For the next three days they continued their journey across Relanor, leaving before dawn, changing horses at way stations and sleeping in post houses. They had to slow their pace somewhat because Keashil grew tired. She was unused to riding, and she was stiff and sore each night.
Menish wondered if Tenari also suffered with the pace, for as far as any of them knew she had never ridden before. But she had lapsed back to her old, sullen manner, having eyes only for Azkun. Other than that she appeared to manage fairly well. Menish could see Azkun was doing his best, but he was not so used to riding that he could hope to keep up this pace as long as the Anthorians and Althak. He looked relieved when Menish said that they would rise later and halt sooner.
As for the words of the Keeper, Menish did not believe him. He had been a fool to go to the fire tower. It was a place where old men burbled stupidity and made it look like power. Many years ago, when the weight of his cares and his guilt at leaving Thalissa to the mercy of Thealum’s mob lay heavily on him, he had visited the tower to try and find some solace. He had found peace and understanding, if not compassion, at the place. It was appropriate that he should give them the news that Thalissa was alive.
But this talk of power was nonsense. The Keeper had spoken grandly of things far away, things he could not have known about without being some kind of oracle. But Menish knew better. Vorish was also good at obtaining information. There was no need to surround it with mystery and awe, it was simply a matter of having spies in the right places and asking the right questions.
And yet, although he told himself these things over and over, he found himself watching Azkun, wondering about Gilish. During the long gallops and short halts Vorish’s face appeared again and again in his mind. It was slowly changing to look more like his own.
On the evening after the one spent at the Fire Tower, when they had eaten, Drinagish made a remark about Am-Goluz.
“Tell me more of the Fire Tower, Master Hrangil,” asked Azkun.
Hrangil raised his eyebrows and an eager look crossed his face, as if this were some sort of test he knew he could pass.
“The Fire Towers, there are two of them: Am-Goluz and Onen-Goluz, were built by Gilish when he first landed in Relanor. To the uninitiated they were signal beacons to warn Atonir of a Monnar attack and to summon aid.
“Gilish built them to be impregnable, and neither tower has ever been conquered. Even the Vorthenki could not breach their doors, although Thealum brought great engines to Onen-Goluz because he thought Vorish lay within. In years past they have been a refuge for the Imperial family in times of danger. Gishirian the Good was born in Am-Goluz and lived there until he came to the throne in his thirties.
“But they are more than beacons and refuges. They are the source of the sacred fire. The temple of Aton, in the palace of Atonir, was intended to be another source of the flame, but its flame was lost when… when Gilish fell at Kelerish. Alas, the flame of Onen-Goluz was also lost in the time of Kulash the Usurper. Both were rekindled from Am-Goluz, but they do not retain their former power.
“Because of the flame of Am-Goluz the Keeper lives to a great age. There is no man alive who remembers when the present keeper came into his office, I have heard it said that it was two hundred years ago.
“But it's not only the Keeper who lives long. Those who serve him in the tower are also long of life. They spend their days tending the fire and meditating the glory of Aton. They do not speak, only the Keeper may speak. If they spoke they would give voice to the mystery of the flame and it would no longer be a mystery.
“The keepers are very wise. The Emperors used to consult them on difficult matters.” Hrangil paused then added, “not Vorish I fear.”
“There was another fire tower,” said Keashil quietly. “We had one in Golshuz. But I doubt if it survived the invasion.”
On the third day after Am-Goluz they came to the Lansheral, the great wall Gilish had built to fence off his borders from the wild Anthorian hill men.
Their first sight of the wall came when they passed over a low hillock and saw the plain spread out before them with the mountains rising behind it. The plains were so flat here that they could see for miles from this small rise in the ground. The wall ran along the base of the mountains, an even, regular thing that wound across the contours of the ground on a line stretching from north to south as far as the eye could see. It looked like a natural feature of the landscape from a distance, like a peculiarly regular cliff that chopped off the foothills prematurely.
