“You should turn him away, cast him from you. Don't you know what he is?”
“Of course. He's a Monnar. But he's old and harmless. Master Hrangil, you don't expect me to be concerned with old enemies of your Gilish, do you?”
“To harbour such as he is wickedness! He mustn't live among you!”
“It's not our concern, Hrangil,” said Menish. “We're guests here.”
Azkun looked into the shadows where the old Monnar had gone and shuddered. He had seen blood around the man’s mouth, blood dribbling into his beard. He was a Monnar. Azkun remembered the ring of stones and felt suddenly cold. He wanted to move closer to the fire, but the butchers were still there.
The fire roared higher as someone piled on some more branches. Sparks flew up to the black sky like tiny, orange stars. He stared at them, remembering the dragon fire. He did not have to be afraid of the Monnar, the dragons had given him power over such evil. He did not eat. The dragons sustained him. They had not abandoned him. He would be dead if they had.
While the yaks were roasting on the fire the Anthorians called for entertainment. First was a wrestling match. It was not a duel so there were few formalities. The two contestants bowed to each other to show there was no quarrel between them and proceeded to thrash each other for all they were worth. There were some other differences from a formal duel and Althak explained them to Azkun. Head blows were forbidden and body blows were frowned upon. Biting, which was legal in a formal duel, was also forbidden here.
The two put up a good fight and, after throwing his opponent for the third time, the winner helped him to his feet. They bowed to each other and retired into the crowd.
Another match followed, much the same as the last, except that two women fought. Like the men they stripped to the waist and greased themselves. Althak mentioned that men and women rarely wrestled each other. Not in public anyway, because it was considered unseemly. He seemed to think this was funny.
There were two more matches and, though the Anthorians were tireless of them, Azkun began to find them dull. Did these people do nothing else for fun?
His question was answered after the fourth match. Two women stepped onto the wrestling ground, each armed with a curved sword and wearing heavy jerkins. This time there was a flurry of betting.
One of the women began to sing. Her high, clear voice rang out over the crackling of the fire. The other joined her as they circled each other, holding their swords vertically before them. Azkun did not understand the words of the song for it was Anthorian, but the singers were skilled and he enjoyed their music. It made him think of Keashil, though these two sang without any accompaniment. Suddenly the song changed. The singers lowered their swords and moved towards each other like fighters. With a clash the swords met. One singer shifted aside and forced the other’s sword to the ground. All the while they kept singing in unison. It was a stylised sword fight. At first they moved slowly and gracefully, keeping time with their song. The song picked up speed and so did the dance, becoming wilder and more violent. The swords rang and the dancers whirled in a predefined sequence that looked impossibly complicated. Surely they would not keep up the pattern with no mistake. Thrust, parry, slice, thrust, it went on and on, faster and faster. At last one dancer missed her footing. She did not meet the other’s down coming sword with a deflecting slice and it hit her shoulder, knocking her to the ground.
A cheer went up from the crowd. Vangrith remarked that they had put on an excellent performance tonight. The loser was not hurt, for the swords were blunt and her thick jerkin had protected her from the force of the blow. She dusted herself off with a smile and bowed to the winner.
“There's nothing like the sword-dance for teaching skill with the weapon. We'd be easy meat without it. Speaking of meat, those yaks must be cooked by now.”
They were indeed. The meat had been sectioned and placed on rods over the fire. Althak said that meant it cooked faster than leaving them whole but Azkun was trying not to listen. They lifted the rods off the fire and placed them on the ground. Then, as at Meyathal, with no speech making, they cut the meat they wanted and returned to their places to eat it.
This had a curious effect on Azkun. He had watched the wrestling with interest and he had been fascinated by the sword dance. But, when he saw them cutting at the dead yak, he remembered that all these people knew was to fight and kill. Their diversions were mere practices of their evil arts. Murder was their way of life. Cattle raids, duels, slaughter of their animals, it was all corruption. They did not know the dragons.
But they should know them. He rose to his feet. They were all stuffing meat into their mouths, talking and laughing. He remembered the Monnar with blood around his mouth and felt ill.
“People of Gildenthal!” he called in a loud voice. Most turned to look at him. Althak had said something to him about guests having a traditional right to speak at a feast in Anthor. Menish, however, looked up, startled. “I have come to tell you of my masters, the dragons. What you are doing is evil in their sight. They do not wish you to fight and kill, not even to kill your own cattle.”
There were murmurings of “what's he talking about?” and “doesn't like the food?” But, although he spoke Relanese, most of those present could understand him.
“The dragons can deliver you from this evil. I am the bridge to the dragons. Believe me, I have stood in the fire of a dragon.”
“What's this talk of dragons?” called someone, one of the wrestlers, Azkun thought. “There are no dragons here, we're too far from the sea.”
“Not enough fennel about,” called another.
“Not enough Vorthenki,” laughed the first.
“Do not laugh at him!” shouted Menish, rising to his feet. In the firelight his face was stormy with anger. “How dare you laugh at a guest? Are these the offspring of the heroes of Ristalshuz?” Menish’s voice was quiet now but all eyes were on him. Even the fire seemed subdued. “We accepted your hospitality in good faith. My friend wishes to tell you something, he has the right of a guest to speak. If you disagree then tell him so, but don't laugh at him.”
Menish sat down and Azkun was left alone, wondering what he should tell them next. But they had laughed, they were not ready to hear more about dragons. He had been wrong to speak.
“That is all I have to say,” he said lamely and sat down. But he did not forget that Menish, although he had not endorsed what he said, had defended his right to speak.
His words had spoiled the good humour of the evening. People finished their meal in silence, there was no more of their good-natured laughing and joking. It was not long before most of them had drifted off to their tents.
Vangrith’s hospitality was still available, but there was little warmth in her manner now. She showed them a tent in which they could sleep and bade them good night.
The next morning the ground was frosty and so was Vangrith. She invited them to stay longer, but that was only a formality. It was plain she wanted them to leave. Most of her hostility was directed at Azkun, but Menish did not entirely escape. Northerners did not like to be rebuked, especially by someone they could not challenge to a duel. The King, of course, was immune from such challenges.
Beyond Gildenthal the trees grew more thickly and the country rose steeply. They caught glimpses of mountains in the distance when they crossed ridges but their road wound mostly along steep valleys. It was well into autumn now and the nights were very cold, but fortunately there was plenty of wood for their fires. Even so Menish’s leg began to ache again and he found himself tiring each day by mid-afternoon.
The road they had followed to Gildenthal had been no more than a beaten track and now it deteriorated further. Menish suspected it was frequented more by wild animals than by men. But Grath, who came from this region, led them on surely. He had been this way many times.