“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
