Echoes of the Great Song

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Echoes of the Great Song Page 28

by David Gemmell


  “Foul weapons,” he said. “No beauty in them at all.” Viruk sat for some time, his long legs dangling over the ledge. From here he could see the red and gold cliffs opposite, rearing up against a blue sky. He scanned the landscape. It was rugged and deeply beautiful. Few flowers grew, but the pale green of the trees by the river’s edge and the different shades of gold in the cliffs was greatly pleasing to the eye.

  Rolling to his knees he edged along the cliff, seeking hand and footholds to climb back to the top. It would not be possible to make the climb carrying his zhi-bow, but he was loath to leave it behind. From where he stood it was around 12 feet to the lip. Leaning out from the ledge he threw the zhi-bow high into the air. It sailed up and over the clifftop. Slowly and carefully he climbed the face. His shoulder throbbed with pain, but there was no lack of strength to trouble him. Heaving himself over the top he picked up his bow and walked back into the trees.

  He knew the mission was over and that it would be foolish to go on. Ammon was either dead or in hiding. Either way there was little likelihood of finding him.

  And yet his orders were clear. Find Ammon and protect him.

  Ten Avatars were dead and Viruk was wounded. The enemy had already landed and their troops were patrolling the riverbanks. What chance for a single Blue-hair to avoid them and find a man he had never seen? Viruk thought about it. The odds appealed to him.

  Added to which there was the certainty that he would kill more enemy soldiers.

  With that thought in mind he set off with a light heart.

  Sofarita, Questor Ro and Touchstone were sitting cross-legged on a rug in one of the garden archways. Their eyes were closed. Questor Ro’s oldest servant Sempes entered the room and stared at the trio. Their faces were calm and relaxed. Confused, the old man cleared away the used goblets and plates and quietly left them.

  Ro was in a kind of heaven. Golden light shone around him and he could both hear and feel a surging music circling him. It was curiously discordant and yet enchanting. And it did not intrude on his communication with Sofarita and Touchstone. In fact it was almost the reverse, as if the music was the channel through which they spoke. In moments, or so it seemed, he had learned the language of the Anajo from Touchstone, their minds joined together by the power of Sofarita. Language skills had always come easily to Ro, but this method of learning was wondrous beyond description. Images and words formed in his mind, rolling together with utter clarity. It was a vivid language, full of direct imagery. In an instant he absorbed all the myths of the Anajo, tribal histories and heroes and, more importantly, their enormous love of the land.

  Sofarita brought them back, and as Ro opened his eyes he felt a powerful sense of loss.

  “Welcome to my home,” he said, in perfect Anajo, as Touchstone woke. The tribesman grinned.

  “Your pronunciation is perfect,” he replied. “It is good to hear the language of my people spoken again.”

  Ro stretched and rose. Sofarita remained for a moment with her eyes closed. Then she sighed and smiled at the two men.

  Old Sempes entered the room. He bowed to Ro. “E caida manake, Pasar?” he said. The words meant nothing to Ro. He wondered for a moment if the old man was making fun of him. Then he realized with a shock that his mind was locked into the language structure of the Anajo. Sempes was speaking the common tongue. And Ro had forgotten it!

  “What is he saying?” Ro asked Touchstone. The tribesman looked surprised.

  “He wants to know if we are hungry.”

  Sofarita reached out and laid her slender hand on Ro’s arm. He felt heat flow through him, and his mind relaxed. “Are you ill, lord?” he heard Sempes ask.

  “No I am fine. You have worked hard today, Sempes. Enjoy the rest of the day. Go for a walk. Whatever you wish. I will attend to the needs of my guests.”

  “Yes, lord. Thank you, lord.”

  As the old man departed Sofarita spoke. “How interesting,” she said. “Somehow the speed of learning Anajo affected your ability to return to your own tongue. It was as if the new language replaced the old completely.” Ro nodded. He was already finding his understanding of Anajo becoming more hazy.

  “Some skills need time to acquire—even with the aid of magic,” he said. “Somehow that is comforting. When do you meet with Rael and Mejana?”

  “Soon,” said Sofarita. “I said I would go to the Council Chamber.”

