Echoes of the Great Song

by David Gemmell

  “Does it sadden you?”

  “No,” he told her. And was surprised to find that he meant it.

  “Good. I fear most Avatars will not agree with you. With no one being crystal-drawn your dreams of immortality will cease. You will grow old as other men.”

  “Not if Anu completes his pyramid,” he said. “It will draw power from the sun and feed the crystals without need of human sacrifice.”

  “Questor Anu is a great man,” she said. “But he will not finish his pyramid in time to save the cities of the east. That will be left to men like Rael and yourself.”

  Talaban nodded. “I accept that, lady.”

  “But something troubles you.”

  “Yes. You talk of helping us, but, from what you describe, this Almeia is more powerful than you. Her armies are stronger than any force we can muster. I do not see how we can win.”

  “In truth I do not know if we can,” she said. “But when faced with evil it is vital to oppose it, whether victory is achievable or not. And, for a while at least, my powers will continue to grow. Who knows what we might achieve? And now you must go and prepare for your meeting with the new council. Would you object if Touchstone remained here? He and I have much to talk about.”

  Talaban felt a twinge of jealousy. But he bowed and forced a smile.

  Ro walked him to the door. “She is an amazing woman,” said the little Questor.

  “Indeed she is.”

  As he left the house Ro took hold of his arm. “Do not let Rael deceive you, Talaban. There is no evil in her.”

  “Are you in love with her, Ro?”

  “With every fiber of my being.”

  Boru sat in the prison cell, his golden-haired daughter cuddled in close to him. “I don’t like it here. I want to go,” she said. He stroked her hair. So soft and fine, he thought, threads of lovingly woven sunlight.

  “We have to stay for a little while,” he said. “The door is locked.”

  “Why are we locked in?” she asked him.

  “Just rest, little one.”

  “I don’t want to rest. I want to go outside.”

  “Sometimes we can’t do what we want to do.”

  Boru cursed himself for a selfish fool. He had always known there was a chance he could be caught, but as each mission passed without incident he had become careless. For years now he had travelled between the cities, gathering information, passing messages between the Pajists and Anwar. And, in his arrogance, he had even started taking Shori on his trips. When the guards at the eastern gate had detained him he had still not realized it was over. But when they brought him here he knew the truth. The two of them were to die. And he was to blame. She stood up in his lap and tugged at his yellow and silver beard. “Don’t be sad,” she said.

  “I love you, little one, and I am sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry? Have you done something wrong?”

  “Yes. I should have left you with your aunt.”

  “But I like coming with you,” she said. “I like crossing rivers.”

  The door opened. Boru took a deep breath and, gathering Shori in his arms, he rose.

  Mejana stood there, two Avatar soldiers beside her. Boru blinked in surprise.

  “Bring him,” she said. Then she walked down the corridor and out of his sight. The guards stepped aside. Boru carried Shori out and along the corridor, then up a flight of stairs. Mejana walked ahead of him and did not say a word. Finally they came to a long room with a high, vaulted ceiling. Some thirty people were seated around a huge table. At least half were Avatars, but the rest were Vagars, many of whom Boru knew. They were Pajists. He stood transfixed, his brain numb. What was happening here?

  At the head of the table was a slim Avatar with piercing eyes and short-cropped blue hair. He rose and gestured Boru forward. A guard poked Boru in the back and he stumbled toward the table.

  “You are Boru, agent of Ammon?” asked the Avatar.

  “I am.”

  “You know some of the people here.”

  “No.”

  “It was not a question, Boru. It was a statement of fact. You are not being tricked, and the Vagars you see here are not prisoners. They are new members of the High Council. I am Rael, the Questor General.”

  “What do you want with me?” said Boru, his tone openly hostile.

  “Personally I would like to see you crystal-drawn, but that is no longer an option.”

  “It’s been done already, Avatar,” snapped Boru. “Thirty years you took.”