They halted their gallop and looked for a long moment, on their lips the word ‘impossible’ waited to be spoken. The wall was simply too colossal to believe.
It was Althak who broke their silence.
“Perhaps while we gaze on Gilish’s greatest achievement, we should remember one of his failures.” He laughed as he spoke and pointed away to the north east where a line of hills rose in the distance. “Azkun, beyond those hills lie the mountains of Kishir, the place of the dragons. In the mountains there's a city, and Gilish yearned to conquer that city, didn't he, Hrangil? But he couldn't conquer the dragons.”
“There are dragons? Dragons in those mountains?”
“No, no. There are no dragons there now. No one knows why they left their city but they're gone.”
Although they had seen the wall clearly from the rise in the ground they did not reach it until noon the next day. It grew and grew as they approached, each view of it made it appear quite close but still they did not reach it. Hour after hour it grew before them. Azkun had assumed that it was about twice the height of a man when he first saw it which, considering its length, was impressive enough. But when he finally stood at its foot and threw back his head to see its crenellated top he was astonished. It was at least three hundred feet high, not as high as the walls of Atonir’s palace, but it was over four hundred miles long. This was impossible.
Even Menish, who had seen it many times now and was not easily impressed anyway, stood before it speechless with awe. The wall always had that effect on him. He never believed his memory of its size and always it shrank within his mind so that each time he saw it he was astonished all over again.
Their road led them under the shadow of the wall and Azkun wondered, when they passed towns and villages, what it must be like to live so near to this colossus. Did these people stare at the wall afresh each morning as if it had grown up in the night? Or did they accept it as part of their world? He found himself continually looking at it, making sure that it really was as high as he thought, and peering ahead and behind as it wound away into the blueness.
When night fell they came to another amazing sight. They had followed the wall down into a wide valley where a great river ambled its way across the plain. A walled town, its wall looked foolish beside the great wall, stood on the riverbank. Not far from the town the Lansheral had been breached. It was as if a huge fist had punched its way through, leaving a crumbling opening. Some attempt had been made to fill the gap and the result was a good, solid wall that looked well made and adequate. It was only three times the height of a man. Like the town wall it seemed a childish imitation.
They spent the night at an inn built just inside the gates of the town. There were no courier post houses here. Menish knew the place well, for he usually spent a night here in his journeys to and from Relanor. The innkeepers, an Anthorian couple named Yartha and Vyanol, knew Menish, but not as King of Anthor. They thought he was a wealthy Anthorian merchant who traded hides in Relanor. There were many of these now that Relanor was peaceful again.
It was convenient to remain incognito here. Unlike the previous towns and cities they had passed through, such as Askonir, these border towns had no Drinol. A council elected by prominent citizens governed them and they were inevitably dreadfully self-important. If they found the King of Anthor within their walls they would want him to attend this feast and that, preferably for at least a week or two so that they could boast to the neighbouring towns.
He could simply refuse, of course, but they would still want him to spend half the night discussing some absurd local business anyway unless he had Althak and Drinagish forcibly remove them. Anonymity was the simplest way to avoid all that and get himself a good night’s sleep.
Yartha and Vyanol made him comfortable, serving him their best ale and the choicest cuts of the pig that roasted on the open hearth. They did have some ambroth but very little, they kept it more for medicinal purposes than for drinking. After the meal their hosts joined them as Menish and his company sat with their mugs of ale around the hearth while a bard played softly in the corner.
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.
The winding road down to the valley was much more pleasant for the wind no longer clawed at them and the view was promising. Azkun could see the road ahead snaking down towards a cluster of buildings by the river, his first view of an Anthorian settlement.
Menish sent Drinagish on ahead towards the village, Drinagish seemed oddly excited but Azkun did not know why. He was surprised to see such a village past the border. He had thought the Anthorians never lived in one place but followed their herds across the plains and lived in tents.
Now that they were sheltered from the biting wind the sun grew warm. Althak lifted his winged helmet off his head and tied the straps to his arm. Menish bundled his fur cloak into his saddle pack and loosened his jerkin. Hrangil did not seem to notice the change in temperature.