  “I shall harness the horses,” said Ro. He paused. “Actually I don’t know how to harness horses. Still, it cannot be too difficult—not for a man who can learn a foreign language in a few heartbeats. Will you give me a hand, Touchstone?”

  Together they left the room. Sofarita moved to a couch and lay down. Rael would need information on the Almecs. She closed her eyes once more—and rose through the building to float above the roof.

  First she flew south over the three cities of Boria, Pejkan and Caval. The last was a smouldering ruin. Sofarita could hardly believe what she was seeing. The houses had been systematically destroyed and there were bodies everywhere. She moved closer. The dead numbered in their thousands. Down by the harbor two golden ships were being loaded with scores of chests. On the open decks more were being stacked and tied. Sofarita pushed her face against the dark wood, passing through it. Within the chests were blood-smeared crystals, thousands of them. She recoiled from them and flew high above the harbor.

  The people of Caval had been slaughtered for the Crystal Queen. The chests would be carried back over the ocean, the crystals poured into one of the many openings in the golden pyramid. Then Almeia would feed.

  Swiftly she flew on to Pejkan. Here there was less destruction, but outside the city several hundred people had been herded into a meadow, where they were being guarded by the giant krals. The Vagars sat huddled together, silent and fearful.

  On she travelled to Boria. Fifteen golden ships were docked there and two more were sailing in. The streets were largely deserted, but she saw Almec soldiers marching down the wide avenue, heading for a camp they had set up in the Great Park. The camp was neat and well-ordered, huge tents set in tight lines. She estimated the numbers of men there at more than 3,000.

  Then she sped east, to Ammon’s capital. Hundreds of bodies littered the streets here, and she saw soldiers marching through the poorer quarter, rounding up people and herding them towards a makeshift encampment by a narrow stream. Along the banks of the stream were fifty open chests, filled with glittering crystals.

  Standing in front of the chests was the tall officer she had first seen, his face shining like glass. He was wearing a breastplate of gold and a tall golden helm with three feathers set into the visor. Beside him stood a hunchback dressed in a green tunic. The latter was holding a rod with a golden circle at the tip.

  The Mud People were forced to move out onto open ground and stand in a ragged line. A column of Almec soldiers moved into sight, filing out to stand before the prisoners. The officer gave a command. The black fire-clubs came up—and thundered! The prisoners were hurled backwards. Some still lived, and struggled to rise. Soldiers ran forward, stabbing them. When all were dead the soldiers slit open their chests, tore out their hearts, then filled the open cavities with crystals.

  Sofarita had seen enough. Rising high she flew over the city, making a count of the enemy soldiers. At least another 3,000 were here, and more than a hundred krals.

  Rael had told her that Viruk was somewhere close by, seeking the king. She concentrated on him, picturing his cruel handsome face. Then she relaxed and flew with her spirit eyes closed, holding his image in her mind.

  At last she slowed and opened her eyes. Some ten miles from the city a man was sitting by the riverbed, rubbing red clay into his hair. He was whistling a tune as he did so. Some distance away she saw movement in the trees. Two huge beasts, covered in white fur and wearing black cross belts, were moving toward the man. He had not seen them.

  “Viruk!” she called. He did not hear her.

  There had to
be some way to communicate with him. But she did not know how. Floating closer she pushed her spirit hand against him. He did not flinch and she felt no contact. The krals were close now. She could see the blood lust in their strange round eyes. Saliva was dripping over their fangs.

  Suddenly they charged.

  Viruk swept up his zhi-bow and spun. A bolt of light tore into the chest of the first beast, exploding with a brilliant flash. Blood and shards of bone sprayed into the air. The second beast was almost upon the man. Viruk stood there calmly. As the kral lunged he ducked suddenly and threw himself to the right, rolling to his feet as he landed. The kral blundered on for several paces and swung again. Viruk laughed and sent a zhi-bolt into his face. The head disappeared. “Clumsy, clumsy,” said Viruk. He scanned the tree line for more enemies. Satisfied he was alone he returned to the riverbed and continued to rub red clay into his hair. Then he dragged the sorry mess back and tied it in a ponytail. Leaning over the water he glanced down.

