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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.
At least there was a goodness, a wholesomeness, about Aton. If he could not worship him himself he did not blame others for doing so. Hrangil’s insistence that Azkun was Gilish was only foolish, not repugnant. And now the Vorthenki would cling to him and adore him. It made Menish sick.
One good thing came of it, however. After Menish had watched the other ship unfurl its sails, catch the breeze, and move off southwards he returned to the village. When he entered Darven’s house he found Azkun shouting at his worshippers. It appeared that they had wanted to offer him a sacrifice. A young girl, no more than ten or twelve years old, stood among them in the white sacrificial gown stained with old blood and fennel in her hair. Like Frethi she wore a metal spiral. Frethi held her odd bronze knife. The handle curled about her wrist like a snake.
Menish had heard that the victims of Kopth usually went quietly and a glance at the girl told him why. Her eyes had that dreamy look that is only achieved by too much ale or, more likely, a dose of a concoction commonly used to relieve the pain of wounds.
The Vorthenki were confounded and confused. Azkun stood up on Darven’s throne so that he could speak over their heads.
“Have you heard nothing I have said? You must not kill. Murder begets murder, death begets death. Because you kill, so you must die. That is the price of corruption!”
So he went on while the Vorthenki shifted from foot to foot and hung their heads like errant children. Menish was sure that they did not understand what he meant. Only one thing was plain, the girl was not to be killed. Menish saw relief in Frethi’s eyes.
It was some time before they were finally able to leave. The Vorthenki implored Azkun to stay with them longer. More gifts were offered along with their pleas. Would he not, at least, lie with one or two of their women? For the children of Kopth were especially blessed, as were the women who bore them.
Azkun grew angry at this suggestion and repeated his admonitions not to kill, which no one understood. Confused, some of the women began to display themselves shamelessly before him. He cried to them to stop it, but their men cheered them on, this was surely why Kopth was angry, he thought the women were too reserved.
But they were wrong. Azkun fled from them, flinging away those who tried to cling to him. Menish ran after him, he was pleased enough to leave the disgusting display in the house. He ran out of the palisade and down to the water’s edge, and there Menish caught up with him. The Vorthenki had not followed, they feared that they had angered Kopth, Menish supposed. Only Tenari could be seen walking towards them from the gateway.
“We must leave, we must leave now,” panted Azkun. There was a madness in his eyes. “I cannot remain with… I cannot stay here.”
“I understand, we can leave at once. Wait here, I'll fetch the others.” He turned to Tenari, “Look after him.” But she gave him no indication that she had heard.
Menish quickly summoned the others and told Darven to make sure the women did not follow them down to the beach. The men would be needed to row the lighters. In a way he was pleased with Azkun, he had stopped the Vorthenki sacrifice and he had rejected their women. He seemed genuinely offended by their offers. It was an attitude any Anthorian would sympathise with.
He wondered if Keashil and her son would prefer to stay here. Darven had seen that she had new boots and some better clothes. But he saw her walking across the beach to the lighters holding Althak's arm and obviously ready to depart.
The sailors were delighted to see Azkun again when they boarded their ship. Omoth was not slow in recounting the events of the night before, and he was pleased with the prestige his account gave him with his fellows. It was apparent from their talk that there was no possibility of their ship sinking while Kopth was aboard. They took to addressing him as ‘Lord Kopth’ as Darven had done, and plainly considered him above both Menish and Althak.
Even so Menish gave orders that the other slaves they had rescued from the pirates should go back with the lighters. They were from these northern coasts and they would be useful to Darven. There was no point taking them away south. Althak saw it done and Menish retreated into his sea retch.
No sooner had the sails unfurled than the weather deteriorated. Thunderclouds rolled down from the north east and darkened the sky. The wind rose and began to whip up the waves again. Awan bawled orders to his men from his position in the stern, the sails tightened in the wind, ropes creaked suddenly taut and the ship began to furrow through the waves on its way south.
This time there was no danger, for the storm was not fierce enough to make the monstrous waves that had threatened them before. Shelim explained that this was largely because the wind now blew south along the coast rather than directly from the east and the open sea. Although they saw flashes of lightning far off in the north none of it struck near them. Instead they were drenched with icy squalls that lashed across the decks from time to time making the Anthorians utterly dejected. The sailors did not seem to mind the rain very much, what did it matter that they were cold and wet when Kopth himself rode on their ship?
