Echoes of the Great Song

by David Gemmell

  Then he built a small fire within a group of boulders and sat watching the sunset.

  “Aren’t you a little old to be siring children?”

  Boru stroked his white beard, and felt the gnawing ache of arthritis in his bones. Shori was seven. He would not live to see her grow into a young woman, would not be there as she tossed the grain and swung the veil. Bitterness touched him then, but he pushed it aside.

  He had been twenty-three years of age when the Avatars captured him, following the revolt. He and 200 others had been taken in chains to Pagaru, the second city. There they were put on trial. Boru had never been inside a city, and the scale of the buildings had, for a brief moment, swamped his fears for his life. There were wide paved streets and columned temples. There was a marketplace, with shops and taverns, and at the center an intricately fashioned fountain, with a jet of water rising thirty feet. Boru was from the desert where water was revered, and he gazed from the prison cart with reverence at the gushing fountain.

  The courtroom was also impressive, and two Avatar magistrates sat high upon a carved dais looking down at the prisoners, who were brought in ten at a time. Boru found himself standing next to Fyal the Baker’s son. The two had been friends since childhood and they exchanged glances. Boru whispered, “What will they do?” Fyal shrugged.

  One of the magistrates, a slender man with shoulder-length blue hair, leaned forward. He was wearing a gown of shimmering crimson and upon his head was a skull-cap of silver inset with runes.

  “You men,” he said, his voice somber, “have been accused of crimes against the empire, to wit”—he glanced down at a scroll on the desk before him—“taking part in an unlawful gathering, being in possession of swords and other weapons, and of making an assault on a government building in the village of Asep.” His pale eyes fastened on the men in chains. “One of you will speak in answer to these charges. You!” His skinny finger pointed at Boru. “You will speak for yourself and your comrades.”

  “What would you have me say?” asked Boru. “We do not accept your laws. You sent armed men into our ancestral lands and declared them under your control. We resisted. We continue to resist. We will always resist. How could we be men otherwise?”

  “This then is your defense?” asked the second magistrate, a bald man with a forked blue beard. “You claim your rights are superior to those of the Avatar? We have brought you learning and law. We have supplied the means by which you can avoid starvation. And you repay these gifts with acts of savagery and attempted murder.”

  “Your gifts were unwanted,” said Boru. “You imposed them upon us. And we slew no one. Nor was that ever our intention. The Avatar in our village was captured and held—despite him killing three of our comrades. The Banis-baya have always been a people of the land. We have never been warriors or killers. We are free men.”

  “You are not free, little man,” said the second magistrate. “You are servants of the Avatar. And you are disobedient servants. I found your defense lacking and non-persuasive. Your friends will lose their lives. You, as is our custom, as the speaker for the condemned, will not die. The sentence upon you is thirty years. Take them away.”

  The men were led from the courtroom and into a long corridor. An Avatar guard took Boru by the arm and led him through a side door into a long narrow room with bench seats. “Sit down,” said the guard. “You will wait here until your name is called. Then I will come for you.”

  Stunned by the sentence, Boru had not resisted. As the day wore on another ten men were brought in to sit with him. Boru knew each of them well, but no one spoke. The scale of the calamity which had befallen the Banis-baya was too great for conversation.

  By mid-afternoon three of the men had been led away. As dusk settled they came for Boru.

  He followed the two guards to a circular room. There were three Avatars there, each wearing blue silk robes. At the center of the room was a stone sarcophagus filled with green crystals which shimmered in the lantern light.

  “Remove his chains,” ordered one of the blue-clad lords.

  As they fell away Boru straightened. He was young, and tall and strong, his hair the color of ripening corn. “Climb into the sarcophagus,” ordered an Avatar.

  “What is happening here?” he asked them.

  “Do as you are told. This will not last long and you will be free to go within the hour.”

  “Free? But I was sentenced to thirty years.”

