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.
Chapter 5: The Bridge
The next day began with feeble drizzle that woke them early. Drinagish complained loudly about the weather, but his efforts to bait Althak and Grath about the northern climate failed. Althak ignored the rain as if he had been born in a downpour, Grath merely drew his cloak around himself and began packing up their camp. Azkun also ignored the rain; he stared into the dying embers of the fire, watching the hiss of steam each droplet made as it landed there.
Menish had slept well. His leg was tolerable this morning thanks to the precautions of the night before. In spite of the rain he felt cheerful. His old bones might last him a while yet. He looked at Hrangil, trying to gauge how his friend felt. Hrangil seemed to have resolved his contradictions sufficiently. He helped the others with the packing and loading the gear onto the horses, though he was hardly pleased about the rain. He scowled at Drinagish’s complaints from time to time.
Breaking camp in the wild when it is raining and the day’s end will see civilisation again is never a lengthy task. In a short time they had mounted their horses and were on their way. Drinagish was still complaining about the weather, the lack of baths and anything else he could think of until Grath retorted:
“Drinagish, do you want water or not? Here in the north we have it fall on our heads so regularly we have no need to wash!”
At that Drinagish fell silent, and Menish thought he saw Hrangil chuckling. In spite of his good mood Menish was apprehensive. Azkun had fled from them before, he might attempt to do so again. Of course he would not get far. His arm was still in a sling and getting on and off the horse was too awkward without Althak's help. Still, he should have warned Althak. But, when he looked at the Vorthenki through the worsening rain, he saw that Althak was riding close to Azkun, he needed no warning.
The rain grew from the early morning drizzle to a heavy downpour. Even with the hood pulled over his head drops of icy water wriggled down Menish’s neck sending shivers down his spine. His legs, where his cloak did not cover them, were soaked, and at times water managed to dribble down his face. It was like ice. His hands grew white with cold and his leg ached fitfully.
The roadway became awash with tiny streams that the horses splashed through, leaving muddied grass behind them. Though it was mostly overgrown, no more than a level cutting in the slope across which they travelled, the old road occasionally revealed a glimpse of former grandeur. Parts of the embankment were faced with great blocks of stone. Sometimes the stone was carved with relief work, generally displaying the stylised horse figurine or the Ammorl, the firebird, symbols of Gilish used on all his work. In places the road led them across a stream where the remains of a bridge could be seen or, even rarer, the bridge was still intact.
The Sons of Gilish who had used the road most had taken a strange fascination in its decay. As if, by looking at the road, they could measure the time that had passed since the first Emperor. They had never repaired it, and now that they no longer came the road had grown choked with undergrowth and bracken.
Still the rain poured down on them and still the horses plodded through it. Hrangil set a pace as fast as possible, but they had to push through bracken and boulders and fallen trees. They could not travel faster than a walk.
About mid-morning Menish called a halt and they passed around some honey cakes and some dry bread, which everyone ate ravenously, for they had not eaten since the night before. Everyone except Azkun who refused any food. Menish sighed, it was going to be a long journey to Atonir.
An hour or so after they set off again he heard Azkun and Althak talking. The rain drummed on his hood and he could not hear them clearly at first, but a slight lessening of the downpour allowed him to catch their drift.
“…I've always revered dragons, they are my kin,” said Althak. “But I've never heard it said that they created the world. It's said among my people that Kopth lay with Kiveri-Thun and from that union the world was born.”
“And who is this ‘Kopth’, a dragon?”
Althak hesitated as if he were considering a thing he had not thought of before.
“I'm not sure. The priestesses say he is a spirit that can take whatever form he pleases, man, dragon, sometimes a bull. His favourite form is a dragon, there's no doubt of that.”
“Then he is a dragon. He can change to other forms perhaps, I do not know, but he must be a dragon.”
“Perhaps,” said Althak, though he seemed not entirely convinced.
“And so the dragons made the world. You said so yourself.”
Menish heard the smile in Althak’s reply.
“That I did, almost.”
Menish was surprised that Azkun had lost his intensity. He even laughed at Althak’s reply.
“Then you will not doubt that the dragons, Kopth if you prefer, are perfection. You have seen them yourself.”
“I've seen them in the north, not only at Kelerish. They often cavort above the sea cliffs. I believe they ride the winds up there like a ship rides the winds on the sea. The first sight I caught of them the folk with me were afraid and hid indoors. I didn't know why until I saw one breathe fire.”
“Why?”
“Oh, why indeed. Azkun, you stood in dragon fire and lived. We count that a marvel. No other man would've survived such an ordeal-”
“But it was no ordeal!” he protested. “The fire of the dragon was as gentle as the rain. It opened my eyes and my mind. It gave me speech.”
“Then you are especially blessed. In the north we both love and fear the dragons. We love their beauty, but