  Rael gave a humorless smile. “Do as you are bid and you could get them back.”

  “I will rot in seven hells before I serve you.” The angry words frightened Shori, and she began to cry.

  “I want to go! I want to go!” Boru hugged her and kissed her head.

  “It is all right. It is only a little argument,” said Boru. “It is not important.” Her crying subsided and Boru returned his attention to the Avatar. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “Ammon’s capital is under siege. A war has begun that could see us all enslaved. I have sent messengers to Ammon, offering him assistance. I want you to go to him and convince him to bring his warriors to Egaru. It is the natural center for defense.”

  “And for this you will return my youth?”

  “Yes.”

  Boru turned to Mejana, who was now sitting beside a Vagar merchant. “How is it that you live, woman?” he asked. “I know the blow was well struck.”

  “I was healed, you treacherous cur,” she told him icily. “Now, will you do as the Questor General requests, or will you have your head cut from your shoulders?”

  Boru grinned. “You may not believe it, Mejana, but I am glad you are alive. And it is fascinating seeing you all sitting down with the enemy. I suppose, ultimately, all life is compromise.” He swung toward Rael. “Very well, I will try to find Ammon. But know this: I am your enemy, and as long as blood flows in my veins I will remain so.”

  “A threat to bring me many sleepless nights,” said Rael, turning away. “Your wagon will be brought here presently. You may leave your daughter with the Lady Mejana.”

  “What? No! She comes with me.”

  Rael moved in close. “She will be safer here than on a battlefield, Boru. But if you would prefer I can have you both killed now, and find another messenger. Make your choice swiftly.”

  Boru was beaten and he knew it. He carried the child to where Mejana sat. “She is all that I love in this world,” he said.

  Mejana’s face softened. “No harm will befall her—whatever happens. This is my promise.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Anwar watched as the fireballs rained down on the capital then turned to the young king. “We must leave, highness. The royal guards will not be able to stop them.”

  Resplendent in a gown of brilliant blue satin edged with gold, the king swung towards him. “Where is my new army, Anwar? Where are my soldiers?”

  “They are training, my lord, in the hills to the north. But I fear even they would prove ineffectual against these … savages.”

  A fireball struck the side of the palace. A large section of painted plaster fell from the ceiling of the king’s bed-chamber. Dust filled the air. “I rather think now is the time, highness.”

  Ammon moved to the window and stared malevolently across at the golden ships. Three of them had come close to the shore. Copper-skinned warriors in golden armor were streaming down lowered gangplanks. Fifty of the king’s guards rushed at them. The enemy soldiers were carrying what looked like short black clubs. They held them to their shoulders. Fire spewed from them. The first line of guards were hurled from their feet. The remainder broke and ran.

  Hundreds of enemy warriors were ashore now. Ammon swung from the window.

  “Where would you have me go, my friend?”

  “I would suggest the opposite direction to that of the enemy, highness. And let us move now!”

  Anwar led the king through to the rear of the apa
rtments, down the narrow stairwell, and out to the servants’ entrance. A young slave was cowering below a kitchen window. Anwar called to him. “Come here, boy! Do it now!” The slave blinked nervously, then crept forward. “Remove your tunic. At once.” The boy lifted the drab grey cloth over his head and stood naked. Taking the tunic, Anwar gave it to the king. “Be so good as to put this on, highness,” he said.

  “You want me to dress in a rag?”

  “I want you to be alive at the day’s end, highness.”

  Ammon pulled the satin gown from his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. Then he donned the grey tunic. Anwar opened the side door and looked out. Refugees were streaming away from the city center. A fireball landed in their midst. Three men and a woman were lifted high into the air and dashed against the wall of the palace. Anwar moved out into the throng, closely followed by the young king. They flowed into the crowd, which surged towards the southern quarter of the city. Anwar linked his arm with the king. The old man was breathless now, his lungs burning, his legs weary. Ammon threw his arm around him and halfcarried him. Terrified screams broke out from the refugees ahead of the fleeing column. Huge beasts wearing black leather cross belts on their fur-covered chests had appeared from an alleyway. They were tearing into the refugees with fang and talon. The crowd panicked and began to run faster.

