Echoes of the Great Song Page 6

  A Vagar, working some 20 paces away, suddenly screamed and staggered to his left. Blood was pumping from a huge wound where his left arm had been. He lurched to his right, and then it seemed to Touchstone that the snow reared up and covered him. Touchstone hefted his axe and began to back away towards Talaban.

  A huge form reared up at Touchstone. It was white, with long arms and a gray face. Touchstone saw sharp fangs in its maw, and terrible talons on the ends of its fingers. The tribesman threw himself to his left, hitting the snow with his shoulder and rolling to his feet. The beast was fast and bore down upon him again. A bolt of light struck it in the white fur of its chest. There was a flash and a huge hole opened in the beast, spraying blood and bone to the snow. More krals came running through the blizzard. Touchstone spun and sprinted back to where Talaban was standing calmly sending bolt after bolt into the beasts.

  The panicking Vagars were running in all directions. Questor Ro drew his golden scepter and stepped up alongside Talaban. Touchstone glanced at him. The little man showed no fear. Touchstone’s respect for him rose a little.

  Three of the beasts charged forward. Talaban shot the first, the bolt hurling the creature back through the air. The second was almost upon him but Touchstone threw himself at it, ducking under the sweep of a taloned arm and hammering his axe into the beast’s face. The blade sank deep. The kral staggered, then sent a crushing blow to the tribesman’s side. His axe wrenched from his hand, Touchstone flew through the air, landing heavily.

  Talaban shot the creature just as the third beast reared over him, but Questor Ro thrust forward his scepter, straight into its belly. Blue flame blossomed around the kral and its huge grey head exploded, fire bursting up from its shaggy neck.

  Down by the waterside four of the creatures were slashing their talons into the bodies of dead Vagars. Talaban shot the first two. The others hooked their talons into two corpses, dragging them into the sea before disappearing below the water.

  Touchstone struggled to his feet. His shirt was blood-drenched and he felt dizzy and faint. Stumbling to Talaban and Questor Ro he dragged his axe from the head of the dead kral.

  The ground moved beneath his feet and he almost fell. At first he thought it was merely dizziness that had thrown him, but then he saw that Questor Ro had also stumbled.

  “Get … to ship … or all die,” he told Talaban. “Pillar of fire coming. Kill all.”

  Talaban helped him down to the water’s edge. Only five Vagars remained alive. Talaban ordered them into the longboat, then helped Touchstone over the side. “Got to be fast,” said Touchstone.

  Talaban tossed his zhi-bow into the boat then glanced back to where Questor Ro was still trying to dismantle the wire from the pyramids. He ran back to the little man. “There is no time, Questor,” he shouted. Ro ignored him. The ground heaved beneath them, throwing Talaban to the ice. Rising he moved behind Questor Ro, grabbing the man by his fur cloak and dragging him back. Instinctively Ro brought up his scepter. Talaban blocked it with his left arm then slammed a right cross to the man’s chin. Ro slumped to the ice. Talaban hauled him up, throwing him over his shoulder. Then he gathered the scepter and made his way to the boat.

  It glided across the bay. Still panic-stricken, the Vagars scrambled up the rope ladder ahead of Talaban. Touchstone followed, moving slowly and painfully. Talaban tied ropes fore and aft then, carrying Questor Ro, hauled himself up over the central deck. Dumping the little man on the floor he ordered the waiting sailors to weight anchor and climbed to the upper deck and the control cabin.

  Placing his hand on the triangular gold plate set into the dark wood he twisted it to the left. Below the plate were seven symbols. A dull rumbling sounded from the glacier. Talaban did not look back at it. He lightly pressed the five symbols that controlled the lock and the door opened. Without pausing to close the door Talaban moved to a long black cabinet against the far wall. This too had a golden triangle, and Talaban opened it, his fingers flicking swiftly over the symbols within. The door opened. Inside was a long shelf covered by a glittering sheet of mica, with seven indentations. A velvet bag had been laid upon it. Talaban opened the bag, tipping the seven crystals within it to the mica.

