David Gemmell - Echoes of the Great Song

'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.'

T'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. T 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.

There was little about Ren-el-gan to suggest its importance to the tribes. A flat area of sandy desert 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 moulded 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.