Azkun ran blindly. He clutched desperately at the pain across his throat as if he expected his lifeblood to gush from it. Shouts from Menish and Hrangil only added to his desperation. They were ghouls on his heels. The pig's pain was his own and the oblivion beyond filled his mind with the darkness of the Chasm. That alone would have driven him to run from the horror, but there was more.
He had seen the lust of his friends, even Althak, to inflict pain and darkness. Such ferocity appalled him.
Yet the evil he had seen was somehow consistent. He understood part of it. The weapons they carried, the way they controlled the horses, their deference to Menish, it began to make sense. Their whole lives were but re-enactments of the murder of the pig.
Trees flicked past him in his desperate run, some loomed over him like spectres of evil and he lurched away from them, still clutching his throat. His lungs were now gasping, and his chest ached with exhaustion. He did not know how far he had run, but it would never be far enough.
Only when exhaustion totally overcame him did he realise that they were not chasing him. He had not considered any other possibility. What other evil were they engaged in now? With a moan of pain he sank to the ground and sprawled panting and helpless among the leaf litter. Where were they? He cast his senses about him but he could not detect anyone. The pain in his throat ebbed away slowly, as if it were reluctant to lose its hold on him, while the glimpse of darkness beyond still made him want to scream.
But he could hear his own heartbeat, alive and strong, beating out its reassuring rhythm in his temples. Slowly, so slowly, his panic subsided into something less desperate and vented itself in quiet sobbing.
He must have lain there under the trees for some time. It seemed as if hours had passed. Certainly the angle of the sun had shifted when he slowly raised his head from the forest floor. He had heard the noise of something moving nearby. Trembling, he reached his senses in that direction. The undergrowth hid whatever it was but his mind found it.
It was only a deer. He could feel its watchfulness, its tenseness as it considered the faint scent of man. Azkun was still, hardly daring to breathe now. He had no experience of this kind of animal, although it reminded him of the horses. This one was all quivering fear. It picked its way through the undergrowth and now he could see it.
It was a tall, stately animal. He had been right, it was like a horse, but more delicate, more vulnerable. He understood its habitual tenseness, its continual sniffing for dangerous scents. Its ears were large enough to detect the sounds of enemies approaching, its eyes were placed to give it a wide angle of vision, and its long, slender legs were perpetually poised for flight.
He wanted to reach out and touch this creature, to reassure it. But he had no answers to the death of the pig. Horror he knew, but the threat itself now seemed secondary to the sadness that he could do nothing to aid this creature.
A whimper of despair escaped from him and instantly the creature was gone. It turned and bounded gracefully through the thicket. He could feel it leaping through the trees up the hillside beyond. Running, ever running, even as he had run from the death of the pig. He wept for it.
As he felt it run he detected a sudden change of direction, it avoided something else it was afraid of. Azkun tensed, casting his senses in that direction.
It was Grath.
The northerner was still some way off, Azkun could not see or hear him yet. But he knew where he was. His senses had been driven to acuteness by the pig’s death. He was also aware that Grath could not detect him in the same way. But he was following Azkun’s trail unerringly. He would find him in a few minutes.
Cold fear gripped his heart. The deer had escaped, but Grath was not hunting deer, he was hunting man. The blood lust in his heart was abated but it was still there. It still ruled the way he thought. Azkun had no way of knowing when that evil would seize him again. And Grath was coming for him.
His legs still trembled from their previous exertion, but he willed them into use. Some instinct told him to climb a tree, but he overruled that urge. Grath was following his trail as if he could see his footprints. To climb a tree would be to wait for death. No, he could only run like the deer, alone and desperate.
But this time he was not driven by panic. He was careful to avoid making too much noise, he tried to leave as little sign of his passage as possible. But he did not really know what signs Grath found to follow so he had little gauge of his success, or failure.