  Anwar saw an opening to an alleyway on the left and pulled Ammon into it. He no longer knew where he was, but he stumbled on. Ammon took him by the arm, pulling him to a halt. “Rest for a moment,” said the king. “You are exhausted.”

  Anwar shook his head and struggled to move on. The king held him. “You are too valuable to me, Anwar. If you keep this up you will have a seizure. Now let us walk.”

  “They were krals!” said Anwar. “I saw one once, while journeying south. It was dead. But it was huge and terrifying nonetheless.”

  Ammon gazed about him. The street was very narrow and human excrement had stained the road below the small windows. A rat moved out from a doorway and scuttled across Anwar’s foot. The old man jumped back. “You take me to the most interesting places,” remarked Ammon.

  More screams sounded from a parallel street. The king now led his councillor, moving swiftly to another alley, then cutting right into a deserted market square. A small child, little more than a year old, was sitting on the steps of a building. It was wailing loudly. Ammon swept it into his arms. “What are you doing?” cried Anwar.

  “Seems a shame to leave the mite,” said Ammon. “And he’s not heavy.”

  Anwar was lost for words. Had the king lost his senses? Had the attack on the capital unmanned him? “Let us move on, highness,” he said.

  At the next corner they rejoined the line of surviving refugees who were heading towards the southern gates. The king came to a halt. “What is it?” asked Anwar. They were on high ground now, and Ammon pointed to the land beyond the city walls. Enemy soldiers had fanned out across the gateways. The toddler, exhausted by his wailing, was now asleep on the king’s shoulder.

  “That’s what we should do,” said Ammon. “Find a place to sleep.”

  “They will search the city for you.”

  “Thirty-six thousand dwellings. That will take time.”

  Ammon swung left again and, holding the toddler close, moved back into the narrow lanes and alleys of the poorer quarter. Here there were people who had not run. Their clothes were rags, their faces filthy, their eyes devoid of emotion. Scabrous figures sat in open doorways and everywhere there was the stench of poverty. A stick-thin woman emerged to stand in front of Anwar. “You wants to pass through here, rich man? Well you can pay the toll.” She held out a filthy hand.

  “I am carrying no coin,” said Anwar.

  “Oh give her your ring, Anwar. I’ll buy you another.”

  “You listen to your pretty boy, old man,” said the woman, producing a small knife and holding it to Anwar’s throat.

  Holding the toddler in his left arm Ammon’s right hand flashed out, his slender fingers snapping around the woman’s wrist and twisting it. The knife clattered to the stone. Ammon picked it up and tossed it to the woman. “You do not seem too frightened by the invasion,” he said, conversationally.

  She rubbed her wrist. “What difference will it make to the likes of us? They won’t kill us. We’re nothing to them. Just as we’re nothing to the likes of you. Life will go on. Or it won’t.” She shrugged. “Now give me the ring!”

  “First you will take us to the village of potters.”

  The woman grinned, showing brown and broken teeth. “You want to have a vase made?”

  “And several goblets. Do this for me and I will pay you handsomely.” She gazed at his rough grey tunic.

  “I don’t see no money pouch.”

  “She has a point, Anwar. Are you carrying coin?”

  “I … I don’t think this is the time or place to discuss it …”

  “Give it to me.”

  Anwar reached inside his purple gown and produced a small, but heavy, pouch. “Lead on, lady,” said Ammon.

  “You are a strange one and no mistake,” she said. With a wink to a man standing in the shadows she moved off. Ammon passed the sleeping toddler to Anwar and followed her. He seemed uninterested in the slim man who followed them. Anwar cast nervous glances in the man’s direction and kept close to the king.

