Echoes of the Great Song

by David Gemmell

  “Something I have said amuses you, cousin?” enquired the councillor.

  “My apologies, cousin. I was merely enjoying your rhetoric.” Viruk gave him a dazzling smile.

  Caprishan returned it, then concentrated once more upon his speech. There were thirty councillors present around the table and two Avatar scribes taking notes. Viruk scanned the faces as they listened to Caprishan. The fat man was very rich and this had earned him many friends. At least eight of the listening dignitaries would vote for anything Caprishan proposed. Viruk flicked his gaze to his right where the slender Niclin sat, his chin resting on his steepled hands, his receding hair brushed fiercely back and bound by silver wire into a ponytail. He was also a man of power, with perhaps ten councillors upon whose votes he could rely. Three seats down from him sat Questor Ro. Almost as rich as Caprishan, and as cunning as Niclin, he should have enjoyed wide support. This was not forthcoming, for few Avatars liked his pomposity. Ro was a brilliant but cold man, with little understanding of human nature. Viruk liked him. Transferring his attention to Caprishan he listened to the conclusion of his speech.

  “The point I would make, most strongly, is that if Anu is correct that these newcomers are Avatars then we should welcome them warmly. Together we can ensure Avatar rule for centuries to come. Through our shared knowledge we might even advance our civilization.”

  The Questor General rose. “That would depend, cousin, on whether they perceive themselves as our equals or our betters.”

  “We have no betters, Questor General,” put in Niclin.

  “That may well also be their view,” replied Rael. “However, we cannot adequately prepare a plan of action before we know whether or not the new arrivals are hostile. In the meantime I have ordered the recharging of every zhi-bow and an increase in recruitment for the Vagar army. But now let us move on to happier tidings, the triumphant return of our cousin Ro. As you will all have heard, he succeeded in recharging four chests. Hence the bright lights which surround us, and the replenishing of our weaponry.” Turning to Ro he gave a slight bow. “Perhaps you would like to tell us of the expedition.”

  To Viruk’s surprise Ro’s speech was not pompous. It was short and succinct. The expedition had succeeded—just—but no further voyages would yield results. There were two reasons for this: one, the volcanic eruption had destroyed the Line, and two, far more importantly, the White Pyramid was all but exhausted. Ro did not mention the fight with the krals, nor point out to the councillors that many of them had doubted his ability to achieve Communion. It was a strangely muted speech, and took them all by surprise.

  When he sat down there was, at first, silence. Rael gave him a curious glance, then rose to applaud him. The other councillors followed suit. Ro sat impassively throughout. As the applause died down Rael motioned Talaban to give his report. The officer spoke from his seat: “I cannot add much to the statement offered by the esteemed Questor. There was loss of life among the Vagar team, following an attack by creatures known as krals. These were beaten back by the efforts of Questor Ro, my scout Touchstone, and myself. The voyage home was largely without incident, save for the phenomenon of the two moons. I concur with Questor Ro that future voyages to the south would not be advisable. The eruption was colossal and the chance of finding another Line there are remote indeed.

  “However, thanks to his persistence and vision we now have a Serpent under full power. I would suggest her power chest be left in place. We know that the new Avatars will be crossing the ocean. We can only assume that their ships will be powered in a similar fashion to our own. I believe it would be a mistake to have no means of fighting them at sea.”

  “I disagree,” said Niclin. “We have a mere four chests. One, I understand, has been offered to Anu for purposes the Questor General has not made clear. Another is being used to power the city’s weapons. Now you want a third left in the bowels of a ship, which could be sunk in battle. No! I say the chests should be brought into the city where they can be guarded. They are too valuable to risk.”