He found himself moving down the forested hillside. Twice he slipped on the leaf mould and despaired at the clear marks left for Grath. At the bottom of the hillside ran a tiny freshet that spilled and gurgled over moss covered stones. The sun sparkled through the trees and caught in its waters, flickering and dancing. But he had no time to enjoy the spectacle that yesterday he might have looked at forever.
He leapt across the stream easily, but his foot landed in mud on the other side, leaving a deep print that shouted that he had passed this way.
Azkun looked at it for a moment, debating with himself whether he should attempt to cover it, or keep ahead of Grath. He decided to keep moving. Grath would find other signs to follow anyway, one more could make no difference. Grath would catch him in the end.
But when Grath reached the stream he hesitated. Azkun could feel his confusion and did not understand it. His trail was obvious. Why did Grath stop? He did not stop long, however, and when he resumed his pursuit he was somehow smug and confident. Azkun’s fear mounted. He felt as if he had missed some opportunity, but he did not know what.
On the other side of the stream the ground sloped steeply upward. He found himself using both hands and feet to climb. The leaf litter was more slippery. Panic began to lurk at the edge of his mind.
The hill rose before him interminably. The vegetation was changing. The trees were shorter. Azkun ran on, blindly hoping that Grath would grow weary of following him before he himself grew weary of running.
His path led him out from the trees. He was suddenly standing on a rocky outcrop that formed the summit of the hill he had climbed.
The world as he knew it spread out before him like a vision of creation. Far below he could see the wrinkle in the forest where the little stream ran. Somewhere down there Grath was following him, but his urge to keep running was stilled by the panorama before him. This was but a low hill compared to the others that surrounded it. Great blue giants thrust their massive pinnacles to the sky. Many of them were white with snow that gleamed and dazzled in the autumn sunlight. Their grandeur reminded him of dragons. He clutched at hope. Surely the dragons would save him from Grath. But when he searched the skies for this hope to be answered he saw only an eagle flying, high and remote with death in its heart.
Death and violence surrounded him. It was in the skies, behind him it followed in the shape of Grath. This was not the purpose of the dragons. They had not made the world for this! Was all their creation, then, fallen from their purposes?
Yet the majesty of the mountains looked grandly down at him. They were not tainted by violence. They were serene in their beauty. He could see no murder in the snows. But, while there was no evil there, there was also no help, no compassion. As if sleep were the only way they could prevent themselves from rending the world and ridding it of the offences that crawled on their slopes.
And there were no dragons in the skies. Were they also afraid to right wrongs lest they destroy everything?
Azkun had little time to ponder. Every moment he stood here Grath drew closer. He could also sense Althak and Bolythak searching for him across the valley on the other side of this hill, ahead of him. He ran on.
As he moved down the slope he veered away from the place where he knew Althak was. He did not wish to be driven from one killer into another. He had thought Althak was his friend.
At the bottom of the slope a swift torrent flowed between high, rocky walls; foaming and crashing over great, grey boulders. His fear grew. The freshet had been easy to cross, but this was an impassable barrier. The other side was at least twenty feet away, he could not hope to leap it. And climbing down the slick, rock walls was treacherous even for one so used to clinging to rock faces.
There was even more amiss. He had been mistaken about Althak’s position. He and Bolythak were on this side of the stream, and not far away. Grath was still picking his way down the slope, following Azkun’s trail. Althak and Bolythak were following the line of the stream down towards him.
Where to escape? The easy way was downstream. He could not move back up the slope or up the stream. But Grath’s confusion at the freshet gave him hope. He had to try and cross the torrent. Clenching his teeth, he lowered himself over the edge of the rock wall and clung to the mossy surface. He could feel the chill spray of the thrashing water below and all sound was lost in the roar of the stream.
It was like the Chasm.
Handhold, foothold he made his way down. But the roar of the water below and the slick rock he clung to brought back his old, habitual, numbing fear. He forced himself to remain alert but he felt himself slipping away. He could feel his pursuers approaching. They had seen each other now. The numbness of the Chasm threatened to engulf him, to reduce him to a quivering thing that could do no more than cling to a rock face.