  “Do you look the part, my dear?” he asked himself. “I am afraid the answer has to be no. One cannot make silk look like sackcloth. But it will have to do.”

  There had to be a way to communicate with him, thought Sofarita.

  She was crystal-joined and powerful. It was inconceivable that she could not touch this man. Joined to crystal! That could be it, she thought. He was wearing a belt pouch. Sofarita reached inside it. There were two crystals there. She concentrated on them. They began to vibrate. Viruk felt the movement and, puzzled, drew them out. Sofarita’s spirit hand rested on the first of the green crystals.

  “Can you hear me, Viruk?” she said. He swung round. “Speak to me,” she urged him.

  “I can’t see you. Are you a voice of the Source?”

  “Yes,” she said, thinking that he would react better to that thought than if she announced herself as the village girl he had bedded.

  “I usually hear a man’s voice,” he said. “Still, who do you want me to kill?”

  “You must find Ammon. Rael needs him.”

  “I already know that,” he said. “I am heading for the city now. Of course the task is a little difficult since I don’t know what he looks like and if he escaped he’s probably in disguise. Are you an angel of death?”

  “No, I have been assigned to protect you,” she said.

  “Oh, that’s nice. Protect me from what, exactly? I didn’t notice you warn me when the krals were close by.”

  “You needed no help there. Wait here. I shall return soon.”

  Detaching herself from him she sped back to Egaru. Ro and Touchstone were waiting quietly in the garden room. She opened her eyes. “Have you ever seen Ammon?” she asked Ro.

  “Yes. Tall man, womanly. Beautiful face.” Rising from the couch Sofarita crossed the room and took his hand.

  “Show me! Think of him!”

  Ro did so. Without another word she returned to the couch and freed her spirit. Using the same technique as she had in finding Viruk she flew east, coming at last to a series of cliffs. In a cave on the eastern slope she found three men: one old, one frightened, and one standing guard in the cave mouth. He was tall and, as Ro had described, had a face of exquisite beauty, with deep violet eyes. Rising into the air she returned to where Viruk sat by the river’s edge. He was hurling flat pebbles out over the water, watching them skim.

  “Ammon is some twelve miles southeast of here. He is travelling with a bearded old man and one other. Close your eyes.” Viruk did so. Sofarita filled his mind with a picture of the three. He cried out and clapped his hands.

  “The little potter,” he said. “Well, well! I almost killed him, you know. Of course you know. You were there. Are you sure there’s nobody you want killed?”

  “No one,” she said.

  “How strange. Usually when the Source speaks to me he asks for deaths.”

  “Not this time. Go and find Ammon.”

  “Can you take human form?”

  “No,” she said.

  “That’s a shame. I could really use a woman. I get very edgy after a battle. Do I have time to find one?”

  “No! Now go and do your duty.”

  She pulled back from him and returned to Egaru.

  She opened her eyes and breathed out a long sigh. “Viruk is completely insane,” she said.

  “Yes,” agreed Ro. “All Avatars know that.”

  “How has he survived so long?”

  “He’s rather good at what he does,” said Ro.

  Ammon stood in the mouth of the cave, staring out over the golden cliffs and the distant, shimmering Luan. That morning the three of them had crept along a dry watercourse to the southern wall. They were moving slowly and with great care when they heard the sound of marching feet. Crouching down against the crumbling dirt they had listened as prisoners were brought out onto the flat ground above them. Sadau’s bladder had released and the little man pushed his face into the dirt in embarrassment. Shots rang out. People screamed in agony. For an hour or more the killing continued. Ammon could not see the horror but the sound would haunt him for the rest of his life. He heard children wailing and begging, women pleading for the lives of their young. None were spared. Eventually the soldiers marched away. Ammon pushed himself to his feet and peered over the lip of the watercourse. Bodies lay everywhere, dead eyes staring up at the sun. His gaze flickered over them. And stopped. Some 20 feet away was the woman who had come to Sadau’s home the night before. Her children lay close by, as did the toddler Am mon had rescued. All the victims had their chests ripped open.

  Ammon forced himself to look at all the faces, determined that he would never forget any part of this dreadful slaughter.