  Two of the guards took him by the arms and led him towards the glittering crystals. Shrugging them off, he climbed the sarcophagus and sat upon it. “Lie down upon the crystals,” came the order. Boru did so. The men moved back. He could feel the gems digging into his skin. “Close your eyes,” they ordered him. This order he also accepted. Bright lights played painfully upon his eyelids and he felt sickness rise in his belly. Then he passed out.

  Some time later—it could have been an hour or a day—he awoke. The two Avatar guards hauled him from the sarcophagus and led him, without chains, back into the corridor, along past the courtroom and out into the light of day. “Go back to your home,” they told him.

  Confused, he had wandered down the courtroom steps into the fountain square. By the time he reached it he was tired, which was surprising, since it was only a short walk. He sat down on the marble wall of the fountain and felt the cool spray from the column of water. As he sat he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

  Then the shock hit him. His arms were skinny, the flesh gone, the skin wrinkled and dry.

  A young woman approached him. “Are you all right, old one?” she asked, laying a hand on his bony shoulder.

  “I am a young man,” he said, his voice grating.

  She glanced nervously back at the court building. “I am sorry,” she said. Then she hurried away.

  Thirty years they had taken.

  The twenty-five-year-old Boru sat by the stream, holding out his skinny fingers to the blaze, and thought of the Avatar sleeping in his wagon.

  “I will see you fall,” he promised himself. “All of you.”

  Viruk awoke with a start. He had not intended to sleep so deeply. He rolled to his side. Someone had covered him with a blanket, which was thoughtful, for the night air was chill. Then he remembered the old man. It was so good to find sub-humans who understood respect. Viruk sat up. As he did the golden-haired child stirred beside him. But she did not wake. Viruk climbed over the side of the wagon and saw the old man sitting by a small fire.

  The stars were bright in the sky and the moon shone full. “I trust you slept well, lord,” said the man.

  “I did indeed. Where are we?”

  “I should reach Egaru around noon tomorrow, lord. But if you ride early you will be there soon after sun-up. I have fed the pony with grain, but it is still tired. It will not, I fear, carry you fast.”

  “What is your name, tribesman?”

  “Boru, lord.”

  “You have been kind to me. I appreciate such courtesies.”

  “It was nothing, lord. It was a pleasure to have been of service.”

  “I am sure that it was,” agreed Viruk. He clapped the old man on the shoulder. “I like you, Boru. I shall give you a gift.” Viruk drew his green crystal from its pouch and touched it to Boru’s chest. The old man stiffened in fear. “There is no harm being done to you,” said Viruk. Boru felt the arthritic ache in his back and arms subside. “There,” said Viruk, at last. “You are ten years younger. Use the years wisely,” he said, with a smile.

  Boru stood and bowed. “My thanks to you, lord,” he said.

  “It was nothing.” He stared closely into Boru’s face. “There is some yellow in your beard now. And your hair is thicker. Perhaps you gained a little more than ten years. I am not greatly adept at using these crystals on sub-humans. Still … enjoy!”

  “I will, lord. I cannot thank you enough.”

  “That’s true,” said Viruk, with a broad smile. “And now I must be on my way.”


  Moving to the pony Viruk vaulted into the saddle. Without a backward glance he rode towards the west.

  It was pleasant to be a god.

  Boru had been quite right. The pony was still tired. Anxious to be back in Egaru Viruk used crystal energy upon it. The little horse was immediately invigorated and Viruk kicked it into a gallop. The beast died within half a mile of the city gates. As it collapsed under him Viruk jumped clear, landing lightly on his feet. It was an oddity of the crystals that they could not bring genuine strength to four-footed animals. They acted upon them like short-lived stimulants. Viruk was annoyed that the pony had not lasted a little longer.

  Once back at his home one of his servants informed him that the Questor General was eager to see him. Viruk bathed and changed his clothes, then rode to Rael’s palace.

