Echoes of the Great Song Page 4

  Then, holding the glove to his face he relaxed into a trance, his mind flowing back through the valleys of time. He pictured the park, and the grove of flowering trees by the fountain pond. He saw himself sitting there, Tanya beside him, the children playing nearby. The sun was high and bright, the park bathed in the gentle warmth of early autumn. He always summoned the same image. It occurred to him then that there are times when true beauty whispers past the conscious mind, invisible as a breeze. The day in the park had been pleasant. No more than that. He had smiled as his three children played. He had kissed Tanya’s hand. But his mind had been working on a mathematical problem, and he was anxious to return to his office and continue with it. If only there had been a moment of prescience. If only he could have guessed that for seventy years—lonely, isolated years—he would summon that ancient image like a man bringing forth his greatest treasure.

  He had told Tanya of the mathematical problem. “You will solve it,” she said with utter certainty. That certainty had invigorated him. It was one of the reasons he loved her so dearly.

  Now he faced an even greater problem, and she was no longer here to feed him with her faith.

  When at last he opened his tear-filled eyes he was calmer.

  Wiping away the tears he returned to the problem. The White Pyramid, buried below the ice, could not be moving. This was a certain fact, beyond argument. What then could explain the phenomenon? Moving to the window he rubbed the frost from the glass then stared out over the white mountains. His men were returning now, and a second team waited, shivering on the decks above. Soon he would have to join them. Questor Ro was not a fool. He sensed they could spend endless days seeking Communion. And he had promised Talaban results.

  He tugged at his forked beard. The answer was there—if only he could find it.

  Wrapping his cloak around him he left the cabin, climbed the spiral stairs and emerged onto the central deck. His second twelve-man team were huddled together, watching the return of the silver longboat. As he stood with them there came a sound like distant thunder and a huge section of ice toppled from a nearby glacier, striking the calm water of the bay and sending a large wave that lifted the longboat.

  In that moment Questor Ro had his answer. Ordering the men to await his instruction he stood silently until the longboat was secured and his exhausted team were aboard, then summoned his assistant Onquer to his cabin. The Vagar was hollow-eyed, his lips blue. Questor Ro allowed the man to stand for a while before the small brazier of hot coals.

  “It is not the power source that is moving,” said Questor Ro. “It is the ice covering the land.”

  Onquer rubbed his thin hands together before the heat. “Ice moving, lord?” he said dumbly.

  “Pour yourself a drink,” ordered Questor Ro. With trembling hands Onquer lifted a blue glass decanter and poured spirit into a crystal goblet. Lifting it to his lips he sipped the fiery liquid. He shivered with pleasure.

  “Yes, it is the ice,” said Questor Ro. “It is brittle, and it moves. The pyramid is sixty miles away. Between there and here there are probably thousands of small shifts in the ice. We are like this ship, bobbing upon the bay. Constantly moving while staying in the same place. You understand?”

  Onquer drained the drink. “Yes, I see, lord. But what can we do?”

  “We need one mobile receiver linked to the others. Thus we can adjust our movement to match the shifts in the ice.”

  “This will take time, lord. More time than we have allowed.”

  “No, it will not. I will go below to the store rooms and begin to assemble the equipment. You return to the ice with the fresh team, and re-site the receivers. Place them closer together, each no more than ten units apart. Hold to the emanations as best you can. This time do not seek Communion, merely try to read the ebb and flow. How much movement is there, and between which points. You follow?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Then do not delay,” said Questor Ro, waving his hand towards the door. The exhausted Vagar bowed, then left the room. Questor Ro had all but forgotten him even before the door closed.

  Karesh Var had been asked many times what made him a great hunter. Young men were fascinated by his success in killing tuskers. He answered none of their questions. Did they not have eyes to see his skills? Could they not look at the scars he bore—the wicked cut upon his cheekbone, the ragged tear that had lost him half an ear—and realize that, though his youthful recklessness had placed him in many perils, he had survived to learn from his mistakes? The answer was, apparently, no. They watched him, tried to emulate him, and failed. And men, being what they are, called him lucky. They claimed he was blessed by the gods, and that he carried a secret talisman which drew the tuskers to him. Karesh found it all faintly amusing.

