As they sailed on southward, Menish began to worry about Drinagish. The weather was rough and the sea retch held him cruelly. Althak coaxed him into accepting a concoction of herbs he had brewed on the little stove on the deck, but it did no good. Hrangil, who had sailed more than the other two Anthorians, was badly afflicted himself. All he could suggest was that Drinagish drink himself into a stupor, a remedy that Drinagish was eager to try.
Menish was surprisingly at ease with his own stomach. It was as if the sea were content to torture him by discomforting his friends. Even so he found he was often clamping his jaws and willing down sickness, or giving in and emptying his stomach into the waves that tormented it. He ate very little and felt weak with lack of nourishment.
The sailors’ attitude to Azkun had changed. There was no doubt in Shelim’s mind, or even Awan’s, and Menish had thought the captain a sensible man, that Azkun had calmed the storm. They had seen him blasted by lightning and live, and they were, after all, only simple folk. None of them had fought the men of Gashan. None of them had seen the Emperor slain by magic fire and then beaten the fire by their own wits like Menish had. For them Althak’s suggestion that Azkun might be the manifestation of Kopth was the only explanation.
He puzzled them, of course, for he did not look like a god. Althak, with his jewelled belt and winged helmet, was much more their ideal. Menish was aware that most of the sailors assumed that Althak was the chief of his company. By comparison the Anthorians were drab little men, which implied that they were poor.
And the unkempt fellow with the ill fitting clothes and bare feet? He was a slave, of course. That was what they had assumed at first. But now they nodded politely to him as he passed. They brought him offerings of food, fresh fish they caught on lines hung over the sides of the boat, and it was amusing to see Azkun try and explain why he did not eat. This knowledge only increased their awe of him. After that Menish noticed that there was usually a sailor watching Azkun, perhaps to see if what he said about not eating was true. They were credulous folk but they were not stupid.
Although food was not an acceptable gift they found other things to give vent to their generosity. Omoth, with a shyness that contrasted with his bulk, handed him a small, jewelled dagger he owned with some halting Relanese speech. Azkun plainly did not want it, Menish could see that, and he tried to tell Omoth of his aversion to killing. But the man could not understand enough of his language. Menish, himself, did not follow it even though he understood the words. Omoth looked so downcast when he realised that Azkun refused his gift that Azkun relented and accepted it after all. So now he wore a Vorthenki dagger on his belt.
Menish was still concerned about Azkun’s injuries and he and Hrangil checked them from time to time. Hrangil, however, had taken to speaking with a knowing smile of Azkun. As if he were privy to some information that was denied to Menish, yet was known to Azkun. He hinted at some secrets that were held by the Sons of Gilish, things that were not written in the Mish-Tal. Menish snapped at him once in irritation, but the knowing smile persisted.
Althak also irritated him, though Menish could give no good reason why. He did not show Azkun the deference of the sailors, but the very fact that he was one of them, a Vorthenki, was enough. It was a fact Menish usually tried to ignore, but Althak had suggested Azkun was his foul dragon god. He felt as if a trust had been betrayed.
As for Azkun himself, his injuries were healing. He was soon up and about. He complained of headaches now and then but he seemed well enough. Surprisingly, Tenari had stirred herself to care for Azkun. She showed some skill in bathing the cut on his head with ambroth and securing the strips of cloth they had bandaged him with. Menish wondered if, perhaps, she had worked with the sick before her ordeal in the Chasm. Still she did not speak, as if the Chasm had sealed her lips forever.
Rather than endure his own company, which only made him think of his stomach, he sat with Keashil and Olcish by the main mast. Keashil had lifted Althak’s harp onto her lap and was plucking the strings in a lazy, experimental way. Just to get the feel of the instrument again, she told Menish.
Presently her fingers began to pluck more swiftly and surely. Gentle notes swam over the noise of the tossing sea and seemed to blend with the swish of the waves. Olcish smiled and began thumping his fists on the deck, picking up her rhythm in a skilful pattern. Her music caught the ear with quick, rippling sequences like sunshine on water and low, sad parts that made Menish think of deep, rolling waves. He nodded in approval. Here was one who could do anything with a harp. Althak could play, but not like this.