  The Questor General was in the high study, poring over maps and scrolls when Viruk entered. Rael wasted no time in pleasantries. “Judon of the Patiakes has called a gathering at Ren-el-gan,” he said. “He seeks to bind the tribes under his leadership and storm the cities. Change his mind.”

  “My pleasure, sir,” said Viruk.

  Rael pushed back the maps and stood. “I understand you found the raiders and dispatched them. That was good. What was not good was sending that message to Ammon. One can only hope the messenger was sensible enough to disobey you.”

  Viruk shrugged. “What does it matter? We’ll have to fight them eventually.”

  “Ideally it will be when Talaban returns with the recharged chests.”

  “Questor Ro succeeded? There’s a surprise. A nice one, admittedly.”

  “It is double-edged,” said Rael. “They have four chests charged, one lost and one still empty. Worse news is that a volcanic upheaval destroyed the site, and unless we find another we will be powerless within a few more years.”

  “Much can happen in a few years,” said Viruk. “But tell me, sir, how you wish Judon’s mind changed?”

  “In whatever way suits you,” snapped the General.

  “Consider it done.”

  “I do,” said Rael. “You will need a fast horse and there is none faster than my own Pakal. Treat him well. I want him back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now make your report about the raiders—and leave nothing out.”

  Viruk did so, down to ordering the death of the headman. When he had concluded, Rael walked around the desk and sat back upon it, directly in front of the officer.

  “I have had a complaint that you raped a village woman.”

  “I’d hardly call it rape. I was tired and somewhat tense so I sent for one of the village whores. The new headman, Bekar, had her brought to me.”

  “The race laws are specific, Viruk,” said Rael. “There is to be no cohabiting with lesser orders. You know this perfectly well.”

  “I know she was soft and sweet and yielding. But it is not as if I married her. I merely rode her for a while.”

  “The Council will call for your censure and—if she falls pregnant—her death.”

  “I have been censured before. It is not a problem.”

  Rael took a deep breath. “It is not a problem because I protect you. But does it not concern you that every time you yield to your desires a Vagar woman risks death for them?”

  “Why should it concern me? Vagars die all the time.”

  Rael shook his head. “There is no point to this discussion. Go and deal with Judon. And make sure there are live witnesses.”

  Touchstone’s recovery was not swift. Talaban’s crystal had healed his broken ribs, and he had offered to do the same for the wounds caused by the talons of the kral, but Touchstone refused. The scars were those of battle, and thus to be treasured, as indeed was the pain of the wounds, for this pain showed that his enemy had been powerful, and he had stood against it. Admittedly he had not killed the beast, but he had faced it. Suryet would be proud of him.

  “How are you feeling?” Talaban asked him on the morning of the fourth day.

  “Good. Strong,” lied Touchstone. He had a rising fever and one of the scars was weeping pus.

  “Show me the wounds.”

  “They heal quick.”

  “Show me anyway.” With a grunt of pain Touchstone lifted his shirt. “I shall remove the infection,” said Talaban. “But do not be concerned. The scars will remain.” Lightly he touched the crystal to the angry wound. Touchstone felt the inflammation die away.

  “Strong magic,” said Touchstone.

  “Not magic at all, my friend. A long time ago we discovered a link between such crystals and health. We merely refined it and found a way to increase the power through the strength of our minds.”

  “Long ago,” said Touchstone. “Always long ago.”

  Tucking his shirt into his leggings he moved across the small cabin and poured himself a cup of water. “The meaning of your words is lost on me,” said Talaban.

  “Everything long ago. Magic tower. Long ago. Ships of wonder. Long ago. What you achieve now?”

  Talaban looked thoughtful and did not speak for a moment. “Now we survive,” he said finally. “The last of our great men of learning chose to age and die. There is no one now who understands the mysteries of the past. I don’t know why.”

  “You not survive, captain. Your day almost gone. Sunset. You come with me. West. Find new home. Teach my people magic stones.”

  Talaban rose. “You rest today,” he said. Then he left.