He would not go back, not to that. Even the dark oblivion was better than the Chasm. He did the only thing he could do. He let go of the rock wall and threw himself into the torrent.
The water boiled coldly about him and the current sucked him under. It buffeted and wrenched him, driving him against boulders that blocked its way. His leg was hurled against a rock and his back thudded painfully against another.
He was drawn down into the boiling depths. The current jerked and thrashed his limbs as if he were convulsed. His chest began to ache for breath. He hit another rock. Only his jerkin saved his back from being scored by its sharp edges. Another slammed against his elbow and he lost his feeling in that arm. His lungs became more desperate.
With a shock of reprieve he was suddenly thrust to the surface just long enough for a gasp of air and water before he was swept under again.
Heartbeat after heartbeat he was drawn down. The torrent roared in his ears and all he could see was the white of the water swirling about him. Then it was up again, but he did not break the surface this time. The current swept him over a precipice and followed him, crashing down around him as if it sought finally to bury him.
When he regained consciousness he was lying at the edge of the stream. The torrent had spent its fury in the waterfall and he lay in the shallows of a deep pool. The falls were still crashing down behind him and, at the other side of the pool, the water raced away in more rapids. But here it was calm.
For what seemed ages he lay there, not even sure that he was alive. The river had tried to kill him. Its fury was mindless but its intention was clear. He was yet to be convinced that it had failed. He was yet to be convinced that he wanted it to fail.
But he had seen the death of the pig. He had seen the darkness beyond the thrusts of the knife. The oblivion beyond the pain. He did not want to die.
Every part of his flesh felt bruised. He could not feel one arm. Blood ran from a cut in his forehead into his eye. His right arm ached when he moved it, but with it he dragged himself from the water and climbed onto its rocky shore. There he was able to examine the damage that had been done to his body.
The arm he could not feel hung limply at his side. He could not move it. There was a painful area on his left shoulder where he had been caught on a rock. His chest still burned from holding his breath, but his legs seemed to have escaped the worst of the rocks. He could walk without much difficulty.
He wondered how much more he would have suffered if he had not been wearing Althak’s jerkin and trousers.
Remembering his pursuers he looked around anxiously, casting his senses widely. Had he been seen? The cliffs rose about him on all sides here, confining the wrath of the torrent. They could be up there watching him. They would have their daggers drawn. He whimpered with fear.
But he could detect nothing of them. Some distance away there was the deer, but no people were about. As his awareness cleared he realised that he was still on the same side of the river, the same side as Grath and Althak. It made him feel cheated. Even so, he was safe, for the moment.
It could only be a temporary reprieve, though. They would have followed him to the river and to search the bank downstream would be obvious, even if the water confused Grath. He had to leave this place.
Above him the rocky cliff face loomed like despair. How could he climb with only one arm? The river had caught him, damaged him, and now it trapped him. He felt evil crowd around him: the mindless evil of the river, the deliberate evil of his friends. It stifled him.
Still, he lived. He refused the darkness that had swallowed the pig. He was determined to face this evil. The dragons knew of these things, they would not let him die, and he would not despair, he would not disappoint them.
Forcing his legs against their pain, he made his way to the cliff edge. It was not so high. Perhaps three times his own height, no more. Its grey walls were wet with spray from the waterfall, but they were cracked and wrinkled, offering handholds and footholds.
Gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder he gripped a hollow in the cliff and pulled himself up to a foothold. His left arm was still limp and numb, useless, but although his other limbs protested, he was able to reach his toes onto a ledge. Encouraged he hauled himself to the next and the next. He slipped once, catching his fall with the tips of his fingers and raking the skin off them. At last he grasped hold of a tree that clung to the cliff edge and pulled himself up to the top.
He was tempted to lie there for a while, to let his wrenched limbs recover from their exertion. But he gathered his resolve and climbed to his feet. He had to get away. They would be following him. The feeling was slowly returning to his left arm, and that brought only agony.