  “With respect, councillor,” said Talaban, with a friendly smile, “I think you are forgetting the importance of a show of power. If these newcomers are anything like us they will be arrogant and convinced of their superiority and divine right to rule. Think of what might have happened had we somehow escaped the fall of the world, our empire almost intact, our capital city undamaged. We would have sailed our Serpents across the new oceans, seeking other races, and subduing them, as we have always done. And let us imagine we found a race similar to our own, save that they had no sources of power left to them, and boasted no ships, no armies, no real means of defense. Would we have welcomed them like brothers? I think not. The newcomers will not know, at first, that we have only one Serpent. They should see her in her battle glory. Then perhaps they will think of us as equals.”

  “I agree with Talaban,” said Questor Ro. “His analogy is a good one. We are arrogant—as indeed we have every right to be. But we are facing unknown dangers here. The Serpent should be battle ready—though we can pray she is not needed.”

  “Perhaps we should vote on the question,” said Niclin.

  “No vote is required,” put in Rael. “This is a military decision, and that makes it mine alone. The chest will remain—for the time being—in the Serpent.”

  Niclin raised his hand. “As you will, Rael, but before we move on, may I ask a question, captain … is it true that you struck Questor Ro while upon the ice? Struck him in full view of watching Vagars?”

  Viruk had heard no such rumor and was fascinated. He glanced at Talaban and saw his expression harden. “The Questor and I fought the krals,” said Talaban, “and then there followed the eruption. I ran to help the Questor and he stumbled as the earth cracked open. I caught him. I fail to see how that constitutes a blow, but then perhaps it looked like one from afar.”

  “You are saying then that you did not strike him?”

  Viruk noted the captain’s hesitation as the question was put. “Surely,” said Talaban, “that would be better asked of the Questor himself. But I would be interested to know the origin of this … bizarre tale.”

  “A seaman from your vessel told it to his friends in an ale house,” said Niclin. “Happily he was speaking loud enough to be heard by an officer of the Watch. He was arrested, questioned and crystal-drawn at dusk. Other members of the crew are now under interrogation. If necessary they will all be crystal-drawn.”

  “I think I prefer the word murdered,” said Talaban, coldly. “And that is not going to happen. They will be released instantly.”

  “That is not your decision,” said Niclin. The councillor’s face was reddening. Viruk smiled. The man was struggling to hold his temper.

  “No, the decision is mine,” said Rael firmly. “Does anyone else have anything to add?”

  “Surely, Questor General,” said fat Caprishan, “we should ask Questor Ro to confirm or deny the veracity of the tale. If it is true then all the Vagar crew should be crystal-drawn forthwith.”

  “The point is well made, cousin, and I thank you for it,” said Rael. He turned towards Ro, gesturing for him to speak.

  Questor Ro was silent for a moment, then he glanced at Talaban. “The captain saved my life upon the ice. Without him I would have been dead. That, I think you will find, is what it says in my report. I have nothing to add.”

  “Let the sailors be freed,” said Rael. “Now, let us move on. Most of you will know by now of the timely demise of Judon of the Patiakes. I believe his death has averted any immediate threat of revolt. But we are facing other problems from within. There is a group within the five cities calling themselves Pajists. They were responsible for the death of Questor Baliel and are also believed to be behind the attacks on prominent Vagar citizens who show great loyalty to our rule. We are currently hunting down the leaders, but be advised, my friends, we are in great danger. I want no councillor to travel the city without guards, and a greater security must be maintained in o
ur homes and our places of work. I myself questioned three men. Even under torture they would not divulge the names of their leaders. But we did learn that the attacks would escalate.”

  “How is this group financed?” asked Caprishan. “Do we know?”

  “Not yet,” said Rael, “but it is safe to assume they are receiving aid from the Erek-jhip-zhonad.”

  “You want me to kill their king?” asked Viruk.

  “Not yet, cousin. We have enough enemies for now. At this stage we must be careful. Attacks upon Avatars must not succeed. We rule a hostile population. Once they begin to perceive us not as lords but as targets …” He did not finish the sentence.

  “These people must be found—and quickly,” said Niclin.

  “They will be,” Rael promised. “We are currently hunting a tribesman we believe is a courier. He is a very old white-haired man, and he travels with a young golden-haired child. Our information is that he brings instructions to the group, as well as gold to finance them. He poses as a merchant and our agents are scouring the city for him. When we find him we will find the leaders.”