They were swept before the winds for two days down the long coast of Golshuz. For most of that time they lost sight of the coast entirely, for it curved westwards while they travelled south east. In the middle of the second day Azkun caught sight of high cliffs rising black behind the curtains of rain. They marched back from the west, forming a great wall against which the waves threw themselves in a wild frenzy of foam.
As soon as these were sighted Awan changed course to run parallel with the coast. Azkun felt that the violence of the waves against the cliffs was somehow ominous. The cliffs were like a wall of night through the rain, like a home of spectres, or a cliff wall of a chasm.
Shelim told them that people who lived on these rocky shores lived in caves and he shuddered as he spoke of it, as if they were mad or evil. Azkun could not tell which he meant.
Drinagish was, by now, very ill indeed and so was Hrangil. Menish spoke to Awan about finding a place for them to rest the night on land.
A few hours later as night was falling they came to a break in the cliffs. The shore curled back into a rocky bay where the sea was sheltered from the wind. Awan steered them towards a rubble-strewn beach of black sand and black boulders. Beyond it, through the rain, Azkun could see buildings similar to those in Deenar, but without the palisade. As they drew closer he noticed that the beach was not strewn with rubble as he had thought, it was crowded with people.
“Kopth, Kopth, Kopth!”
He had thought it was the pounding of the surf, but now he could hear them chanting on the beach. There must be hundreds! Surely they did not live in those few houses he could see on the beach.
“Kopth, Kopth, Kopth!”
He could feel their earnest expectancy in his mind, their chanting thrummed in his brain, calling to him. How intensely they believed! He ran to the prow and leaned towards them. Their yearning for him touched him with its misguidedness. He wanted to go to them, to tell them that he was only the bridge. It was for the dragons they should yearn.
Even as he reached the prow he was aware of a fuzzy, clouded mind on the beach. He had seen this before. He had seen it at Deenar. There was a victim on the beach, a victim waiting death. He could feel the inner despair of the priestess, a bronze knife in her hand, waiting to do what she had to do. He knew that the moment he stepped ashore the sacrifice would be made.
“They've heard of you already. The other boat that left Deenar before us would have stopped here.” It was Althak. He stood beside him. “They must have summoned the whole countryside to meet you.”
“Althak, they are going to…” He turned a pale face to the Vorthenki and stopped. Would Althak understand? Was he not Vorthenki? He had not tried to stop them at Deenar. Menish appeared from his shelter demanding to know what was happening.
“They've heard that we carry Kopth aboard,” said Althak. There was a smile in his voice as if he did not quite believe it himself yet, but was indulging the belief of others.
“Not another village of fawning idiots and shameless women! Awan! Turn the ship! We'll not land here!”
Awan hesitated, looking from those on shore who chanted for Kopth to Azkun. Azkun also looked at the beach. They were close enough now to see the figures through the rain. Among them he could make out the white-robed victim. For an instant between the noise of the sea and the voices ashore there was silence and Azkun spoke. “Turn the ship!”
Now Awan did not hesitate. He hauled on the tiller and called orders to his men. The main spar swept across the deck and the ship heeled around and moved away from the beach.
A dreadful hush descended on the chanters and Azkun felt their dismay. He ran the length of the ship and leaned over the stern where Awan held the tiller.
“I have not deserted you!” he cried. ‘I will come back to you! But do not…” A shrill cry sounded over the waves and the blackness of death washed over him like a wave of evil. They had killed her anyway. He sank down onto the deck and wept.
For a long time he simply lay on the wet deck and remembered what had happened with horror. A young girl, no older than the one they had been ready to kill for him in Deenar, her mind sluggish with the drugs they had given her, had slipped into the aching darkness that leered at him from every sharp knife, from every large wave. She was not so drugged that she did not scream when the knife had ripped her flesh and her blood had poured out onto the beach. She was not so drugged that she did not fear the oblivion that swallowed her.
And he knew the priestess had hated herself for doing it. It was impossible to believe that she could despise herself so and yet still wield that knife. But she had. Some need or fear drove her beyond self-despite to murder. It was fear of Kopth, fear of Azkun.
That was the worst thing of all. They had done it for him. They had slaughtered a human being, one of their own, for him. That it was because of a misguided notion that he was Kopth was irrelevant. He had not denied that he might be, he did not himself know. It had led to this. Now he was guilty of murder.