  After he had gone Touchstone ate a little dried meat then left the cabin and climbed to the middle deck. Here he leaned upon the rail, watching the dolphins racing alongside the ship. He had always enjoyed the antics of the Osnu, the people of the sea. Sometimes back home when he had swum out into the warm waters of the bay they had surfaced alongside him, leaping and diving, always friendly.

  “Strange creatures,” said the Vagar sergeant Methras, moving alongside him. Touchstone glanced up at the tall balding soldier. He liked Methras, sensing in the man a striking loneliness that matched his own.

  “Not strange,” he said. “Magic are the Osnu. Great healers.”

  “A fish that heals? Hard to believe.”

  “These eyes see it,” said Touchstone. “Child born, grow, no talk. Sit. Stare. Shaman he call the Osnu. They came.”

  “Wait a moment, Touchstone,” said Methras with a smile. “I understood the part about the child. But how did the Shaman call the dolphins?”

  “He stood on clifftop. Make chant. Light singing smoke fire. Dusk they came. Twenty Osnu. All the way to shallow water. Shaman he carry child out to them. Then Osnu spoke. High sing-song. No words. Shaman take child. Put him in water, hands clasped on Osnu fin. Osnu swim around bay, pull laughing child with him. That day child spoke. Osnu magic.”

  “And this you saw? Truly?”

  “These eyes saw. Osnu magic.”

  “Good magic,” agreed Methras, and together they leaned on the rail and watched the dolphins in silence. After a while Methras straightened. “One day I would like to swim with them,” he said sadly.

  “They heal you too,” Touchstone told him.

  “I don’t need healing.”

  Touchstone shook his head. Reaching out he placed his hand on the soldier’s chest. “Empty place here. Need filling,” said Touchstone.

  “You see too much, my friend,” said Methras. Then he turned and was gone.

  A great black and white shape crested the waves. The dolphins scattered. The killer whale dived after them.

  “You catch nothing today,” whispered Touchstone.

  The sun dipped low on the western horizon, sinking fast into a blood-red sea. As darkness fell the ship’s lights came on. Touchstone cursed. The globes were unnatural. They disturbed his spirit.

  Closing his eyes against the brightness he sang the song of the Osnu, his voice rich and deep.

  Chapter Eleven

  There was little about Ren-el-gan to suggest its importance to the tribes. A flat area of sandy deser
t overshadowed by high mountains, its only man-made structure was a well wall constructed of sandstone blocks. A bucket stood on the wall, a slender rope tied to its handle and fastened to the lych pole above the well. There were no statues, no monuments, no inscriptions carved into the rock faces close by.

  Yet it was here that the tribes came for the Gathering. Here, to the Well of Life, from which the Source of All Creation had produced the water that softened the clay, and molded the body of the first man.

  Ren-el-gan was a holy place. Blood was not spilt here.

  To the east lay the Dream Desert, vast and largely uninhabitable. In the heat of summer the desert floor would leach all moisture from a man in less than a day, and kill a horse within two. And every year it grew. To the south lay the once-verdant river valleys of the Patiakes, the Goat People. To the north, across the mountains, the lands of the Erek-jhip-zhonad and a score of lesser tribes stretched for almost 700 miles.

  But it was to the west that the eyes of the tribes were turned. The rich cities of the seashore filled their minds, liberating their imaginations. As the desert slowly sucked the life out of their lands the tribes looked to the rich grasslands around the cities as the answer to their growing problems. If the cities were under their sway all the riches of the Avatars would be theirs. No longer would they worry about the spring rain and the vanishing grass. Instead they would own fine houses and perhaps, like the Avatars, learn the secret of perpetual youth.

  A half-mile from the Well of Life, under a silken canopy, Judon of the Patiakes sat on a huge, ornate throne, his vast bulk filling the seat, his fat silk-clad body squeezing the softness from the cushions beneath and behind him. On either side of the throne stood his two bodyguards, large men with cold eyes. Before him, on rugs set upon the ground, sat the leaders of eighteen major tribes.