  “What kind of merchant?” asked Viruk, his good humor evaporating. He knew the answer before Rael spoke.

  “He peddles wine, I understand,” said the Questor General.

  First instincts, thought Viruk, are always the best. I should have cut the old man’s throat. He sighed. The day was blighted now and nothing would rescue it. He leaned back in his chair, trying to look interested as the talk turned to tax revenue and collection. He glanced across at Talaban. Was he enjoying the meeting, he wondered? Or was he as bored as Viruk himself?

  There was no way to tell. Talaban’s dark features were impassive, his concentration fixed on the speaker. Viruk’s gaze drifted to Caprishan, who was explaining the problems of gathering tribal duties. His many chins wobbled as he spoke, and sweat was trickling down his face. Viruk watched a rivulet reach the chins then flow along one of the creases. He stifled a yawn.

  By the time the meeting ended he would cheerfully have strangled everyone present. Rael offered them all refreshments, but Viruk declined and left the palace, setting off on foot for his home. It was more than a mile, but the night was pleasantly fresh, the air cool on his face. Unlike the others, he hoped the new Avatars would prove hostile. Perhaps then he would find enemies worthy of his talents.

  He had enjoyed killing the fat king, watching the zhi-bolt explode into his back, spraying blood and bone across the pretty flowers. Ah yes, he thought, the flowers. What did they say the name was …? Star petals? Star blooms? No. Sky stars. That was it. Delightful plants. He could still remember the scent, delicate and light. Tomorrow he would tell Kale about them and have them planted close to his bedroom window.

  Viruk strolled on along the wide avenue then cut to the right along the narrow Street of Sawyers. No one was working at this hour, but he could still make out the musty smell of the fresh cut timbers. The street was dark and Viruk’s foot squelched down on a pile of horse dung. A foul stench filled the air. Viruk was about to scrape the sole of his boot when he heard a whisper of movement from behind. He spun on his heel. Moonlight glinted on a knife blade. Blocking the blow with his forearm he slammed his fist into his attacker’s jaw. The knifeman stumbled and fell. Viruk leapt to his right as a second attacker materialized from a nearby alley. This one held a sword. Viruk backed away. “Have you mistaken me for someone else?” he asked, his voice, as always, amiable.

  “We know who you are,” said the swordsman, advancing slowly. He was dressed in dark clothing and a scarf was drawn about the lower half of his face. The knifeman was on his feet now, moving crab-like to Viruk’s right. “You are Viruk the Killer,” continued the swordsman. “Viruk the Insane.”

  “Insane? That is very rude,” Viruk told him. “I think I shall kill you with your own sword.”

  The knifeman hurled himself forward. Viruk stepped in to meet him, swaying aside from a clumsy lunge and hammering his elbow into the man’s face. With a strangled cry the man staggered back. The swordsman sent a vicious cut toward Viruk’s head. The Avatar ducked under it, then launched himself in a flying dive, his shoulder thudding into the man’s belly and pitching him from his feet. They hit the ground hard. Viruk reared up and struck the swordsman three times in the face, then grabbed his hair and slammed his head against the road twice. The swordsman groaned. Viruk pushed himself to his feet, and wrenched the sword from the man’s hand. “Pitiful,” said Viruk. “Truly pitiful.”

  Spinning he sent the blade slashing through the air—and into the neck of the knifeman, who was creeping up behind him. The blade sliced through skin and tendon, smashing the vertebrae and slicing through both jugular veins. The man’s head flopped to the right and his legs buckled.

  The swordsman had struggled to his knees. “No!” he cried, as his friend died.

  “No?” queried Viruk. “The time for saying no was before you attempted this ridiculous assault. I wouldn’t mind—save for the fact that you knew who I was. You have no idea how insulting that is. I mean, two of you!” Crouching down before the kneeling man he reached out and dragged the scarf clear. The face he saw was young, barely out of his teens. “I take it you are Pajists,” said Viruk.