He could not run as he had done before. His legs were too bruised. He limped his way along the cliff edge, trying to avoid scraping his feet on the leaf litter. So he made his way down the riverbank, broken and battered, but determined to avoid death.
He still did not know why they had killed the pig, but something in his mind connected it with food. That thought revolted him. Surely they could not be that evil. For food was a novelty to Azkun, an unexpected and unnecessary pastime they indulged in. To take the life of another for mere food was incomprehensible.
And the river in its mindless attack was a manifestation of the same corruption. The work of the dragons was maimed with it. The only pure thing was fire.
He wondered why, then, had they called him to this place. He had expected paradise, but he had found horror and death. He had thought they called him from darkness into light, but this was not what he had hoped for. This was not what the dragons intended for him.
For the dragons were light. They were purer than the fire and more powerful than the mountains. He had glimpsed the little they had shown of themselves in the Chasm and it was awesome. His heart gladdened even to think of them. This world was tainted but it had not always been so, it need not always be so. For there were still dragons in the world.
But he did not understand why the corruption continued. Why did they not sweep down and cast out the taint on their works? Was it, perhaps, too deeply ingrained in the pattern of their creation? Could it not be so easily rooted out?
Somehow he felt that this burden was his own. The evil in the world could not be removed by power alone. It would require something more profound, something that, perhaps, they had called him from the Chasm to give. If so what should he do? He hardly understood the abomination, he had no answer to it. It surpassed him.
With night came terror.
The sun slipped behind the mountains and plunged him into gloom. The evening gathered about him like spectres that knew his name. Darkness crowded in like thick, black smoke. He felt it constricting his throat until he could not even cry out.
Blindly he began to run. But both ahead and behind the spectres loomed. Part of him cried out for fire and dragons, but most of him simply ran in terror. In the darkness he missed his footing and sprawled headlong. A tree caught his shoulder, twisting him so that he fell on his injured arm. The spectres seemed to pounce on him.
But he could not move. Arrows of pain raced up his arm. His legs had endured too much torment already. He could only release his terror in a stifled cry and cringe in the darkness.
In the enforced stillness of his fear he saw his answer. Fire! It twinkled like a fallen red star across the hillside, only just visible through the trees. Fire, pure fire! The mere sight of it drove back the spectres, though they still haunted the gloom around him. In the fire there was power over terror.
Still trembling from fear and pain and the distance that separated him from the fire, he clambered stiffly to his feet and limped towards it.
Menish cursed the pain in his leg that rendered him immobile as Hrangil dashed after Azkun. He could hear him shouting apologies to the man he thought was Gilish, pleading with him not to take offence at Menish’s attitude. Hrangil was too arrogant in his certainty. But Menish could not reach him to prevent him from making a fool of himself.
When Hrangil stumbled back into the small clearing around the fire his eyes carried a look of broken hope. He sat where Azkun had sat, across the fire from Menish, and avoided his gaze as if his King were his betrayer.
“He outran me,” Hrangil said at last.
“Grath will find him. We won't lose him.” Menish had to know the answer to those eyes.
Hrangil glared at him.
“You would track him like an animal?”
“I would fetch him back,” he said gently. He would have added that Hrangil should curb his passion until more was known of the man from the Chasm, but he knew Hrangil would only hear such a suggestion as an echo of blasphemy.
Presently the others returned with their kill slung on a pole between Althak and Grath. Drinagish walked beside them with the arrogant swagger of one who had dealt the killing blow. It was a sizable animal and they were pleased with themselves. There would be plenty of meat for their voyage south to Atonir. The Vorthenki were inclined to eat too much fish for the Anthorians’ liking.
“Where is Azkun?” asked Althak.
“He ran away,” said Menish simply. “Grath, we need your woodcraft to track him. Go with him, Althak, he may not fear you. Bolythak, too. Drinagish can parcel this fine kill.” Althak did not ask the question that was written on his face, why did he run? Menish did not answer because he had no answer. Hrangil assumed it was because of Menish’s manner, Menish thought he might be mad, and if he were mad he might even be Gilish.