She began to sing.
Menish had heard the song many times before, and he had heard it sung well, but Keashil was truly gifted in her voice. The song told of Bolythak and Harana, an ancient king of Anthor and a princess of Relanor who fell in love and strengthened the bonds between the two lands.
He felt as if he gazed out of the window beside Harana when she first saw the Anthorian lords ride through the gates of Atonir, when she first caught sight of the dark figure of Bolythak and loved him. He was there, too, when she disguised herself as a man so that she could leave her women’s apartments and go hunting with the Anthorians and the Relanese lords. He felt her astonishment that some of the Anthorian lords were trousered ladies, and her resolve to escape forever from the palace apartments that were now like a prison to her.
Perhaps Keashil had added some verses, Menish was not sure, but at the close of the song, when the lovers rode away to Anthor with the hard-won blessing of Harana’s father, the Emperor, his eyes were misty and his mouth trembled.
‘‘ I've never heard such skill on the harp, nor with the voice. You've even cured my sea retch.” It was true. The boat still rocked and swayed but Menish’s ill effects were gone, for the moment anyway.
“Sire? Oh, you startled me. I'd forgotten you were there. Is there something you would like me to play? ‘The Battle of Ristalshuz’ perhaps?’
“No, not that one. It's a mere tale anyway. Play as you feel, but please avoid songs about me.’
“Are they none of them true, Sire?” Her sightless eyes looked past him.
“They must be, Mother,” put in Olcish, “or we would have been murdered by the Gashans.”
“Not you, boy. It was all years before you were born.”
“But the songs are true, for here is the King of Anthor himself!”
“Olcish,” said Menish, “much of what the songs say is true. But it's the work of a harper to entertain on long, cold evenings when the fires burn low. At those times the real world is a dull, dreary place. So the songs must grow larger than the real world to fill the gaps in the walls or the winter wind will steal through.”
“The King of Anthor is a poet!” said Keashil, delighted.
“Not I,” said Menish. “It's a thing our harpers often say to introduce their songs.”
Late in the afternoon of the second day after the storm the town of Deenar appeared on the shore.
They had noticed a change in the cliffs that marched down the coast some hours before. They had become low and broken. A hint of green meadows could be seen on their crests and, once Menish saw a sheep grazing on the cliff edge. It seemed casually unconcerned that it was but a step away from a headlong plunge down the cliff face to the rocks below. But sheep are always sure-footed.
They rounded a small headland and Deenar lay in the gentle curve of a wide bay. A smooth pebble beach swept up from the tossing sea to a green valley. A stream emptied itself over the pebbles as it curved around a high palisade. Tall, straight logs with sharpened ends had been thrust into the ground close together surrounding the town within. Several small buildings lay outside the walls, clustered around the gate that stood open.
A squall blew across the deck, making it difficult to see much welcome in this place, but to Menish it appeared that Deenar was well constructed. No doubt the wall was to fend off pirates. He hoped they were hospitable to travellers, for he knew Drinagish needed a night off this rocking deck even if it meant spending it in a Vorthenki village. Awan had said that they did not have a sailor’s lodge here like the inn at Lianar and was reluctant to land. Another ship lay at anchor not far from the shore. It was a trading vessel like their own, Menish wondered where the crew of that ship were spending the night.
Awan’s booming voice shouted across the water and was answered, even above the noise of the sea, from a figure in a watchtower that rose above the palisade.
Men in heavy sea cloaks appeared in the gateway as they hove to and Shelim let go the anchor.