  The youngster nodded, then a gleam came into his eyes. “Yes. And proud to die for the cause. I may not have been good enough to kill you—but one day someone will. Kill you and all your foul kind.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Viruk. “Now why don’t you tell me the names of those who sent you?”

  “Never!”

  “That’s what I thought,” Viruk told him with a wide smile. “It does make matters so much more simple.” With one sudden move he swept the sword up and plunged it into the young man’s belly with such force that the blade penetrated his back. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” said Viruk. The swordsman screamed and sagged forward into the arms of his killer. Viruk kissed his cheek and pushed him away.

  Rising, he remembered his soiled boot. Wiping it clean on the clothing of the dying man he made his way back to the palace to report the attack.

  The Questor General sent a squad of soldiers to the spot, but by the time they arrived the bodies had been spirited away.

  “What do you remember about them?” Rael asked Viruk, who was sponging blood from his black silk shirt.

  “They were young and not very skillful,” said Viruk. “But they were waiting for me. One of them said as much. Called me Viruk the Killer. I can’t believe they sent only two. Do you think they were trying to annoy me?”

  “They didn’t send only two,” said Talaban, moving forward. “Someone else was close by. Otherwise they would have had no time to remove the bodies.”

  “Ah,” said Viruk. “That’s more like it. They sent three—but one of them was a coward. Even so, three is still somewhat of an insult.”

  “You were unarmed, Viruk,” Rael pointed out. “They probably thought three would be enough.”

  “I expect you are right,” said Viruk. “Can you still see blood on the shirt?”

  “I think it is gone,” Rael told him. “Now, can you think of anything else? Anything at all?”

  Viruk thought about the question, picturing the events once more. “No,” he said at last. “They came at me from the darkness. It was all over very quickly.”

  “Then get home and rest, cousin,” said Rael. “And this time take a sword.”

  “He is a fool,” said Talaban, after Viruk had gone. “Had he kept the swordsman alive we could have questioned him.”

  “As he said, they came from the darkness,” Rael pointed out.

  Talaban shook his head. “He was unarmed. He took the swordsman’s blade and killed the knifeman. That left the swordsman unarmed. He could have captured him.”

  “I know that!” snapped Rael. “But Viruk is not a thinker. He likes to kill. That is his talent, and his obsession. But if we are speaking of fools, Talaban, let us review your report to the meeting. Was it your intention to cre
ate enemies here? You spoke of arrogance, and your summation of Avatar characteristics was offensive. How did you put it? If these newcomers are anything like us they will be arrogant and convinced of their superiority and divine right to rule. Because of that you angered Niclin and he sought to have your crew put to death. Had Questor Ro not supported you it would have happened.”

  “I merely spoke the truth,” said Talaban.

  “Pah! The truth. Why is it that men always believe the truth is like a single crystal, hard and unchanging? What you perceive as arrogance, others see as pride. You want the truth? You cannot have it, for it is based on perception, like a beautiful woman. Where one man sees a whore, another sees an angel. When you spoke of our arrogance the Council looked at you, and what did they see? A man who despises his own people, perhaps.”

  “That is not true!” stormed Talaban.

  “There you go with the truth again. What is it you mean? That Niclin does not see it as true, or that you do not see it as true?” He held up his hand as Talaban tried to answer. “It does not matter. What they observe is a man who eschews the look of an Avatar. Where is the blue in his hair? Why does he not want to look like one of us? Is he ashamed? Or is it that he knows he is a Vagar? Are the stories about his mother true? And here we come to the word ‘truth’ again. Well let me tell you, I am sick of other men’s truth!

  “Do not misunderstand me, Talaban. I value you highly, which is why I support you, but you must realize that we are a race under siege. We live with the constant threat of extinction. Such a situation breeds paranoia.”

  “You are right,” said Talaban softly. “I do despise what we have become. Once we ruled the world. Now we are parasites, sucking the blood from the Vagars. We contribute little.”