“That direction, he's not been gone long, but be swift.”
They set off, Althak still obviously puzzled by this development and the other two unquestioning. For them Menish’s brief explanation was enough.
Once they had gone Menish began furiously rubbing his leg, trying to restore it to use. The pain had eased considerably thanks to the fire. He could put his weight on it. But it still ached when he tried to walk.
Meanwhile Hrangil glared at him silently and Drinagish, quite unaware of the tension between them, chattered away blithely about the kill. He was anxious to show his uncle the gaping hole in the pig’s throat. Menish listened half-heartedly while he massaged his leg.
“It was hiding in a thicket, Uncle, barely large enough to cover it. I think I saw it first but Grath pointed it out to Althak, he had seen some droppings a few paces away. Anyway, I rushed in with my dagger, this one, Uncle, you gave it to me yourself.’ He held up a curved hunting knife that Menish knew well. It still dripped blood. “Grath chopped it across the neck but it dodged and he missed it. Althak caught it on the flank with his sword, silly to try with a sword really, but I grabbed it by the shoulder and stabbed it under the throat. I’m covered in blood, of course. Bolythak said it was not the cleanest kill he had ever seen but I don't care. I killed it anyway.”
Menish wished Drinagish were less arrogant. Last year, on his sixteenth birthday, Menish had declared him to be his heir. He had left the matter too long as it was, but the heir had to be a member of the royal house and Menish and Adhara had no children of their own. There were few enough to choose from because the battle with Gashan had almost wiped out the Anthorian royal family. Drinagish was his choice, for better or worse. It would have to be ratified by the clan council in the event of Menish’s death of course, and Menish had until then to make a king of him. He was not entirely pleased with his progress, but not entirely disappointed either.
“Well, since you killed it you will now have to butcher it. I'll not ride into Lianar with a pig trailing in the dust behind us in triumph.”
At that Drinagish looked disconcerted. He did not mind patches of blood on his tunic to show the triumph of his kill, but to be delegated the messy business of parcelling the meat had no attraction whatsoever. It was no use protesting, however. Anyone could see that Menish was in no mood to be disobeyed. Drinagish set about cutting up the pig.
He was almost finished when the others returned. Azkun was not with them.
“You lost him?” Menish was incredulous. His leg was no longer concerning him and he paced back and forth by the fire.
“I’m sorry, Sire,” said Grath. “I came upon a place where he stopped and rested but he must have heard me coming and ran off.”
“Heard you coming? You? What were you doing blundering about like a randy stallion? You can be as quiet as a ghost.”
“I was quiet, Sire, quiet as I can be. I was able to follow him some distance. He made for a stream and I thought he would confuse his tracks in the water.” Grath grinned. “He left a clear footprint on the far side of the stream, an old trick. I spent precious minutes looking for the real path. But there was no trick. He had gone the way of the footprint.
“I followed as quickly as I could and chased him across a hillside. I don't think he knew I could see him. I was trying to force him in Althak and Bolythak’s direction, but he must have seen them and went for the river.
“There was a swiftly flowing torrent, cold as the mountain snows. I tracked him to the edge and… well, he seems to have jumped in.”
“Jumped in?”
“We searched the banks downstream, but there were rapids and then the water ran over a cliff. He either drowned in the river, was crushed in the rapids or he reached the other side of the water before he was swept over the falls. But the water was very cold, Sire. He would not have survived long.”
Althak nodded slowly, confirming Grath’s story.
“Damn!” said Menish. But he did not think Azkun was dead. How could a river kill a man who could stand in dragon fire? This one was made of sterner stuff than that, although he acted like a fool.
If he had survived they could search the wild land for weeks and not find him. Perhaps he could be made to find them instead.