Menish knew that the Vorthenki sometimes greeted visitors with an alarming war dance but either they recognised Awan or they did not feel threatened. The men on the shore launched two small craft, which had been lying keel up on the beach stones, and rowed them out to sea. The waves grew more restive by the moment and this made heavy work for the rowers, but Menish could hear them chanting a work song to the rhythm of the oars. From the calls back and forth between the two boats it appeared that they were racing each other to the ship. When the first vessel thumped hollowly against their hull the crews of all three boats roared with laughter, cheering, and friendly abuse.
They were Vorthenki folk, of course. No one else lived on this coast. In the second boat stood a tall, red-bearded man who was dressed as a warrior. His helmet was even gaudier than Althak’s, for it sported a dreadful, nodding plume of horsehair that echoed every shift of his head. Menish noticed that he had not had to row. He was obviously the village chief.
The red-beard and two other armed Vorthenki hauled themselves over the gunwales. Menish held himself ready. Awan and Keashil had assured him that the folk of Deenar were friendly, but it would do no harm to have his sword loosened in its sheath. The red-beard drew himself up to his full height, about six and a half feet judged Menish. A little taller than Althak, and he was built more heavily. His face was partly obscured by the helmet so Menish could not judge his age easily, possibly he was in his mid forties. He had the look of a seasoned fighter, the stance of one who has been well trained. The two who stood beside him were younger men, the one on the left was younger than Drinagish.
Menish was about to introduce himself when the red-beard noticed Keashil. “Kopth’s balls!” he cried, “it’s the blind harper!”
He crossed the deck in three strides and crouched beside her figure. Menish saw him turn and notice Olcish too. “And the lad as well,” he murmured, “but only the lad. Woman, do you know me?”
She had been smiling from the moment she heard his voice.
“I know you, Darven. I've harped many times in your house.”
“Aramish? Falia?”
“Aramish is dead,” she reached out and fumbled to grasp Olcish’s hand in her own. “Pirates attacked us. I don't know what happened to my daughter.”
The red-beard gabbled something that Menish recognised as the Vorthenki words of passing and then added an eloquent oath of his own. Menish tried to remember something but could not think what it was.
“Darven? Yes it is,” cried Althak. “M’Lord, it's Darven of the Olsha fords.”
“Of course! I knew I had seen him before.”
Darven rose, looked about him and then pulled off his helmet, releasing a tumble of red hair.
“It is not… aye, but it is! Young Althak and M’Lord the King!” Suddenly he was caught by Althak who held him in a bear hug and thumped his back while he whooped for joy. The exuberance of Althak’s greeting dismayed Darven’s attempts to greet Menish more formally. Finally he extricated himself from Althak’s grip and bowed to Menish. It was a bow that made Astae’s efforts seem fawning.
“M’Lord, it’s good to see you again. But what brings you to Deenar? And by ship?” He glanced at Drinagish, on whose face the sea retch was plain.
“We travel to Atonir. But we're weary and need a night with solid ground beneath our feet.”
“Then you're most welcome. You'll lie in my house tonight, the ground's solid enough there!”
A rope ladder hung from the gunwale to one of the lighters. The little boat rose and fell alongside the larger, making the operation of getting from one to the other rather precarious as far as Menish was concerned.
Somehow he clambered down and found himself sitting in the middle of the boat, clutching at the wooden seat with white knuckles. He tried to smile a greeting to the other men in the boat but he suspected that all he managed was a bare-teethed grimace.
Hrangil managed well enough but Drinagish’s face was a greenish colour by the time he found his seat. Althak and Darven assisted Keashil down with Olcish supervising.
To Menish’s vague annoyance Azkun and Tenari swung themselves down easily, as if they had been born to the sea. Of course Azkun did have Vorthenki blood in his veins, as only Menish knew for sure.
In spite of the weather the sailors stayed on the ship. Awan was reluctant to let them ashore when there was no sailors’ lodge sacred to Yaggrothil. He was happy to trade with the village though and Omoth, who had relatives here, was allowed to land.
Althak took a hand at one of the oars and they seemed to fly across the waves. It was another race between the two boats. One of the oarsmen, another red-beard who resembled Darven enough to be his son, urged their rowers on with threats, jokes and curses.
