Frethi came. She approached the korolith timidly, but he was no longer the korolith. He was just a man, and he lay still and quiet in Azkun’s arms. A hush fell over the room, a silence in which the crackling of the fire sounded like the noise of distant battle and each breath foreboded a storm. Azkun broke it.
“He is in pain. I cannot help him further.”
Still Frethi hesitated. Drinagish, who stood nearest to her, took her by the arm and led her to Azkun and the man who had been owned by the korolith. Gingerly Frethi examined the man. His feet, of course, were blackened and charred and a hideous, raw burn covered his chest where he had fallen in the fire. Menish was surprised that he was not hurt more, but Azkun had moved quickly. Frethi called for Seti to bring something from the women’s enclosure and she returned with a heavy blue jar. The priestess, her manner still hesitant, applied a thick, sticky salve that smelled of thyme to the burns.
Menish caught Azkun’s eye and saw that his face was clouded with pain. He wondered about the korolith, not that he gave much credence to Vorthenki tales, but something evil had afflicted the man.
“Azkun, are you hurt?”
The question seemed foolish. His clothes were smouldering rags, the dagger Omoth had given him was blackened by smoke. But, as Menish had expected, he shook his head.
“No, the hurt is not my own. It is his.” Menish nodded slowly.
“And what of the korolith?”
“It is gone. He is no longer troubled by it. The dragons have driven it away.”
In the dead silence his words reached the edges of the hall. There were whispers and one or two exclamations of surprise. A man called out, Menish recognised him as Omoth. “Didn’t I tell you? He's Kopth who walks among us! I saw him calm a storm and he was struck by lightning. Now he has driven out a korolith!”
This caused an uproar. Most of them had not understood Azkun’s words for they were spoken in Relanese, but they understood Omoth. Frethi and the rest of the women retreated hurriedly into the women’s enclosure again, fearing violence. Warriors argued among themselves, some approached Azkun, others held back, afraid.
“M’Lord,” cried Darven to Menish, “what have you brought among us?” Menish had no answer. He could not say that Kopth was a foul thing of their own devising. He turned to Darven and said “let him speak for himself.”
Slowly, so as to disturb the burned man as little as possible, Azkun rose to his feet. His burned clothing fell from him as he stood, leaving him naked for a moment until Althak wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. The moment, however, was long enough for all to see that there was no mark of fire on his body.
His voice rose over those of the warriors, silencing them instantly. “You are saying things about me. You are saying I am Kopth, or Gilish,” he nodded towards Hrangil. “Perhaps you are right. If there is a Kopth that does not know he is Kopth or a Gilish that does not know he is Gilish then perhaps I am he. But this much I know. I am a bridge, a bridge that leads you from corruption and death to the glory of the dragons!”
Menish was surprised that he spoke so well, for he had not been particularly articulate until now. Of course it was wasted on his audience who, for the most part, spoke little or no Relanese. However they understood some of it. A murmur of approval ran through them as those who understood his words passed the message to those who did not. Darven nodded slowly, a careful smile on his face. Even Hrangil smiled secretly, and Menish wondered if Azkun had made another oblique reference to the Mish-Tal.
Menish, as well as everyone else in the room, expected Azkun to continue. But he did not. He sat down and bent his head as if a great weight lay on him.
Darven rose silently and crossed the room to stand by Azkun. He took him by the arm and led him to his throne. There he placed him and stood back and bowed before him.
“Hail, Lord Kopth.”
And Menish remembered his thought when Azkun first left the Chasm. Even a king must stand aside for a god, even a Vorthenki chief.
Menish and his company were largely ignored from that point as the Vorthenki proceeded to adore their god. To Menish Azkun was an incongruous Kopth, for the dragon god was usually portrayed as a flaming dragon or, when he took human form, a tall Vorthenki warrior. Azkun was hardly an example of either, but this was easily explained by the way Kopth often appeared in disguise in their tales.
They lavished gifts on him, food, weapons, women, and always their best. Darven offered him anything he asked that was his to give, which, since he was the chief, included the entire village. Others brought out painted shields with the images of dragons, swords etched with dragon designs and fresh fennel. The place quickly reeked of fennel, for they crushed it and rubbed it on themselves as a way of honouring him. Menish did not know why.
Azkun refused to accept any gifts except a new pair of boots to replace the ones he had burned and some new clothes. Food, he said, was of no use to him. This astonished them but Omoth confirmed that he had never seen him eat. As for their weapons and women, he rejected them all. He did not kill so he did not want the tools of death about him. This appeared to include the women as well, which puzzled Menish. Frethi, however, insisted that, since she was dedicated to Kopth, she would sit at his feet beside Tenari. Tenari herself was ignored.
When their excitement was diminished to the point where he could be heard again he spoke to them. He promised them happiness and an end to fear and death by the power of the dragons. Again Menish was surprised at his eloquence. For the first time he realised that his ideas about dragons were not particularly Vorthenki. Their Kopth was an evil, bloodthirsty god, but Azkun made him sound like the Relanese Aton, god of the sun. Hrangil whispered in his ear, “see how he wins even the Vorthenki?”
Menish became aware of a subtlety that possibly none of the others were. Azkun spoke in Relanese of the dragons who would rescue them from something. The Vorthenki words for ‘dragon’ and ‘Kopth’ were nearly synonymous. Menish could understand both Azkun and the Vorthenki around him who knew enough Relanese to translate for their fellows. They understood him to be making promises that he, Azkun, would fulfil.
It was all nonsense anyway. Kopth, Aton, Azkun’s dragons, whatever, nothing had saved the Emperor when the Gashans attacked. Nothing had saved Menish but his own wits. He found a quiet corner of the hall and went to sleep.
Chapter 13: Sacrifice
The next day the squalls had dropped and the wind blew steadily southwards. Menish took an early morning walk along the pebbly beach to look out across at their ship and the other that lay in the bay. The waves were still tossing this way and that in confusion from the winds of yesterday. They were a muddy, green colour.
The shingle crunched under his feet as he stepped over driftwood and other flotsam that was cast up on the beach. The stones were grey and so was the sky. It was like a bowl of iron over the earth, studded with clouds. A pale sun peered dismally through it. So much for Aton, he thought, kicking at a small log and sending it rolling across the shingle. The waves frothed up and engulfed it, carrying it away. He did not see it again.
This was the domain of Kopth and Yaggrothil, the Vorthenki dragon gods of the sea. The sun of Aton was pale and helpless against the power of the waves, and across the waves they must pass. The men were already at the lighters taking bags of something out to the other ship. They battled their way across the waves, and their Vorthenki laughter and singing found him even across the noise of the sea.
Damn! Why did Azkun have to convince them he was Kopth? It smothered Menish with contradictions, for he hated Kopth, although he did not believe in him. It was in the name of Kopth that the Invaders had laid Relanor waste and murdered his sister. Thealum had worshipped Kopth with an evil fanaticism.