So he lay in the darkness with the sound of the insane waves dashing against the cliffs. The sailors feared to touch him, even Althak kept his distance, not knowing what he should do. The Anthorians were all ill and Tenari sat wordlessly beside him.
It was Keashil who finally came to comfort him. She felt her way along the deck, ignoring Althak’s cautioning, and sat in a puddle that lay near Azkun’s head. The rain had stopped but the wind still filled their sails and the waves still thudded against the hull.
“Azkun?” He felt her hand on his head as she checked his position. “Azkun, you've been still for a long time. I heard weeping before. What is it?” He lifted his head, his neck was stiff and sore. How could she not know? How could they not have felt that darkness and not know that it was his doing?
“They killed her. They killed her anyway, because of me.”
He felt the hand on his head again.
“Oh, Azkun,” she said quietly and when he looked at her he saw her blind eyes crying in the lamplight. She was silent for a time, her quiet weeping could be not heard over the waves. Althak, overcoming his caution, came and sat on the deck beside her.
“It's the Vorthenki way,” she said presently. “Maidens are given to Kopth by the sacrifice.”
“They killed her for me,” he said flatly. “The priestess, she hated herself for doing it, but she did it anyway. She killed her for me.”
“Azkun,” said Althak, “we all heard a cry, but we were far from shore. How can you know-?”
“I did not eat her in some dark place or whatever I am supposed to do with my victims!” he shouted suddenly. “I am horrified by what your people do for me. It is evil!”
“It's the Vorthenki way…”
“Then it must stop. It is wrong.” He hesitated, to be Kopth or not? He did not know, perhaps he was, perhaps not. But only Kopth could stop them. “I command that it stops.”
Althak looked at him for a moment in silence, and he could not see his face in the darkness.
“Althak, who do you think I am?’
“They say you're Kopth, or Gilish. You're not like either, yet you're not as other men.”
“I do not eat maidens and I do not build in stone.”
“Yet you speak of dragons and you quote from the Mish-Tal,” said Keashil.
“That's not what I meant,” said Althak. “Kopth has never found death abhorrent, Gilish would have helped to fight the pirates.”
“You have not answered me. Who does Althak think I am?”
“I don't know. As I said, you're not like other men.”
“If I must be Kopth to forbid the sacrifices then I will be Kopth.”
“Perhaps there is another possibility,” said Keashil, and Azkun heard a smile in her voice that comforted him. She held Althak’s harp and as she spoke she lifted it into a playing position. “You speak Vorthenki?”
“No.”
At that she laughed quietly. “Could Kopth not speak Vorthenki? No matter. If I cannot sing a Vorthenki song I can sing you a song of Golshuz that was borrowed from the Vorthenki and made into the Relanese tongue.”
With that she began to sing, plucking at the harp, but it was hard to hear the notes she played. She sang of a famine in the far north. Winter lay on the land for year after year. Summer, that brief time when the ground can be tilled and the cattle fattened, did not come and the people hid in their houses, for they could not endure the cold. It was said that Kopth was angry with a man who had killed a priestess and was determine to punish him. Sacrifices were offered but it was no use. The snow would not melt and there was no food. Storms lashed the coast and no one could sail south for help, they were trapped.
A man named Galth, whose house had been decimated by hunger, came forward. He would brave the storms and seek help. But he would not sail south. If Kopth had not afflicted the south as well then he would be given no hope of passing through the storms.
Galth determined to travel not south but east, to the isle of Kishalkuz. There, if Kopth willed it, he would come before him and plead for his people.
They told him it was foolish, for no one could return from Kishalkuz, but he set out anyway and they marvelled at his courage. No more was ever seen of Galth from the day he left. After many days the winter lifted, the sun shone and summer came at last. That summer they harvested more grain than they had stores for.
As for Galth, a priestess who was famous for her wisdom prophesied that he had, indeed, reached Kishalkuz and had been received with honour in the house of Kopth.
When she stopped singing Azkun had almost forgotten that she had some reason for singing him this song. He was absorbed by the idea of sailing to Kishalkuz, of seeing the halls of his masters. The dolphin had promised to guide him.
“Perhaps you're neither Kopth nor Gilish. Perhaps you're like Galth, a man on whom the gods have laid some purpose.”
“A bridge,” he said quietly. “A bridge to the dragons.”