When, finally, the boat scraped against the shingle beach amid a wash of foam, it was impossible to decide who had won. The oarsmen leapt out and hauled the boat up the beach. Drinagish, for all his apparent weakness, was out of the boat almost before the oarsmen. He threw himself on the stones and hugged the ground on which he lay. Menish and the others left with more dignity. He could not bring himself to rebuke his nephew for unseemly behaviour. He too was grateful for solid ground beneath his feet.
The stones crunched comfortably under their feet as they made their way up to the palisaded village. Darven sent one of his men on ahead to order preparations for a feast and Menish discovered, for the first time in days, that he was very hungry. The sea retch had forced him to eat sparingly and now that it had left him he was starved. No doubt the feast would be more fish stew, but he felt he could enjoy even that.
The village was a good deal better than Lianar, although there were no stone buildings like the old inn. This was not a place the Relanese had used. The palisade was well constructed and three times the height of a Vorthenki. The tops of the logs were sharpened and, on the inside of the structure, a fighting platform ran around the walls to allow the villagers to fend off ladders and to hurl spears and rocks at their attackers.
The gates, always the weak point in such a defence, were set at an angle into the wall. The wall on the right curved into the edge of the door, giving those defending it easy access to the unshielded side of the attackers. Great iron hinges held the gates and a heavy wooden bar could be drawn across it. Darven, who was obviously proud of the defences, pointed out another bar that lay alongside one of the open gates. It could be fitted into a socket in the ground that was packed with stones and placed against the gates to give them extra strength.
The houses themselves were made of well-cut planks of wood and thatched with straw. Rather than curtains of animal skins they had wooden doors, again on iron hinges, and carved door lintels. The carving writhed with sinuous figures of men, women and dragons. Over each lintel hung a pair of sheep’s horns, and some sprigs of fennel were threaded around them. Much as Menish disliked the Vorthenki, he could not help but admire their carving.
Women clustered in the doorways of the houses, torn between the drizzle and their curiosity of what the men had found in the ship. Like their men they were tall and usually yellow-haired.
Darven led them to the largest house, though they were all much the same. The doorway reeked of fennel as they passed through into the gloomy interior, but that smell was replaced by the smell of smoke, stale sweat and cooking.
Inside the house was typical of its type. A long hall filled the whole structure with a fire burning at its centre. At the very far end a wicker screen hid the women’s enclosure and near the door a similar screen formed a pen to enclose animals at night. Menish noted one of the differences between the way the Vorthenki treated their cattle and their women was that they kept them at different ends of the house.
The fire in the centre of the hall burned brightly and was the only source of light, for there were no windows and no lamps. Its flames curled around a great cauldron that hung from a large chain attached to the central beam of the roof near the smoke hole. Surrounding the fire a ring of stones kept the cracking, popping logs from lighting the rushes on the floor.
Benches and stools and sleeping furs lined the walls and, near the fire, an ornately carved throne stood; the chief’s place.
As they entered Menish heard a gasp beside him and turned to see Azkun wide-eyed and clutching his throat. He caught him by the shoulders and shook him.
“What is it?”
“They killed something,” he whispered. “It has passed,” he said after a moment, and Menish’s attention was diverted by Darven’s folk greeting them.
They crowded around them, anxious to see the strangers. Menish caught glimpses of a toothless old man, young children, plump women and several surly youths who had been tending the cauldron.
“Shoo! Back! All of you. Malak, I told you to keep stirring that pot, get back to it. If you let that fish boil dry again I’ll skin you alive.” The woman who spoke waved a curved bronze dagger at one of the youths as if she meant it. Malak slunk back to the cauldron over the fire, swinging the long ladle in his hand like a sword.
The others returned to their work as well. Several women were spinning near the fire and one was working a loom. The children stepped back a few paces but otherwise continued to stare at the strangers.