“Grath, you did well. We have other means of fetching Azkun back. See if you can help Drinagish parcel that meat, he is making a foul mess of both it and himself. Bolythak and Althak can gather more wood for the fire. At dusk I want a roaring blaze going that he can see for miles if he is alive.”
Althak grinned and nodded his approval of Menish’s scheme. Drinagish looked disgruntled at the description of his labours, but he accepted Grath’s help cheerfully enough. Menish, deciding that exercise was probably the best thing for his leg, accompanied Althak on his search for firewood. Hrangil remained by the fire. He looked older than he had done this morning.
Their search for wood did not take them far. A fallen tree lay a few paces through the woods.
“You wondered why he ran,” said Menish.
“M’Lord?”
“Of course you did. It was written all over your face. You wondered what we did to make him run.”
“M’Lord, I-”
“Hrangil thinks I insulted him by saying something about Gilish,” continued Menish. He felt that Althak, the only one who was not awed by Azkun, deserved an explanation. “But I don't know. He leaped to his feet suddenly, clawing at his throat and jerking like one in a fit. Then he cried out something unintelligible and ran. Hrangil tried to call him back, but he just ran off.”
Menish paused, wondering whether to ask his question.
“What do you think, Althak? I asked you this morning, and I ask you again. You're the only one who can look at the matter clearly. If he is mad, could he be Gilish?”
Althak stopped breaking off branches from the fallen tree and stared at Menish in surprise.
“M’Lord, I'm hardly a reliable judge of these things. I know little of Gilish. Hrangil-”
“Hrangil would condemn me of blasphemy, the others would give me fables I already know. At least I do not already know your fables.”
Althak hesitated for a moment then spoke.
“I have seen a man take a shaking fit once which sounds like the thing you describe. He was not mad, but a korolith would take his body at times and abuse it. Some tried to make him speak while the korolith had him, hoping for wisdom, but the korolith wouldn't speak. Mostly, though, they were afraid. But after such a fit the man would need rest. He was never capable of running off as Azkun did.”
Menish nodded slowly. He had seen such a fit himself once. But he was not sure that Azkun had suffered the same thing either. Althak was right. He should not have been able to run off afterwards.
“So perhaps he was simply mad, as Gilish was.” Perhaps Hrangil was right. But what could they do with a mad magician?
“If it's madness it's sudden. He's acted strangely since we met him, that's to be expected. But I wouldn't have said that he was mad.”
“He threw himself into the river.”
“We both know of sane men who have thrown themselves at death, M’Lord.”
“But only at great need! Surely he was mad to do such a thing.”
“Unless he knew the river held less danger to him than we suppose.”
Which simply brought the whole question back to Azkun himself. The man was a walking riddle, if he was still walking and not drowned.
They had enough wood and the sun was dipping. Grath had kept the fire going even though he had been busy. Drinagish had changed his clothes and washed himself in a nearby stream. All there was left to do was to wait.
“I had hoped for a hot bath this evening,” complained Drinagish, “but here we are still in the wilds waiting for a madman who is probably dead.”
“Yes,” murmured Grath, “and we sleep armed for yet another night.”
A look from Hrangil silenced them both and Menish bade them build up the fire.
“You need not concern yourself with sleeping armed, Grath,” Menish grinned half-heartedly. “You'll be on watch most of the night to see if Azkun returns.” But his grin faded quickly. He was too beset by mysteries to be cheerful.
So they watched and waited. Menish and Hrangil by the fire where Menish was careful to keep his leg warm, and the others on watch among the trees around their camp site. Menish had warned them to be careful that Azkun, if he came, was not harmed. There were too many things he might be capable of. And as he sat and stared into the fire, listening to it crackle and pop, he remembered the look of ghastly terror on Azkun’s face just before he ran away. It was not the look of a blasphemed god. It was the look of a hunted animal.
Two hours after sunset Menish heard a scuffle and a cry. It came from the direction Drinagish had gone, but it was not Drinagish’s voice. He heard the heavy footsteps of Althak plunging through the trees towards it. Grath’s silent shadow slipped through the camp, Bolythak crashed through the trees from the other side. Another scuffle.
