David Gemmell - Echoes of the Great Song

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 centre of power, traversing the ice. His heart sank, even as the thought came to him.

Krals, sabre-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 concerned 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.

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 armour, sporting only a shirt of light blue silk, black leather leggings and grey lizard-skin boots.