“Keashil! Keashil, it's me, Frethi!” the woman with the dagger embraced the blind harper and Menish saw tears sparkling in the firelight. Frethi was, of course, tall with yellow brown hair. It hung in braids almost to the ground and her tunic was of vivid green wool shot with a red thread. Menish noticed the small, metal spiral that hung from a leather string around her neck. She was a priestess of Kopth, dedicated to him from birth.
Not all of Darven’s folk had returned to their work. Two of the other women and the old man did not seem to find it necessary to obey Frethi’s order. The women were obviously Darven’s favourites, they both wore rich tunics. One wore a heavy gold necklace and a brooch with a sparkling red stone, while the other sported long golden earrings. The one with the earrings was quite young, the other was closer to Darven's age.
The older of them also embraced Keashil.
“It's Seti,” she said. “We heard rumours, bad rumours. We thought you were dead.”
The younger one pushed past the other women to Darven's side and clutched his arm possessively.
The old man just smiled and nodded at them, even bent as he was with age he was taller than the Anthorians. Menish wondered who he was that he could ignore Frethi’s order.
“Frethi, you have another guest too,” said Darven, interrupting the women from their embrace. “Take them both to the women’s enclosure and show them hospitality.”
Frethi smiled at Tenari and, taking Keashil’s arm, beckoned for her to follow.
Tenari, of course, ignored her. She still stared blankly at Azkun. Seti reached for her arm and Darven frowned. “Is there something wrong with her?”
Before Azkun could start telling him about the Chasm Menish said, “She won't leave my companion, but thank you anyway”
Their host shrugged and, while Frethi led Keashil to the far end of the hall behind the wicker screen, he gestured them to come and sit by the fire. Just before he sat Darven hesitated, looking at the throne and then at Menish. The throne of the hall was the right of the greatest lord present.
“No, Darven,” laughed Menish. “Your throne is much too big for my frame!” He picked up a stool, drew it close to the fire and sat on it.
“It's not seemly,” Darven glanced about, searching for something as he spoke. “Couldn’t you sit on a better stool, M’Lord? Here, this one's finer.” He found an ornate stool with a dragon design carved into the seat and placed it beside Menish.
Menish did not care if his rump covered plain wood or a design, but he could see Darven wished to honour him, so he accepted the fancier stool with thanks. Briefly he wondered if Azkun would prefer a dragon stool, or perhaps he would object to sitting on such a design. Strangely enough Menish himself felt relaxed even though he was in a Vorthenki house. His host knew better than to insult him by offering him women, and it was so good to be off that ship.
Darven called for ale and several of the women, including his two favourites went to fetch it while Menish introduced his company.
“Master Hrangil and Althak you know, of course. But you've not met my nephew, Drinagish, for he was too young to fight in those days. Two others, Azkun and Tenari, you've also not met before. We found them on our journey and they accompany us to Atonir.”
Darven looked closely at Azkun and Menish feared that he would see the likeness of Thalissa in him. But he only said, “your friend has no boots but fine clothes, where did you find him?”
“Wandering naked in the desert. We brought him with us out of compassion. The clothes are Althak’s.”
“But of course you had no spare boots!” Darven laughed. “That will be my pleasure to remedy.” He reverted to Vorthenki speech suddenly as he called to the old man. “Arith, find our friend some boots. New ones, mind.”
“New boots? New boots? What does he want with new boots?” grumbled Arith as he hobbled outside on his errand. Menish wondered again who he was that he could ignore the orders of a priestess, was addressed relatively politely by Darven, and had the audacity to grumble. He looked back at Darven and raised his eyebrows.
“Ah, you’ll be surprised to learn this, M’Lord. Surprised and pleased I think. But wait, here's the ale.”
Six women, each carrying a horn of ale, approached and presented one to each of the men. It was an echo of what had happened in Astae’s inn but they all knew it was just about ale, nothing more was implied. The women sat at the feet of the guest they had assigned themselves to. At Darven’s direction the young favourite sat at Menish’s feet. The older one, Seti, sat at his own. One of the other women was obviously pregnant. She had assigned herself to Azkun but seemed put out by Tenari's presence. Tenari stationed herself by Azkun's feet beside her.