  Idly he rubbed at the long vivid scars on his right cheek. A kral’s talons had almost ripped his face away, but he had killed the man-beast with a dagger thrust to its heart. That incident alone had taught him to be wary and ever-patient in the hunt. Death lay waiting everywhere in this icy land. As to his skill with the tuskers, that was born from love, and the endless magic that sprang from love. Though he would never explain that to his followers. Let them learn themselves, he thought. Why would a man give away the secrets that led him to such glory among his people?

  Anyway, they would have laughed at the notion.

  Karesh Var loved the tuskers, and saw in them all that was good upon the cold earth. They were loyal creatures, fiercely protective of one another. They raised their young with endless patience, and they moved across the land with immense dignity, coupled with a lordly arrogance.

  Leaving his twenty men seated around two campfires Karesh Var saddled his pony and rode out along the ridge. From here he could look down on the plain and observe the death ritual. His men were not interested in such spectacles. They had seen them before, the herd forming a protective circle around the dying mammoth, the great bulls pushing their tusks beneath the victim, trying to raise her to her feet. His men found it boring to sit out in the cold until the cow died. Not so Karesh Var.

  Two days ago they had hit the herd, three riders moving in fast to taunt the fighting bulls, pulling them away from the rear. Then ten men on fast ponies had galloped in on the flanks, shooting their arrows into the victim chosen by Karesh Var. When they wheeled away Karesh Var and four others rode in, plunging their spears into the wounded animal.

  Then they withdrew to wait. The herd moved on, two bulls flanking the stricken victim, seeking to protect her from further harm. But she was dying now, and all that was required of the hunters was patience.

  As Karesh Var sat upon his pony and watched, the cow pitched to her side, her long trunk rising and falling, seeking perhaps to taste the air for one last time. Around her the bulls had ceased in their efforts to raise her body. They fell back, and the whole herd lifted their trunks and trumpeted to the skies. Perhaps it was a farewell song. Karesh Var did not know, but it touched him. Alongside her now two of the bulls gouged the earth with their tusks. Then the herd moved around the body in a slow circle before heading away towards the east.

  Karesh Var watched them go, then rode his pony down the slope, dismounting alongside the massive corpse. Moving to the great head he placed his palm on her brow. “You died so that my people may live,” he said. “I thank you for the gift of life, and I pray that your soul walks in the garden of all things.”

  His riders arrived within the hour. Two of them set about sawing away the tusks, which would later be transformed into buttons, bracelets, buckles and ornaments, many to be sold to the people of the eastern cities. The meat would be cut and salt-dried, the bones reduced to powder for medicinal remedies and animal feed. The skin would be dried and used in the making of boots, jerkins and other clothing. This one mammoth represented great wealth to the Zheng tribe.

  The legendary Karesh Var had succeeded once more, and his people would survive the long winter in relative comfort.

  One of his m
en brought him a bloody strip of meat. Karesh Var threw it over his shoulder and mounted his pony, carrying the meat downwind, hurling it out on to the snow. Saber-tooths, wolves and krals would have picked up the scent of blood long before now, and were probably already tracking the kill. The meat would give them something to fight over until the wagons arrived.

  By mid-afternoon the wagons were loaded and the long trek back to camp began. No krals had appeared, which pleased Karesh Var greatly, and he had left enough meat behind to satisfy the saber-tooths. All in all this had been a good day.

  The riders and wagons slowly climbed the mountain road. The sun was bright, though not warm, and Karesh Var tied down the ear-flaps of his fur hat. These last two years, since he had turned thirty-five, he had felt the cold more, though he told no-one—except his wife. She had made him the hat from rabbit fur. Karesh Var smiled. Most of the tribesmen felt he was foolish to have only one wife. But she was worth any ten women he had known. He was looking forward to seeing her again, when one of his scouts came riding down the trail.