“We seem to be high up,” said Keashil.
“Yes, we're looking across the valley of Cop-sen, or Amsha as the Relanese call it where it flows through their land. Our road crosses the river at a village that we can see from here. It's called Kronithal, the ‘iron camp’ in the Anthorian tongue, for this is where the Relanese first traded in iron with the Anthorians. We'll sleep there tonight.”
The village, when they reached it, was much like those they had seen in Relanor, though smaller than most, and there was no encircling wall. The flat land around the village had been ploughed but lay fallow. The road wound between the fields and the houses towards the river where two imposing, stone buildings stood.
Azkun had seen buildings like this in Relanor, especially as they drew close to the Lansheral. There was a ground level that seemed to be for housing animals, and two levels above that. The first floor had a wide stone terrace with steps leading up to it. Menish led them towards the nearest of the buildings where, tethered outside, stood Drinagish’s horse.
“They’ve arrived! Here they are!” cried a voice.
A large, wooden door burst open, erupting with people who swarmed out of it, across the terrace and down the stone steps. Most of them were children and their elders in a more dignified fashion followed them.
“Corith! Take your uncle’s horse. Romeryal, take the sorcerer’s beast.” A stern looking man stood in the doorway giving orders that he was obviously used to having obeyed.
“Greetings, Menish. It's good to see you again.” He smiled and his sternness vanished in a maze of wrinkles.
“Holdarish, I'm glad to see you so well.”
Drinagish appeared in the doorway behind him with a woman who was a similar age to Holdarish. She had her arm across Drinagish’s shoulders and Drinagish seemed uncomfortable about it.
“Come inside and be welcome. There's meat and bread for you.” Corith, a lad who looked a lot like Drinagish, held Menish’s horse until he dismounted, then led the animal away.
Inside the house they found a hall faced with stone and a big fireplace along one wall. Something was turning on a spit over it and Azkun looked away. The stone walls were largely hidden by woven rugs that hung on them. Most were plain, woven wool dyed one colour, usually brown or yellow. But on the north wall was a patterned rug, or a tapestry. It showed figures with swords and beasts. Azkun could not make any sense of it in the dim light but it plainly depicted something.
The floor of the room was laid with skins and straw and a few of the large Relanese cushions. On these Mora, Holdarish’s wife, bade them sit. Servants brought them food and Holdarish poured ambroth. This was Anthor, there was no talk of ‘medicinal purposes’ for ambroth here.
“How is Sonalish?” asked Mora as they ate.
“Still keeping up her sword practice she told me,” said Menish through a mouthful of meat. “Though she was making some embroidery as well.”
“Does she still ride?”
“Not often. Remember the Relanese never did approve of women riding horses. They had some idea they would lose their virginity.”
“But she's married! She has four children!”
“Yes, but they always thought it unseemly for women to ride anyway.”
Mora looked concerned.
“Is she happy? Menish, is she really happy?”
Menish laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Mora, your daughter is happy. You should go and see for yourself.”
“No, it is she who left us, it is she who must return. I'll not go chasing after her into Relanor. Especially if they're going to frown at me riding a horse.”
“It's been eight years,” said Menish.
“What has Drinagish been doing?” asked Holdarish, changing the subject.
“He's acquitted himself well,” replied Menish with a smile. Drinagish fidgeted with his drinking horn. “We were attacked by pirates on our voyage south from Lianar. Drinagish’s sword put the fear of Anthor into them. It was he who found Keashil and Olcish on the pirate ship.”
“Don’t drink it so fast, boy,” muttered Holdarish, nudging Drinagish when he took a mouthful of ambroth.
Menish carefully ignored the parental rebuke and reached for more food. There was tsamba, a favourite of all Anthorians: butter rolled in toasted barley flour. He kneaded a bite-sized piece of butter between his finger and thumb and dusted it in the bowl of flour.
“How are things here? I feel I've been away for so long it seems all summer has passed away.”