Drinagish and Hrangil took their horns as if they were presented by vipers, Hrangil looked quite pale in the firelight. Althak, of course, was at ease here. He gave his woman a wink and a slap on the bottom as he took his horn and she sat down.
As for Menish himself, he took his horn with simple thanks, which seemed to discomfort the girl, as if he had scorned her beauty by not reacting more like Althak had. But, even if he had been Vorthenki and therefore relaxed about such matters, she was young enough to be his grand daughter.
He wished his host health, echoed by Drinagish, Hrangil and Althak, and drank.
Having joined them in drinking his own health, Darven resumed what he was saying.
“Old Arith, aye. You’ll like this M’Lord. I learned much in your service, including the way you value good men. After the war against Thealum I came north. I had some thought of sailing to the land of my fathers, perhaps even as far as Athim. Even now I’d like to see the glory of Kopth that fills the sky in the far north. But I stopped here. They tell me that the Vorthenki came here years and years ago and drove out some simple fisher folk who rode tiny coracles and had not even a bronze knife. When I arrived there were a few houses like this one but they were in poor repair. Pirate raids were frequent and the people usually fled into the forest while their houses were destroyed.
“I resolved to stay here, to establish a house of my own, for they were in need of a strong leader. You know, of course, the way this is done, but I could see that Arith was a wise man. He knows the seas here, the people and the forest. If I’d killed him to make myself chief my way would have been harder.”
“You let the old chief live?” asked Althak. ‘But surely you fought?”
“Oh, of course. He didn’t hand over his houses and slaves as gifts. We fought, but I've been trained in the Emperor’s army. You, Althak, know only too well that the Vorthenki has little skill for all his strength. I was the younger and my skill was greater. Although he fought to kill and I only to disable I bested him in a moment. He lay before me on the ground expecting death but I spared him.”
“And he's loyal?”
“I think so. As much as any. He is, at least, grateful. For I built the palisades you saw. No longer do we hide in the forest while our homes burn. Our folk are proud to fight to defend what's theirs. We have many strong young men, sons of my own house, and some of these I've trained in the ways of Relanor. Not all.” He grinned. “Some I would rather were not so skilled with a sword.”
Arith returned with a pair of fine boots.
“Boots, boots. Strangers given good boots. What are we coming to?” Arith muttered under his breath as he knelt by Azkun’s feet, elbowing his way between the pregnant woman and Tenari. He thrust Azkun’s feet into them and looked at him. “Do they fit?” he snapped.
“What did he say?” asked Azkun, for he did not understand Vorthenki.
“He asks if they fit,” said Althak.
“Toes wiggle?” again the man snapped. Althak translated again and Azkun nodded and thanked Arith, Darven and even the woman who served him. But Arith was not satisfied.
“Up, up, walk about. Can’t tell if they fit until you walk.”
So Azkun rose to his feet and walked up and down the room.
“Yes, they do fit. They really do,” he said. Menish noticed he spoke slowly and clearly to Arith, but obviously the man spoke no Relanese at all. Arith was not quite satisfied and proceeded to feel where Azkun’s toes were in the boots, and to shift them about on his feet to see if they were tight enough. At last, with a dubious scowl, he hobbled over to the fire to see if Malak was tending the stew as he had been ordered.
“He makes them himself,” said Darven, “and he can size you at a glance too. Though he never trusts himself there. Your friend’s boots will be the best he has ever owned.”
No doubt, thought Menish.
“And does he make enough of them to trade?”
“Oh yes, indeed. He's famous up and down this coast. Keashil was wearing a pair of Arith’s boots when I last saw her, though they're gone now. I'll make sure she gets another pair. You can always spot them by the dragon design.”
“That, I think, is half the delight at least,” said Menish looking at Azkun. He seemed genuinely pleased with the boots. Several times he traced his finger across the design and he had taken another, voluntary, walk in them.