  “The black boat has returned, Karesh,” he said. “There are Blue-hairs upon the ice.”

  It was nearing noon when the first of the six silver pyramids began to glow. Questor Ro, cold and exhausted now after hours upon the ice, saw it begin. At first he rubbed his tired eyes, thinking the glow merely a dreamlike symptom of weariness coupled with desire. He stared hard at the four-foot-high triangular structure, its interlinked silver poles wrapped in gold wire. Was it just reflected brightness he was seeing? Then he sensed the excitement in the Vagars around him. They too could see it, a halo of white light radiating from the structure. All weariness vanished from Questor Ro.

  Beside him a slim Vagar was holding the small wooden box from which golden wires trailed to the snow, spreading out to link with each of the six pyramids. “Stand very still,” Questor Ro told him. Moving alongside the man he carefully lifted the lid, holding it at an angle which prevented the Vagar from seeing inside. Two of the white crystals set into the mica were glowing brightly. The third was flickering with a soft gentle light. Questor Ro set the lid back in its place. A second pyramid began to glow, then a third.

  The twelve Vagars stood in stunned silence as, one by one, each of the six pyramids began to radiate white light.

  “Do not move,” Questor Ro reminded the box-holder.

  “Yes, lord.”

  As if obeying his own instruction Ro also stood still, excitement causing him to tremble. With an effort he swung away and summoned four of the Vagars to follow him to the waterside, where several boxes and a linen-covered chest were lying on the snow. From one box the Vagars took wooden overshoes which they slipped over their fur-lined boots. Then they took from their deep pockets long wooden thimbles, which they placed over their fingers and thumbs.

  Carefully they unwrapped the white linen from around a rectangular chest, some four feet long and three feet wide. It was of black wood, heavily engraved with symbols the Vagars could not read. On each of the two longest sides three large golden rings were set into the wood.

  “Be careful now,” said Questor Ro. “Your lives depend upon it.” Alongside the chest were two wooden poles, each eight feet long. With great care Questor Ro slid the poles through the golden rings. With this accomplished the four Vagars hefted the poles, lifting the chest clear of the snow. Questor Ro led them to a clearing at the center of the six glowing pyramids.

  His heart was beating fast now. Ordering them to lay the chest on the ground, Questor Ro covered his fingertips with wooden thimbles and took up a length of golden wire. Taking a deep breath he approached the chest.

  “Lord!” called out one of the Vagars. Ro was annoyed and swung towards the man.

  “What?” he shouted.

  “Your boots, lord. You are not protected.”

  Questor Ro glanced down. In his excitement he had forgotten to slip on the wooden overshoes. “Give me yours,” he snapped at the man who had saved his life. The overshoes were far too large, and Ro was forced to slide his feet forward, rather than walk. He flashed a warning glare at the Vagars. No one smiled. Kneeling by the engraved chest Ro looped the golden wire over two bronze spheres on its front. The other ends he attached to the first of the pyramids. A low humming noise began to emanate from the chest.

  Questor Ro raised his hands to the heavens. “We have Communion,” he said.

  “Praise be!” chorused the Vagars loyally. Ro knew they did not care. All they wanted was to be free of the ice, safe and warm in their cabins on the Serpent. It did not matter. This was what he had promised the Council. This is what he had fought for, risked humiliation for.

  He had achieved Communion with the White Pyramid, buried now in an eternally frozen city. The line of power had been caught and held, drawn through the gold rods, swirling along the golden wires, and feeding the tiny diamonds that filled the silver poles of the pyramids. Here it was changed by the gems, filtered and reenergized to flow into the chest, the power stored in the mica, gold and crystal interior.

  Removing the thimbles he dropped them into his pocket then pulled clear the white lace glove, which he lifted to his lips and kissed. Tears formed in his eyes, but he blinked them away. Such displays of emotion were not seemly in the company of Vagars. As if in cosmic punishment for his mistake, one of the pyramids flickered, the light fading. The humming from the chest was subsiding.