Menish fretted. What were they doing? Hrangil regarded him as if he had ordered the execution of his only love. But before he could clamber to his feet Azkun emerged from the shadows of the trees.
He entered the firelight as one caught in a trance. He was hurt. A gash snaked across his forehead like the brand of a victim and his left arm hung limply at his side. One side of his face was swollen with bruises. But he made no acknowledgement of his injuries. He approached the fire as if there were nothing else in the world. Althak was on his heels. He did not have to compel him forward. Azkun ignored them all.
But he was hurt. Menish was on his feet before Azkun reached the fire.
“Hrangil, pass that ambroth.” Menish examined the gash on Azkun’s forehead even as he sat and resumed his dumb stare into the fire. The cut was not deep, something had grazed away the skin. He poured some of the liquor into it, washing away the blood-caked grime. Crimson drops oozed from it.
His arm was more serious. Menish felt it carefully and could not find any broken bones, but it hung so limply that he was not sure. Hrangil produced a spare shirt from one of the packs and Menish improvised a sling. All the while Azkun was biddable but mute. He stared at the fire.
Menish checked him for other injuries. Apart from bruising, he seemed whole enough. But he was cold to the touch, and in that chill Menish saw danger. A man could die of cold in these mountains, and Azkun had the look of one who held his grip on life loosely.
“Grath, we need hot food quickly, get some ambroth warmed first. We'll see if he will drink it.” Meanwhile Althak stripped off Azkun’s damp clothing and wrapped him in blankets.
Hrangil hardly moved. He sat across the fire from Azkun and stared silently. Menish understood. He so wanted this man to be Gilish, but who could accept a maimed god? His indecision was furrowed on his brow.
Presently Grath had heated ambroth over the fire while Drinagish and Bolythak saw to roasting some of the meat. Menish held the bowl to Azkun’s lips but he ignored it. The fire held all his attention. Menish gently forced his head back and poured it into his open mouth.
That restored him. He was jerked from his trance by the necessity of coughing. He choked and spluttered so violently that Menish thought he had done him more damage. But after a moment he came to himself; he resumed his stare at the fire, but something in his eyes told Menish that he was now aware of his companions.
“Why did you run?”
Azkun turned towards him slowly, as if he were reluctant to admit to Menish’s presence. A vague smile had stolen across his face, but it faded when his eyes fell on Menish. He swallowed awkwardly, as if what he were about to say were something he would rather keep inside himself.
“I ran from you, from all corruption. But there is corruption everywhere. The river is corrupt, the mountains, all of you.” He spoke calmly and quietly as if he were a priest revealing a great truth to simple folk. Then he turned back to the fire. “But the fire is pure.”
“‘ With my eyes I behold corruption, but in my heart I remember the fire, for fire is pure,” echoed Hrangil. Menish recognised one of the early passages of the Mish-Tal and groaned inwardly. But Azkun had not answered his question.
“In what way are we corrupt?”
“You killed the pig.” Still he spoke calmly, but behind his voice lay the scream of anguish and the look of horror before he had run away. Menish noticed something else.
“You were gone by then. How did you know about the pig?”
“I saw them kill it.” His stare at the fire was something determined now, as if he could burn away pain. “I saw them,” his voice dropped to a whisper. Words such as these would not be spoken out loud. Menish strained to hear him over the crackling of the fire. “I saw their knives and lust in their hearts. A stab,” he winced, “in its side and another,” he pointed to his throat, “and it died.” His hand covered his mouth even as he said the word.
Menish had hunted pigs and other animals since he was old enough to ride. The feelings of the pig had never concerned him.
“But it was just a pig, we hunt them for food.”
Azkun winced again.
“Only for food?”
“Of course…” began Menish, then he stopped. “You don't eat. Is that what you mean? We appall you because we kill for food. To you it is a thing we do for pleasure. Am I right?”