Presently Keashil and the priestess, Frethi, returned and sat by the fire with them. Menish noted that Keashil, like Frethi, was seated on a stool rather than on the floor. It appeared she had the status of a priestess here. He wondered what had happened to Olcish but a glance around the room revealed that one of the Vorthenki women had left her tasks to look after him. He had been fed some of the stew from the cauldron and was playing warily with some of the other children. He was seemed pleased to be away from adults for a while, especially with his mother in safe hands.
Darven offered them some of the stew. Hrangil and Azkun declined but the others helped themselves, ladling it into bowls and drinking it. Menish was hungry enough to enjoy even this.
With their immediate needs of food and drink met, Menish and Darven began to talk of old times and common friends. The war with Thealum had ended nearly fifteen years ago and there was much to catch up on. Darven was interested that Vorish had married Sonalish, Drinagish’s elder sister, for he had seen her once.
Menish also asked about the other ship in the bay. It was a trading ship like those that often called. The captain and several of his men were staying in one of the other houses but most of the crew, like their own, were sleeping on board.
They talked for hours and they were only interrupted by the beginning of the feast.
After a commotion at the door two men carrying a roasted sheep on a spit entered. The smell of cooked meat permeated the house, drowning the other smells. When the Vorthenki feasted they always cooked their meat outside and carried it indoors when it was ready. Menish noticed Azkun pale at the sight of the dead beast but he kept silent as the two carriers struggled to hang it from another pair of hooks near the one that held the cauldron.
Darven’s menfolk now entered the house. Most were dressed in armour and helmets. Their swords and axes hung from their belts. A feast in a Vorthenki house was a strange thing, a mixture of celebration and brawling. One did not venture there unarmed.
By tradition each man, from the greatest to the least, told who he was and cut some of the meat from the beast. The order in which they came forward reflected their status in the company, as well as the choice and the amount of meat they could take. To the Vorthenki this was vitally important and a man would fight for a place. They mostly wrestled with each other but for the important places, such as that of the chief, or when two men hated each other, swords were drawn and blood was let.
While such duels were easily controlled in the confines of a single house or village ruled by one chief, the situation became delicate and often alarming when guests of other houses were present. The order had to be established and often this turned into an all out battle. Bitter feuds had arisen solely because of this custom. Menish could not criticise. His own people feuded and duelled on the smallest pretext, though they rarely allowed such things to interrupt a feast.
Darven indicated that Menish should get his meat first, again honouring him, but Menish would not see his host diminished in his own house and insisted that he precede him. So Darven rose and briefly announced that he had bested Arith and fought Thealum at the Olsha fords. He cut a large hunk of meat and seated himself, passing some of the meat to the woman at his feet as well as a portion to Keashil and Frethi.
Menish followed, announcing that he was King of Anthor and made sure he took enough meat for the woman who served him as well as for himself.
He had no idea what would happen next. Althak, of course, was well able to cope, but Hrangil could be dismissed as an old man and left to the end. Drinagish was liable to challenge one of Darven’s men and start a fight.
It was Althak who solved these problems. He stood next and looked carefully at the other warriors in the room. One of them stood, a big man with Darven’s red hair, but not as big as Althak. The two glared at each other for a moment and the red-haired man sat down.
“I am Althak, son of the house of Amoldon. I fought at the Olsha fords and in other battles against Thealum. My sword has killed more than fifty men.” A murmur went through the warriors. The number, when Menish thought about it, was about right. It seemed a lot of dead men, even if they were mostly Thealum's cronies and pirates. “But I give my place to my friends who are greater than I.” He nodded to Hrangil and then Drinagish who came forward in silence. They were Anthorians and not used to bragging of their deeds.
Althak next looked at Azkun who shook his head and Menish pitied the woman who served him. Althak took his own portion next and sat down. The giving up of his place to others was not unprecedented, although it was unusual. Menish had heard of it happening before.
