back, but he just ran off.”
Menish paused, wondering whether to ask his question.
“What do you think, Althak? I asked you this morning, and I ask you again. You're the only one who can look at the matter clearly. If he is mad, could he be Gilish?”
Althak stopped breaking off branches from the fallen tree and stared at Menish in surprise.
“M’Lord, I'm hardly a reliable judge of these things. I know little of Gilish. Hrangil-”
“Hrangil would condemn me of blasphemy, the others would give me fables I already know. At least I do not already know your fables.”
Althak hesitated for a moment then spoke.
“I have seen a man take a shaking fit once which sounds like the thing you describe. He was not mad, but a korolith would take his body at times and abuse it. Some tried to make him speak while the korolith had him, hoping for wisdom, but the korolith wouldn't speak. Mostly, though, they were afraid. But after such a fit the man would need rest. He was never capable of running off as Azkun did.”
Menish nodded slowly. He had seen such a fit himself once. But he was not sure that Azkun had suffered the same thing either. Althak was right. He should not have been able to run off afterwards.
“So perhaps he was simply mad, as Gilish was.” Perhaps Hrangil was right. But what could they do with a mad magician?
“If it's madness it's sudden. He's acted strangely since we met him, that's to be expected. But I wouldn't have said that he was mad.”
“He threw himself into the river.”
“We both know of sane men who have thrown themselves at death, M’Lord.”
“But only at great need! Surely he was mad to do such a thing.”
“Unless he knew the river held less danger to him than we suppose.”
Which simply brought the whole question back to Azkun himself. The man was a walking riddle, if he was still walking and not drowned.
They had enough wood and the sun was dipping. Grath had kept the fire going even though he had been busy. Drinagish had changed his clothes and washed himself in a nearby stream. All there was left to do was to wait.
“I had hoped for a hot bath this evening,” complained Drinagish, “but here we are still in the wilds waiting for a madman who is probably dead.”
“Yes,” murmured Grath, “and we sleep armed for yet another night.”
A look from Hrangil silenced them both and Menish bade them build up the fire.
“You need not concern yourself with sleeping armed, Grath,” Menish grinned half-heartedly. “You'll be on watch most of the night to see if Azkun returns.” But his grin faded quickly. He was too beset by mysteries to be cheerful.
So they watched and waited. Menish and Hrangil by the fire where Menish was careful to keep his leg warm, and the others on watch among the trees around their camp site. Menish had warned them to be careful that Azkun, if he came, was not harmed. There were too many things he might be capable of. And as he sat and stared into the fire, listening to it crackle and pop, he remembered the look of ghastly terror on Azkun’s face just before he ran away. It was not the look of a blasphemed god. It was the look of a hunted animal.
Two hours after sunset Menish heard a scuffle and a cry. It came from the direction Drinagish had gone, but it was not Drinagish’s voice. He heard the heavy footsteps of Althak plunging through the trees towards it. Grath’s silent shadow slipped through the camp, Bolythak crashed through the trees from the other side. Another scuffle.
Menish fretted. What were they doing? Hrangil regarded him as if he had ordered the execution of his only love. But before he could clamber to his feet Azkun emerged from the shadows of the trees.
He entered the firelight as one caught in a trance. He was hurt. A gash snaked across his forehead like the brand of a victim and his left arm hung limply at his side. One side of his face was swollen with bruises. But he made no acknowledgement of his injuries. He approached the fire as if there were nothing else in the world. Althak was on his heels. He did not have to compel him forward. Azkun ignored them all.
But he was hurt. Menish was on his feet before Azkun reached the fire.
“Hrangil, pass that ambroth.” Menish examined the gash on Azkun’s forehead even as he sat and resumed his dumb stare into the fire. The cut was not deep, something had grazed away the skin. He poured some of the liquor into it, washing away the blood-caked grime. Crimson drops oozed from it.
His arm was more serious. Menish felt it carefully and could not find any broken bones, but it hung so limply that he was not sure. Hrangil produced a spare shirt from one of the packs and Menish improvised a sling. All the while Azkun was biddable but mute. He stared at the fire.
Menish checked him for other injuries. Apart from bruising, he seemed whole enough. But he was cold to the touch, and in that chill Menish saw danger. A man could die of cold in these mountains, and Azkun had the look of one who held his grip on life loosely.
“Grath, we need hot food quickly, get some ambroth warmed first. We'll see if he will drink it.” Meanwhile Althak stripped off Azkun’s damp clothing and wrapped him in blankets.
Hrangil hardly moved. He sat across the fire from Azkun and stared silently. Menish understood. He so wanted this man to be Gilish, but who could accept a maimed god? His indecision was furrowed on his brow.
Presently Grath had heated ambroth over the fire while Drinagish and Bolythak saw to roasting some of the meat. Menish held the bowl to Azkun’s lips but he ignored it. The fire held all his attention. Menish gently forced his head back and poured it into his open mouth.
That restored him. He was jerked from his trance by the necessity of coughing. He choked and spluttered so violently that Menish thought he had done him more damage. But after a moment he came to himself; he resumed his stare at the fire, but something in his eyes told Menish that he was now aware of his companions.
“Why did you run?”
Azkun turned towards him slowly, as if he were reluctant to admit to Menish’s presence. A vague smile had stolen across his face, but it faded when his eyes fell on Menish. He swallowed awkwardly, as if what he were about to say were something he would rather keep inside himself.
“I ran from you, from all corruption. But there is corruption everywhere. The river is corrupt, the mountains, all of you.” He spoke calmly and quietly as if he were a priest revealing a great truth to simple folk. Then he turned back to the fire. “But the fire is pure.”
“‘ With my eyes I behold corruption, but in my heart I remember the fire, for fire is pure,” echoed Hrangil. Menish recognised one of the early passages of the Mish-Tal and groaned inwardly. But Azkun had not answered his question.
“In what way are we corrupt?”
“You killed the pig.” Still he spoke calmly, but behind his voice lay the scream of anguish and the look of horror before he had run away. Menish noticed something else.
“You were gone by then. How did you know about the pig?”
“I saw them kill it.” His stare at the fire was something determined now, as if he could burn away pain. “I saw them,” his voice dropped to a whisper. Words such as these would not be spoken out loud. Menish strained to hear him over the crackling of the fire. “I saw their knives and lust in their hearts. A stab,” he winced, “in its side and another,” he pointed to his throat, “and it died.” His hand covered his mouth even as he said the word.
Menish had hunted pigs and other animals since he was old enough to ride. The feelings of the pig had never concerned him.
“But it was just a pig, we hunt them for food.”