Echoes of the Great Song (35 page)

Rael had told him to choose ten of the best soldiers. Viruk had commandeered the first ten men he had come across at the barracks. He knew them all by name, though none were close to him. Few people were, and he had no friends.

He rode now, slightly ahead of the group, lost in thought, his zhi-bow resting on his saddle. His horse suddenly stumbled. Viruk almost fell across its neck. The zhi-bow tumbled to the ground. Annoyed, Viruk hauled on the reins and dismounted.

At that moment thunder broke all around the riders, a ferocious wall of sound that stunned Viruk. Five riders were smashed from their saddles, four horses went down screaming in agony. Viruk swept up his zhi-bow. The strings danced into light. On the ridge above them he saw a score of copper-skinned warriors carrying ornate black clubs. One of them pointed a club at Viruk. Smoke and flame belched from the weapon. Viruk felt a whoosh of air pass his face. His zhi-bow came up. The warrior’s chest exploded and he was hurled back into his comrades.

Three of the Avatars began to loose bolts into the enemy, who dropped their fire-clubs, drew serrated swords and charged down the slope. Viruk killed five of them before they had covered half of the distance. The charge faltered. On the slope above more Almec soldiers appeared. The fire-clubs boomed again. Two of the remaining Avatars fell. Viruk transferred his aim to this new force, killing three before they dropped from sight. The first attacking group of Almecs had almost reached the last surviving Avatars.

Viruk shot two as they closed upon him, and then a third as the man screamed a war cry and raced towards him, sword raised. Viruk’s bolt took him full in the face. His head disappeared. The last Avatar soldier killed two more, but a third stabbed him in the belly, and a fourth
thrust his sword through the Avatar’s throat. Dropping his zhi-bow Viruk drew sword and dagger and leapt at the three Almecs. The first died, his throat ripped open, the second staggered back and fell with Viruk’s dagger in his heart. The last man turned and sprinted for the slope. Sheathing his sword Viruk knelt by the dead Avatar, lifting his zhi-bow. It took several seconds to attune his mind to the warrior’s weapon, then he sent a bolt into the fleeing man’s back. There was a burst of flame from the Almec’s dark armor and he pitched forward and lay still.

From the slope the fire-clubs blasted once more. Two of the surviving horses were punched from their feet. Viruk ran back to where his own zhi-bow lay, swept it up and grabbed the reins of his horse. The animal was bleeding from a hole in its flank. Vaulting into the saddle Viruk kicked the beast into a run.

Shots came from behind him, but nothing struck. The horse galloped on for almost half a mile then collapsed. Viruk leapt clear. Ahead was a grove of trees. Carrying the two zhi-bows he ran for them. Glancing back he saw more than thirty Almec soldiers moving into the open. They had spread out in a fighting line and were advancing warily.

Viruk ran on. The area was not thickly wooded and he could see no natural defensive point. He tried to picture exactly where he was in terms of the Luan and the many settlements along the border. He decided he was at least 10 miles from the nearest Vagar village and almost double that to Ammon’s capital. The ground was rising and Viruk pushed on. He could just see the soldiers entering the trees some 400 yards back. Reaching the top of the rise he came to a sudden stop. The ground dropped away sharply and he found himself standing on the brink of a cliff overlooking the Luan River 200 feet below. “Oh this is pleasant,” he said,
sourly. A series of shots sounded from behind him. Instinctively he ducked down, listening again for the whooshing of wind close to him. There was nothing, save that dirt spurted up from the ground some 20 feet behind him. Viruk grinned. Hefting the soldier’s zhi-bow he sent three bolts flashing through the trees. The first struck a branch, which exploded in a shower of sparks. The second took a man in the shoulder, ripping his arm from his body and puncturing his lung. The third thundered against a tree trunk. Fire spurted from the bark and black smoke began to billow from the hole.

The Almecs took cover behind the trees, occasionally darting forward to another hiding place closer to the fleeing man.

Viruk was not a man given to great angers, but he felt an exception was called for here. Ten Avatars were dead, he had no horse, and he was facing almost thirty warriors. Behind him was a murderous drop to a stony riverbed. Two shots whizzed by him. With a soft curse he rose and began to run along the cliff edge, looking for a way to climb down. A wicked blow took him high in the shoulder, ripping the skin. Dropping the soldier’s bow Viruk stumbled a few feet farther. The Almecs ran from their hiding places, fire-clubs raised.

Viruk jumped from the cliff edge.

The Almecs swept forward, running to the edge and looking down. There was no sign of the man they were pursuing. They milled at the lip for some moments then, gathering up the zhi-bow, walked back into the woods.

Ten feet down, his body hugging the cliff wall beneath a narrow overhang, Viruk heard them move away.

“This has not been a good day,” he said. “Not good at all.” His arm was aching abominably. Swinging his
legs he sat upon the ledge, removed his green crystal from his pouch and held it to the wound. The flesh began to knit almost immediately, but the bone beneath was badly bruised. The collar of his black leather jerkin was ripped. Viruk lifted his hand to it—and felt something small and round lodged there. Pulling it clear he saw it was a blood-smeared ball of lead.

“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.