One by one the other men came forward, starting with the one who would have preceded Althak. Omoth the sailor was among them. Some were brief and some were lengthy in their descriptions of their deeds. One man accredited himself with winning most of the battles Menish had ever heard of. Someone told him to get his portion and sit down eventually. There was one of these in every Vorthenki house, Althak muttered.
When all of the warriors had taken their food the carcass was left to the children and the rest of the women.
The meat was well cooked and good. Menish remembered belatedly that he had not fed the woman at his feet and hurriedly passed some meat to her. She thanked him perfunctorily but she was clearly used to more indulgent treatment. Menish noticed Althak distributing some of his meat to Azkun’s woman who received it gratefully. She rewarded Althak by flirting with him in a manner Menish found disgusting, he looked away.
Darven asked Keashil for a song and she played the story of an ancient Vorthenki hero. Menish had heard it before. It had been a popular song among the Vorthenki soldiers in the war against Thealum.
It told the story of Rith, who fell from grace and was cast out of Kishalkuz at the edge of the world. He was doomed to wander the earth forever homeless and harried by his brothers, the four winds. Like most Vorthenki songs the story line was vague and clouded with obscure descriptions and irrelevant battles, but Keashil sang well, her voice blending with the notes of Althak’s harp. The dingy hall echoed with melody, though the walls were hardly smooth enough for that. It was the clarity of her voice that formed the illusion of an echo. Her sightless eyes glittered with tears in the firelight by the time her song had finished. Menish was reminded that her husband had called sometimes himself Rith.
She followed the song of Rith with another, this time in the Relanese tongue. Menish had not heard it before and guessed it must be a song of Golshuz. Surprisingly Frethi and some of the other women joined her in this song. They did not sing nearly as well as Keashil but Menish had heard worse. Frethi made a passable attempt at harmonising with the others.
A crash rent the song as the door slammed open. The women faltered and were silent. The last chord Keashil had strummed quivering in the air like a held breath. All heads in the room turned towards the door, those nearest to it rising and reaching for their weapons. But the figure that entered was unarmed. He sprang through the door like an animal, baring his teeth at the warriors and snarling.
In spite of the fact that he carried no weapons the warriors stood back from him. They were afraid. Menish turned to Darven and saw that he too was anxious.
“What's this?”
“He's one of my house, but a korolith owns him. It's an evil thing and it makes him live as a wild man. We dare not touch him.” He shivered. “Who knows, the korolith may choose to enter any man. We dare not provoke it.”
Before Menish could form his reply the man threw back his head and let out an awful howl. One of the women shrieked and Frethi bundled them all back into the women’s enclosure, sweeping the children in too.
The man, or the korolith, crouched in the middle of the warriors, who drew back from him. A evil smile played across his face as he looked at one steadily, stalking towards him like a cat. Without warning he sprang at his victim. The man threw up his hands, he seemed to have forgotten the axe that hung at his belt. Both collapsed and rolled on the floor, the warrior crying for help but his fellows did not dare.
After a short struggle the warrior thrust the korolith away, wiping a bloody hand on his cloak for he had been bitten. The korolith resumed his crouching stare in the centre of the ring of warriors, his evil smile savouring their fear of him.
“Can you not bind him?”
“We dare not. The man who bound him would surely be the next owned by the korolith.”
What happened next was always confused in Menish’s mind. The korolith had shifted his attention to Azkun. Suddenly his face writhed with pain and he leapt, but not towards Azkun. One warrior dodged from his path and the korolith ignored him. In two leaps he had thrown himself into the fire.
Before anyone could act Menish heard Azkun’s voice, a cry of sheer agony. He rushed forward, heedless of the fire, wading through it as though it were water. His clothes burst into flame but that, also, he ignored. The next moment he had dragged the korolith from the flames and was shouting, his clothes still ablaze and his new boots blackened and charred. Menish did not hear what he said. He was too busy calling for the priestess for he knew she would be a healer. Althak beat out the flames in Azkun's clothes.
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.