  A huge explosion came from the ice. Talaban glanced up. A colossal pillar of fire had erupted from the glacier, hurling massive chunks of ice into the air. Calmly he picked up a crystal and placed it in the third indentation on the mica. Instantly a faint blue light flowed around the ship. A boulder-sized lump of ice hurtled toward the deck, struck the blue light and bounced away. Talaban added two more crystals, replaced the others in the bag, then closed the lid. Red lava erupted from below the ice and the air became thick with steam. Molten rock struck the blue light and rolled down into the sea, like wine poured over the outside of a glass goblet. Talaban moved back to a large bronze wheel and spun it.

  The Serpent glided through the lava storm untouched, as ice and fire rained down upon the sea around it.

  • • •

  Questor Ro stood on the small port deck of his cabin watching the fire raging upon the distant glaciers. His jaw ached from where Talaban had struck him, but this was not the time to think of revenge. That could come later. All he could think of now were the six silver pyramids filled with precious gems, and the gold rods that drew on the power. Ro had paid for these himself, and they had cost him almost half his not inconsiderable fortune.

  Also there was the loss of the fifth chest. No one in the new empire could fashion them now, for the source of the special mica, found far across the western ocean, was closed to them.

  A huge spume of fire roared towards the sky and a thunderous explosion followed it. Ro moved back inside, closing the deck door and slumping down into his chair. He had succeeded beyond the wildest dreams of his enemies, but for him there was only a sick despair.

  What good were four chests if they could never be replenished? Their power would merely stave off the inevitable for a little while longer.

  Ro rubbed his jaw, then poured a drink into a beautifully cut crystal goblet. Ro stared at it. The crystal was clear and clean, and he saw his reflection in a score of the facets. Idly he tugged at his forked blue beard, then drained the liquor. Ro was not a drinker, and the fiery spirit surged through him with raw power.

  Resting his head on the high-backed chair he tried to plan a further expedition. In future they would have to journey closer to the center of power, traversing the ice. His heart sank, even as the thought came to him.

  Krals, saber-tooths and nomads would make such a journey almost impossible.

  Added to which, and this was the real reason for his despair, he knew now that the power of the White Pyramid was fading. Shielded from the sun it could no longer replenish its own energy, let alone power fresh chests.

  Ro was tempted to refill his goblet, but he did not. Instead he turned his mind to the problem of Talaban. There was little doubt that the captain had saved his life back on the ice. But this could not outweigh the fact that he had struck a Questor, in full view of the Vagar team and the savage Touchstone. Perhaps even some of the sailors had seen it.

  Had it just been the Vagars Ro could have sentenced them to death. But Talaban would never allow such a fate for Touchstone. It was a thorny problem.

  He was considering the possibilities for revenge when Talaban arrived. The captain entered without knocking, which was his right but nevertheless galling.

  “How are you feeling, Questor?” he asked.

  “I am well. Thank you for saving my life.”

  “May I sit?” This, at least, was courteous, and Questor Ro gestured for him to take a chair. “I congratulate you, sir,” said Talaban. “I did not have any faith in this venture, and you have proved me—and many others—wrong.”

  “A small success, captain. We lost one chest, and powered only four. But I thank you for your kind words. Did my Vagar team escape the eruption?”

  “Most were killed by the krals, but five escaped. They were c
oncerned for your health. They believed you had been struck down by the beasts.”

  “And you apprised them of the real situation?” asked Ro, mildly.

  “I did not. I merely told them you had fought the krals and suffered an injury, but that you would be well. It does no harm for the Vagars to see the rejuvenating powers of the Avatar.”

  “But your man Touchstone saw you strike me?”

  “No, Touchstone was badly injured by a kral. Six ribs were broken and his lung pierced. He was only semi-conscious when I carried you to the boat. I can assure you, Questor, that no one observed me strike you.”

  “Well, it is of no consequence, Talaban,” said Ro, forcing a smile.

  “I disagree, Questor. We are a minority people, and if the Vagars, or other tribes, witness us at odds with one another it would create an impression of weakness. I regret deeply the action I took but, as the alternative was to let you die, I felt I had no choice. However, on the more positive side, despite the loss of our equipment, the Vagars did witness you and me fighting the krals. They will carry the tale back to the cities, and further enhance the myth of Avatar superiority.”