  They walked for almost half an hour, passing through foul-smelling alleys and several derelict areas. In the distance they could still hear explosions and faint screams. Finally the woman pointed down towards a winding stream. Small houses were built on both sides of it, the village being joined by a small stone bridge. “That’s the village of potters,” she said. “Now pay me handsomely!”

  Ammon opened the pouch. The coins inside were all gold. He removed two and handed them to the woman. The slim man moved forward. “I think we’ll take it all,” he said, drawing a long thin dagger.

  “Greed is so unbecoming,” said Ammon. “You have more gold than you have seen in a long time. There is no more to be had. Now, I have other matters to attend to. And I do not wish to kill you. So be content.”

  “Should we be content, my dove?” the man asked the woman.

  “Nah!” she said. “Gut him, Beli.”

  The knife flashed forward. Ammon parried it with his right forearm then slammed the heel of his palm into the man’s filthy face. The point of contact was just below the nostrils. Without a sound the robber fell forward to the ground. The woman stood and stared at the fallen man. Then she dropped to her knees alongside him. She started to shake him. “There is no point,” said Ammon. “He is dead.”

  “You killed him, you bastard!” she screamed. Ammon spun on his heel, the edge of his left hand thundering against her neck. There was a sickening crack and she fell across the body of her lover. Kneeling beside the corpses Ammon retrieved the golden coins.

  The toddler awoke and started to cry. Ammon took him from Anwar and rubbed his back. “There, there, little one. Be still. We’ll find you food in the village.”

  “You amaze me, highness. You are very skilled at fighting.”

  “Skill is relative to the quality of the opponent. They were hardly expert.”

  “Even so. Where did you learn to make those moves?”

  “You remember the charming boy who visited us from the north. The tall one with yellow hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “He taught me to. The secret, apparently, is in the lack of speed with which the move is begun. It is rather effective.”

  “You mastered the art very well, highness. But there is a great difference between practice with a friend and combat.”

  “Indeed there is. Combat is far more exhilarating.” Ammon moved out down the slope towards the village.

  “What made you ask for this place, highness?” asked Anwar.

  “I have a friend here.”

  “You have a friend who is a potter?”

  “Not a friend exactly,” admit
ted Ammon with a smile. “But he does owe me his life.”

  Sadau the potter had been frightened now for most of the morning. The explosions in the north of the city, the fleeing refugees and the news of the invasion had turned his bowels to water. All that kept him from fleeing himself was the thought that, whoever the enemy, they would need pots. He was not an important man—had never wanted to be. And now his very anonymity would protect him.

  He hoped.

  Which caused the sight of the disguised king standing at his door to unnerve him utterly. Sadau stood, open-mouthed and wordless as he recognized his monarch.

  “I think you should invite us in,” said Ammon, pushing past the potter. An old man followed him. He was carrying a small sleeping child.

  “Wh … what do you want … sire?” asked Sadau. The king moved into the dingy room and sat down on a wicker chair.

  “Somewhere to rest for the night. A little food for myself and my friend. Oh … and some milk for the babe.”

  Sadau stood stock-still, his mind in a whir. The enemy—whoever they were—would be hunting for the king. They would search all the houses. And probably kill whoever they found hiding him. It was like a nightmare. “How … how did you find me?” he asked.

  “I knocked at the door of one of your neighbors.”

  “My neighbors know you are here?”

  “I rather think they did not recognize me. The poor rarely have the opportunity to observe me closely. Now, come along man, play the host. Fetch us some food.”

  “You can’t stay here, highness. They will be searching for you.”

  “Exactly so. But I really don’t think they will expect to find me in a hovel.” Ammon rose from his chair and approached the potter, laying his slender hands on the man’s shoulders. “You are a very lucky man, Sadau. You tossed my brother’s head into the Luan and you did not die for it. Now you have an opportunity to earn the king’s gratitude. Once I have escaped and gathered my army, I shall smite these invaders and retake my kingdom. Then you will be well rewarded.”