“We've had little trouble with the wolves, though it's hardly cold enough to send them south yet.”
“Many raids?”
Holdarish shook his head. “Not my herds, and I've other things to do than go raiding myself nowadays. I leave that for the younger ones. It's forbidden to Drinagish now, of course.”
“That's true, the king and his heir may not raid herds, and no one may raid theirs.”
“Hmm, perhaps we could gift our herds to Drinagish now that he's your heir. Then we'd be immune from raiding.”
“Then you'd be beholden to him for your income-”
“Do I hear you correctly?” interrupted Keashil. “You're talking of raiding cattle aren't you? Stealing each other’s cows and sheep?”
“And camels,” said Holdarish around a mouthful of tsamba.
“Yes, that's right,” said Althak. “They do it for sport in Anthor. I was surprised when I first found out too.”
“Not merely for sport,” Mora corrected him. “Raiding is a way of getting rich.”
“Or getting killed, of course,” said Menish.
“Any venture that may produce profit will have an element of risk.”
“Rumour of this came to Golshuz, but no one believed it. It is lawful, then, to steal cattle in this land?”
“Of course. Anyone who does not have the wits to guard his animals would lose them to the wolves anyway,” said Mora.
“There are rules,” said Althak. “No more than half of the breeding stock may be taken. The camp itself may not be raided and only those actively involved in defending the herd may be attacked. Otherwise there would be a danger to children and the infirm.”
“How… civilised,” said Keashil. “But those defending the herds may fight and kill each other?”
“Oh yes,” Menish said, speaking like the father of an unruly child that he indulges in spite of himself. “They fight, they duel, they feud. Every small matter must be resolved by violence. There are families that have been at each other’s throats for generations over some trivial matter. That absurd feud between the Rithyar and Romarbol clans has been going on for more than a hundred years as far as I can tell. It started when one sold the other a sick sheep which died the next day.”
“And they raid each other all the time?”
“Not all the time,” said Drinagish. “No one raids or feuds a month either side of the spring games.”
“And of course at the spring games you will see members of the Rithyar clan and the Romarbol clan buying each other drinks and swapping stories,” put in Holdarish.
Keashil laughed. “You are a strange folk.”
“And formidable fighters,” said Mora.
“Those that survive are,” muttered Menish.
“But, Uncle,” said Drinagish. “Most duels are fought with wrestling nowadays.”
“Most are, that's true. But the rest are fought to the death, and raids often get someone killed.”
“You can't cool hot blood, Menish,” said Mora. “Anthorian blood has always been hot.”
“Too hot for our own good, I fear,” said Hrangil grimly.
“And what's that supposed to mean, Master Hrangil?” asked Holdarish.
“Our hot-blooded warriors are of little use when it comes to a war.”
“We beat Thealum not long ago!”
“We didn't. We trained Vorthenki allies in the ways of Relanor. They beat Thealum.”
“With Anthorian help.”
“Yes, some of our own folk were not so hot-blooded that they wouldn't submit to training in how to obey orders. They had to fight with the tight discipline of Relanor, not the mad charge of Anthorians.”
“It's true,” Menish took some more tsamba. “We don't like to admit it. Our folk are bred to wild raids and duels. They don't take orders easily. In any large battle they will spend their all on one massed charge. It's very brave but it's not a tactic that works well.”
“I've heard it said that Vorish fights his battles beforehand on a table with sticks for armies,” said Mora.
“Yes,” put in Althak. “I've seen him.”
“So have I,” said Menish. “He plans a battle beforehand because he knows that his own folk will do what he says. Although…” He hesitated.
“What is it?” asked Holdarish.
“Sometimes I fear that Vorish thinks his armies really are only sticks. They can be thrown away without a thought when the need arises.”
“So what would you have?” frowned Mora. “The Anthorian way of glory and death, or Vorish’s coldly planned wars?”
“I'd have peace,” said Menish quietly, and as he spoke his eyes met those of Azkun. Perhaps they had something they could agree on.