  Fighting down his panic Questor Ro kicked off the overshoes and ran to the man holding the mobile receiver. “Move a little to the right,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Gently now! Seek the line!” The man edged to the right. Once more the pyramid glowed and the humming began. “Watch the pyramids closely,” he told him. “If the light begins to fail try to find it again.”

  “Yes, lord. I am very cold, lord.”

  “We are all very cold,” snapped Questor Ro, moving away. His assistant Onquer was lying on the ice. Questor Ro nudged him with his boot. “This is no time to be sleeping,” he said. “On your feet!” Onquer did not move. Questor Ro knelt alongside him. Onquer’s face was grey. “Stupid man,” whispered Questor Ro. Summoning two Vagars he ordered them to carry Onquer to the silver longboat. “When you get him back to the ship remove his clothes and gently warm the body. Massage him with warm oils.”

  “Yes, lord,” they said in unison. Both were glad to be leaving the ice.

  For an hour the chest continued to hum, showing no sign of full recharge. Weariness had long since returned to Questor Ro, but he could not yet go back to the ship. The box-holder stumbled, then righted himself. For a moment only the lights flickered on the pyramids. Questor Ro trudged over to the man and relieved him of the box. “Go back to the ship,” he said. “You are useless here.”

  “Thank you, lord,” said the man.

  Questor Ro stood with the box in his hands, feeling the gentle vibration of Communion. Some sixty miles away, buried beneath the ice, the Great Pyramid was even more closely linked to him now. And less than a mile from the pyramid was his home, and the icy, unmarked grave of his beloved wife Tanya and his children. Questor Ro sighed.

  “If I could I would have died with you,” he whispered.

  Chapter Four

  Karesh Var heeled his pony into a run and led his men out onto the plain. Far ahead he could see the outline of the black ship against the white ice and just make out the tiny insect figures upon the glacier itself. Why did they keep returning to the ice? What were they looking for? he wondered, as his pony steadily closed the distance between his riders and the coast.

  Two years ago just such a ship had moored in the bay. Karesh Var and one hundred men had arrived as it raised its anchor and set sail towards the north. All the nomads found on the ice were holes, as if made by tent pegs. Nothing else. He and his men had dug around for a while. But there was nothing to find. It was perplexing.

  As he neared the coast he slowed his pony, raising an arm for the twenty riders to follow his lead. Karesh Var’s keen da
rk eyes scanned the ice. Only one Blue-hair could he see, a small figure with a forked blue beard. The others were ordinary men. Karesh Var was nervous. Legends told of the great weapons of the Blue-hair, bows that sent bolts of light into the enemy, opening great blackened holes in the chests of warriors, bursting asunder breastplates of bronze. They spoke of black swords that shimmered with lightning, swords that could cut through metal as a wire slides through cheese. Karesh Var had no wish to tackle a foe armed in such a manner. And yet, and here was the quandary, his young men were fighters. Indeed they loved to fight. They were, he had decided long since, men with little imagination.

  “We would ride into Hell for you, Karesh,” young Jiang had told him once. He had smiled and patted the boy’s shoulder. The young were made for such futile gestures, for they believed in immortality. They were convinced—just as he was once convinced—that the power that flowed through their veins would flow forever. They gloried in their strength, and even mocked older men who could no longer ride as hard, or hunt as well as they. As if those men had chosen to grow old, or in some way had allowed age and infirmity to overtake them.

  The young riders who followed Karesh Var wanted to attack the Blue-hairs, to destroy them and thus earn glory back in the village. Karesh Var would also like to destroy them, for had they not brought the world to calamity? Were they not the bringers of ice and fire? Even so he had no wish to lead his men into a battle that would end with the slaughter of his riders.

  With these somber thoughts in mind he saw two men walking toward the riders. Neither were Blue-hairs. Karesh Var drew rein and waited for them. One was tall, his long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore no armor, but a short sword was belted at his side and he carried in his left hand an ornate golden bow. Karesh Var narrowed his eyes. The man was carrying no quiver of arrows. He transferred his gaze to the second warrior. This one was shorter and stockier and held a small single-bladed axe in his right hand.