  “Myth? Why do you say myth?”

  Talaban smiled. “We are merely men, Questor. No more than that. But we need the myth in order to rule.”

  Questor Ro was not surprised by Talaban’s heresy, but he feigned shock nonetheless. “You are losing your faith, Talaban. We were born to rule. And there is no question that we are superior to lesser beings. We are virtually immortal, and our knowledge is as far above theirs as they are above dogs.”

  “Precisely, Questor. Knowledge. That is all it comes down to in the end. We discovered the secrets of the sun’s power. They did not.”

  “And that, in itself, proves our superiority,” said Ro triumphantly. “I have lived with Vagars these last seventy years. I know what they are capable of. They can be loyal, and really quite bright. But they do not possess our insights. The Avatar is a different breed—a race apart. Take Viruk, for example. He embodies all that is strong in the Avatar.”

  Talaban fell silent. Ro met his level gaze. “Say what you are thinking, captain. Do you disagree?”

  Talaban smiled. “It is good to see you well, sir. I must attend to Touchstone.”

  Rising, he bowed low, then departed.

  Questor Ro sat at his desk for a while, thinking over the brief conversation. He had hoped Talaban would take the bait, and condemn Viruk. It would have been pleasant to have passed on the information to the Avatar warrior.

  They were such dissimilar men. Talaban so cool and in control, Viruk wild and dangerous.

  And quite insane.

  Chapter Six

  Of all the gods who walked the earth when the sun was young and not yet strong, the worst and best was Virkokka, the god of war. He dwelt within the Fire Mountain, dreaming dreams of death and pain. His face was fair, his manner calm, but those who saw his smile were those about to die. And on this day, when Virkokka left his place of fire, the world trembled, and all was changed forever.

  From the Evening Song of the Anajo

  Viruk lay very still, watching the riders as they moved out into the valley. There were thirty in the raiding group, and five wagons were being hauled slowly behind them. The wagons’ wheels were cutting deep grooves on the dirt road. The raiders have done well, thought Viruk. His pale grey gaze fastened on the lead rider. He wore a bright red cloak, with a brooch of yellow gold in the shape of a sunburst at the neck. His clothes were of gaudily dyed wool, and he wore loose-fitting leggings and wooden shoes. His beard had been covered in red wax and jutted from his chin like a blood-covered tongue, which identified him clearly as a nobleman of the Mud People. Viruk smiled. The full tribal name was Erek-jhip-zhonad, which Viruk—and most Avatars—found impossible to pronounce, and, in translation, the People of the Stars—too pompous to consider. Hence the derogatory title bestowed by the Council.

  The leader’s men were dressed more simply, boasting no golden brooches. They wore breastplates of stiffened leather and carried long spears. Their hair was caked in a mixture of red clay and wax, giving the impression of poorly designed helmets of pottery.

  Viruk glanced to his right. Outnumbered three to one, the ten Vagar archers awaited his command. To a man they all looked terrified. Viruk gave a tight smile and hefted his zhi-bow. It was black and unadorned, save for the two red crystals above the grip. Viruk had refashioned it himself. It seemed to him that the traditional zhi-bows were too complicated. Why have varying levels of power in the bolt? If a man was attacking you why merely knock him down and stun him, when you could rip out his chest and watch his blood spray out like a flower in bloom? Zhi-bows were meant to kill. And they did it beautifully.

  The riders were closer now and well within range. But Viruk gave no orders to the hidden Vagar archers under his command. Equipped with only traditional bows and knives the men were sick with dread as the riders approached.

  “Shoot when I do,” ordered Viruk. Then he rose to his feet and strolled down the hillside to meet the advancing raiders. He was a tall slender man, his long yellow hair dyed blue at the closely shaved temples, and he wore no armor, sporting only a shirt of light blue silk, black leather leggings and grey lizard-skin boots.

  The lead rider, a burly man, his face tanned nut-brown, drew on his reins and waited for Viruk to approach. His men hefted their spears and bunched alongside him, ready to charge.