Azkun nodded dumbly.
“It's not what you think. We kill because we must eat. Sometimes we must kill because if we did not we would be killed ourselves, sometimes we kill because of pride or greed, these things are regrettable. But today we killed because we must eat.”
“Therefore,” he shuddered as he spoke. “Therefore I ran from corruption.”
Menish was both exasperated and aware of Azkun’s pain, though he did not really understand. He had tended his hurts with his own hands and in return he had received only an accusation of the crime of eating flesh. His irritation made him want to force answers from the man with his sword, but he could not do that. Hrangil would never forgive him for one thing and, besides, one does not hold a guest at sword point when he has committed no crime.
And he really was aware of Azkun’s pain. He had said that they were corrupt, he had run from them, had risked the river’s violence to escape. And he had returned to the fire. Broken and weary, he had been drawn from the night to the fire he loved. Such things touched Menish. Azkun had already paid a price to return, and he had Thalissa’s eyes. Menish felt he owed him something.
There was nothing more he could do for Azkun just now, he was content with his fire. He did not any of want the meat they were roasting. But Hrangil ached beside him. Menish wanted to do something to ease his friend.
“Did not Gilish renounce flesh at one time?” he asked him in a low voice. Hrangil turned worried eyes towards him.
“Indeed, Sire. At the building of the Lansheral he declared he would not eat meat until it was completed.” Hrangil replied warily.
Menish laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Tell us, then, of the building of the Lansheral.”
Hrangil hesitated as if he no longer trusted Menish, but he rose to his feet and stood before the fire. He hesitated again, looking at Azkun as if to ask his permission. But Azkun would not look away from the fire. He began.
“In the third month of the eleventh year of the reign of Gilish I of Relanor, the Emperor decreed that a wall was to be built to seal off the lowlands from the wild men in the western mountains of Anthor…”
It was a familiar story to Menish. He had heard it first as a child from his father. The Anthorians loved the tale of the Lansheral. Hrangil told them how Gilish had encountered the wild tribes in the mountains that even his magic could not defeat. They were not afraid of horses, as the Monnar had been when he overran them. Though they ran from his blasts of fire, they returned to fight again. They were cunning and, where their cunning failed them, insanely brave. Although Gilish hated them for raiding his precious empire, he marvelled at them in battle.
They were, of course, the ancestors of Menish’s folk.
So Gilish, unable or unwilling to crush this valorous people, walled them off from his empire. They called the wall the Lansheral, for it was more than four hundred miles long, and there were watchtowers and keeps and garrisons all along it. Now, after nearly a thousand years, it was broken in many places where the Anthorians had attacked it, but it was still formidable, a stamp of the might of Gilish across the borders of his empire.
The Mish-Tal did not relate exactly how Gilish built the wall, not even where the great blocks of stone were quarried. Popular folklore held that he had built it by magic, it was impossible to believe that mere human toil could accomplish such a massive undertaking. Magic and fasting, for Gilish declared that he would not touch meat or wine until the wall was complete. Hrangil stumbled over that reference in the Mish-Tal, for Azkun had not mentioned wine, and he had submitted to Menish pouring ambroth down his throat.
The building took Gilish thirty-seven days and when it was completed he galloped his horse, Garnar, along the battlements for the entire length of the wall.
At the end of the tale Hrangil added, as all Anthorians felt bound to, that the wall remained intact until the time of Vangrith. She was the second of the chief-kings of Anthor, and she led them in a ferocious attack that breached the wall. That was more than a century after it was built. In those days Kulash the Usurper ruled Relanor. Vangrith was later killed when Kulash retaliated, and her body was dragged through the streets of Atonir behind Kulash’s horse, but Hrangil did not add that.
Hrangil’s story was complete. To Menish he seemed more at peace with himself and his King. It was enough for one day. Menish thanked him, rolled himself in his blankets, and went to sleep. He was careful to ensure that his bad leg was near the fire.