Menish liked these two. Yartha was a dark, powerfully built woman with hair as black as night and olive skin. Her face frequently lit with a bright smile and she had a vast capacity for ale. Vyanol, in contrast, was more pensive. He hesitated before he spoke, as if he took some care in choosing his words. They spoke in Relanese from habit, but they occasionally reverted to their native Anthorian tongue.
Yartha had much to say about the weather, there had been storms in the north lately, and how it kept away travellers. Not that the inn was empty, several groups were staying that night and a whole caravan had passed through a few days before.
Vyanol hesitated a comment about the recent elections in a pause left by his wife. He was annoyed that women could not hold office on the council. Any prominent citizen could vote, including Yartha for she owned the inn jointly with her husband, but she could not seek election herself.
“It's these foolish Relanese, and the Vorthenki are worse,” he said in his slow, hesitating way. “My wife would make a good councillor, better than some I could name.”
“I'm certain of it,” said Althak, a twinkle in his eye as he saw Vyanol remember the Vorthenki’s presence.
Menish smiled at their host’s concern.
“Fear not, Vyanol,” he chuckled. “Althak is not as Vorthenki as he appears.”
“M’Lord!” protested Althak and they all laughed at his use of the Vorthenki honorific which seemed to deny Menish’s words.
“Nonsense, Uncle,” snorted Drinagish. “He's as big as an ox, he likes the sea and he dresses like a, well, like a Vorthenki. What else do you call him?”
Menish changed the subject.
“There have been storms in the north?”
“So a man said who was through last week,” said Yartha. “You may have flooding. How far north do you travel?”
“Meyathal, no further.”
“Well, it probably won't affect you. I heard that Gildenthal was flooded.” She shrugged, “Mind you those northerners are a wild lot, they'll say anything.”
“He was a northerner?”
“No, a plainsman, at great pains to tell us how many cattle he owned, you know the type. But he heard the news from northerners when he was near Gildenthal.”
“It doesn't matter anyway. I'm not travelling that far on this trip.” But Menish was lying. The expedition to Gashan would take that route. He would soon find out more about what was happening up there.
“Perhaps you can tell us what's happening in Atonir,” said Vyanol. “They say the King of Anthor arrived on a golden ship and brought a great magician with him who warned that the Gashans will attack Anthor soon. Vorish is sending an army north and the whole town is required to organise a supply dump he's ordered.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Our worthy council is delighted with all the responsibility.”
Menish almost choked on his ale. How had such news reached here so soon? There must have been a courier that left before they did.
“I saw the King,” said Drinagish. “But I saw no golden ship and the King looked sea-sick to me, whatever the ship was made of.”
They all laughed and Vyanol shrugged.
“The King beat Gashan last time, he'll beat them again.”
Menish opened his mouth to say something less certain, but thought better of it.
“What of the magician? Is it true he raised a man from death?”
“It's not true,” said Azkun suddenly.
Their hosts turned to him, questions on their faces and a little disappointment. A good story, it seemed, was about to be ruined.
“What he means,” put in Althak hurriedly, “is no one was sure the man was dead. We saw it all. It was a knife fight in the street, one of them went down with a knife in his chest. The magician drew out the knife. I thought the man was dead, but he obviously wasn't.”
“And the other things he did? They say he stood in dragon fire, calmed a storm and that he was seen flying like a bird above the walls of the palace.”
They burst out laughing. Even Azkun was amused.
“If he can fly as well then perhaps the Emperor will dispense with his couriers!” But as he spoke Menish cast a sidelong glance at Azkun. Who knew what he could and could not do?
They retired to bed early, but not before Keashil and the local bard had sung together for them. Their hosts were impressed and hinted that Keashil and her son would be welcome to stay with them for a while. But Keashil politely refused.
The next morning they made their way to the gap in the wall as the sun rose behind them. There was a gate in the low wall that now blocked the great gap. Beside the gate sat a pair of guards, old men past active service who acted more as porters than guards. The wall was of strategic importance, Vorish had it patrolled with a token force even though Relanor and Anthor were on good terms now.
The two guards wished them a safe journey and one made a remark about the floods in the north. Menish thanked him with a coin. Then they were through the gate. The long shadow of the wall stretched out before them and they rode some distance before they were back in the sunshine, their horses crunching the frost on the road beneath their hoofs.
Today the horses they used were different from the previous days. They were stocky beasts with shaggy coats and there were extras for the baggage they now needed.
When the sunlight struck Menish’s cloak again he turned his horse and looked back at the wall. It was a great shadow, a vast silhouette with the sun peering over it like a range of mountains.
Menish took a deep breath of the frosty air and felt cold bite at his throat.
“Anthor. At last we're home.” He turned to Azkun and Keashil. “We're now only a few days from Meyathal, where comfort waits for us. Tonight we'll lie in Kronithal, then spend three nights in the open before we reach Meyathal. But this is the land of Anthor. The road, I'm afraid, is poor from now on, and we've no way stations to change horses. These will have to be spared.”
“Gilish, you see, never built his roads beyond the wall,” explained Hrangil.
“Because Gilish could not tame Anthor,” said Menish, suddenly irritated. “We'll make what speed we can.” He turned his horse and galloped ahead of them.
Menish was right about the road. Gone was the paved stone of Gilish’s highway. Beyond the wall their way deteriorated into a track rutted by wagon wheels that wound up into the mountains. Gone, too, were the fertile lands of Relanor with their green fields and rich earth. The land before them swept up into barren hills and mountains, desolate but for the tough, brown grass that clung to the soil. In places the rocky bones of the hills showed through the thin, yellow soil.
As they climbed, the chill wind that had followed them across the plains turned into an icy blast that stung their eyes and cheeks. They plodded on miserably, wrapped tightly in their cloaks wishing they could gallop away from the wind. But that was not possible. The road twisted up into the hills and soon a treacherous drop lay on one side of them, a cliff on the other and always a corner ahead.
Azkun wondered what kind of country Menish was leading them into, a barren waste it seemed so far and, unlike Relanor, there appeared to be no inhabitants.
Not long before noon they passed over a high point in the road and down into a wide valley. It was so wide that they could hardly see the other side of it. Winding like a great serpent across the valley floor was a river. It was a muddy yellow colour, the colour of the soil, and it meandered through a green forest that contrasted with the brown hills around it. The river was as wide as the Goshar River they had crossed at Askonir, but there they had found a bridge. Here there was no such convenience.