  “You have strayed from your lands, Mud-man,” said Viruk, amiably. “In doing so you have disobeyed the General’s directive.”

  The rider grinned. His front teeth were made of gold. “Your power is failing, Avatar,” he said. “You cannot enforce your directives. Now give me your zhi-bow and I will let you live. I will send you back to your general with a message from the king, my brother.”

  “The king is your brother?” said Viruk, feigning surprise. “I suppose that makes you an important man among your people. A man not to be taken lightly. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I will send a message to the king, your brother.” His voice hardened, and his eyes grew more pale. “The survivors among your band can deliver it.” Lifting the bow he sent a bolt into the rider’s chest. It exploded with a fearsome sound, spraying blood and shards of bone over the other men. Terrified horses reared, pitching their riders. Viruk’s thin fingers danced upon the strings of light and four more bolts thundered into the milling riders. One man’s arm was torn clear of his body. Another’s head fell to the ground and rolled toward Viruk. The Avatar warrior kept shooting. One rider spurred his horse into a charge. Viruk shot the horse in the head, stopping it dead in its tracks. The rider flew over the headless neck, landing heavily. He scrambled up, but an arrow took him through the neck and he pitched to the ground.

  His Vagars had come from their hiding places now, and were sending a rain of shafts into the raiders. Within moments the massacre was over. The only living Mud People were the drivers of the five wagons. Viruk approached the terrified men, ordering them to climb down. They did so. The Avatar assembled them in a line.

  Tossing his zhi-bow to a startled Vagar he approached the first of the drivers. Placing his left hand on the man’s shoulder he leaned in close. “Such violence is dreadful, don’t you think?” he asked.

  “Yes … dreadful,” agreed the man.

  “Then you shouldn’t have come,” said Viruk, brightly, ramming a dagger deep into the man’s chest. The victim screamed and tried to drag himself back from his killer. But the blade pinned him. He died and sagged against Viruk. The Avatar patted the dead man’s cheek. “So nice to meet a man who doesn’t outstay his welcome,” he said. Dragging the knife clear he let the body drop. The other prisoners fell to their knees, and began to beg for mercy.

  “What I need,” said Viruk, “is a man who can remember a message. Can any of you sub-humans do that, do you think?”

  The men glanced at one another. One of them raised a hand. “Good,” said Viruk. “Follow me.”
Swinging away he glanced at the Vagar sergeant. “Kill the others,” he said.

  The remaining raiders scrambled to their feet and started to run. Three of them were cut down instantly, but the fourth was dodging and weaving and running so fast that none of the archers could hit him. “I don’t know,” said Viruk, laying his hand on the trembling prisoner’s shoulder. “They are supposed to be highly trained archers. But do you think any of them could hit a cow’s arse from five paces?” He shook his head. “Wait here.”

  Then he strolled back to the others, took up his zhi-bow and sent a light bolt through the man’s back at almost 200 paces.

  Returning to the survivor he gave an engaging smile. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.” The man was still wearing his sword. But he stood stock-still, his eyes fixed to Viruk’s pale gaze. “What are you staring at?” asked Viruk.

  “Nothing, lord. I was … just … awaiting your orders.”

  “Was he really the king’s brother?”

  “Indeed, lord.”

  “Baffling. But then I suppose it doesn’t take much to become royal among you sub-humans. Are you royal?”

  “No, lord. I am a potter by trade.”

  Viruk chuckled and draped his arm over the man’s neck. “It is always good to have a trade. Now, take your weapon,” he ordered him, “and cut off the head of the king’s brother. Then find yourself a horse and head for home.”

  “His head, lord? The king’s brother?”

  “The king’s dead brother,” Viruk corrected him. “Yes, the head. And be careful not to damage that ridiculous beard.” He hesitated and stared down at the dead man. “Why do they do that? What is the point of having a beard waxed so stiffly? I mean how does a man sleep with a beard like that?”

  “I don’t know, lord. Perhaps he sleeps on his back.”

  “I expect that’s it. Now, let us return to the task in hand. Cut off the head.”

  “Yes, lord.” The man drew his sword and struck four blows to the neck of the corpse. Still the head did not fall clear.