  Then he dropped down to where the others waited. “I should have stayed at home,” whimpered Sadau.

  “I do not think so,” said Ammon. “Come, let us move on.”

  The watercourse had once flowed under the southern wall, joining a tributary to the Luan. The three men moved out into the shadow of the outer wall. The land here was open, with little cover. If there were sentries upon the parapets the fleeing men would be seen as soon as they moved out. Remaining where they were throughout the day they crept away under cover of darkness.

  Now, as he stood in the cave mouth, Ammon was still fighting for calm. His immediate desire was to find his army and march back to the city, bringing bloody retribution to the killers. But he knew that his men, though well trained, could not stand against the fire-clubs of the enemy. The need for revenge was immense and he struggled with it. Now was a time for cool thinking, he knew.

  Anwar approached him. “You are very quiet, my king.”

  “I was thinking. They killed my people like cattle. I must find a way to make them pay.”

  The old man looked close to exhaustion. His face was grey with fatigue. “Marshal your thoughts, sire, and remember my teachings. What is the first rule?”

  “Establish priorities,” answered Ammon, with a smile.

  “Good. What is the first priority?”

  “Escape.”

  “And the next.”

  “Become strong. Find the army. Then establish a new chain of command. Summon the tribal chieftains, and create a force to win back my kingdom.”

  “Each in its turn, my lord. Concentrate on one problem at a time. Give it your full attention. There is a time for emotion, a time for action. But always there must be thought. What have we learned about the enemy?”

  “They are deadly, and they are evil,” said Ammon, instantly.

  “More than that.”

  Ammon considered the question, but could find no answer. “You must tell me, councillor.”

  “They have not come for conquest, lord, but for slaughter. Had they wished to subdue the city they would have established curfews, brought in city leaders and put in place new laws. Instead they are simply murdering the inhabitants. For what reason I do not know. But death is their prime consideration. The question is, have they only attacked us? Or have other peop
les suffered? Have they, for example, attacked the Avatars? Are their cities conquered? Before we can make any plan of action we need to know the scale of the invasion.”

  Ammon nodded. “You are right, but these are questions for another day. You talk of establishing priorities, Anwar. The first priority for you is rest. Eat some of that bread, then sleep.”

  “We must get farther away, lord,” objected the old man.

  “And we will. But only after you have slept.”

  Anwar sighed, then smiled. “I must confess that I am weary,” he said. He shuffled to the back of the cave and lay down.

  Ammon glanced up at the sky. “I have never been entirely convinced of the existence of a supreme being,” he whispered. “But now would be a good time to convince me.”

  “Would you like some bread, lord?” asked the little potter, moving alongside the king.

  Ammon tore off a chunk and sat down, indicating that Sadau should sit beside him. The potter did so. “The woman you brought to your home, what was her name?”

  “Rula, lord.”

  “Do you believe in the Great God?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then say a prayer for her. She and her children were among those murdered as we hid.”

  Sadau’s face crumpled, and tears fell from his eyes. “I am sorry, little man,” said Ammon. “But it does seem I have saved your life again. Had you remained in your home you would have died with them.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill children?” asked Sadau. “What did they gain from such a … such a crime?”

  “I cannot answer that. But I will do all that I can to avenge them.”

  “It won’t bring them back, will it?” said Sadau, moving away to the rear of the cave.

  “No, it won’t,” said Ammon, softly.

  • • •

  Ammon was asleep, his dreams dark and bitter. He awoke with a start and sat up. The cave was dark now, but some noise had stirred him. Anwar was still sleeping, as was the potter. The king turned toward the cave mouth—and froze. Silhouetted in the entrance stood a monstrous shape. Almost eight feet tall and covered with pale grey fur, which shone like silver in the moonlight, was one of the beasts he had seen back in the city. Ammon slowly pushed himself to his feet. The creature’s face was hairless and pink, its eyes round and vaguely human. The mouth was open, showing huge fangs. It made no move to approach. It was wearing cross belts of black leather, from which hung two clubs of pitted iron. Ammon did not move. On the beast’s shoulder, tucked under the cross belt, was a golden scarf. Ammon recognized it. It was one he himself had worn only two days before.

 

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