Echoes of the Great Song (40 page)

Then he counterattacked, driving his spirit into the snake like a spear. Instantly images began to form. A childhood spent in isolation and fear, bullied, beaten, mocked. Sold by his parents to a group of beggars, who used his deformity to earn coin. They scratched his skin and smeared it with animal excrement, causing terrible sores that made the hunchbacked child ever more grotesque and therefore more valuable.

The snake tried to draw back, but Talaban had him now.

He saw the hunchback’s childhood, his adolescence, and his training by Cas-Coatl. Crystal-fed, he had developed amazing talents to read the minds of others. Suddenly the hunchback had power and he used it mercilessly for more than 300 years.

Talaban saw it all, and through the hunchback’s thoughts relived the magical flight from their own doomed world, saw the magic used to achieve it.

Almeia, the glorious goddess, the Crystal Queen.

And, in one sudden, brilliant flash, he saw why Almeia needed so many deaths.

The snake was struggling now, desperate to pull clear.

“Your life has been sad,”
Talaban told him.
“Your youth saw you abused and hurt, your manhood saw you abuse and hurt others. I pity you.”

The snake ceased its struggle.
“I am what men made me,”
said the hunchback.

“May your next life be a happy one,”
Talaban told him.

Moving into the Fourth Ritual Talaban severed the head of the snake.

The hunchback fell dead to the ground. Talaban swayed but remained upright on his knees.

Cas-Coatl knelt beside his fallen servant. “How did you kill him?” he asked, conversationally.

Talaban looked up. “In the same way you would have, Cas-Coatl,” he said.

“Ah, I see. You Avatars are truly similar to my people. Unfortunately for you this means I must resort to torture.” He swung to the two guards. “Lock him away and send for Lan-Roas. Tell him to bring all his … tools.”

The guards took Talaban by his arms and lifted him. “Torture will gain you nothing, Almec,” said the Avatar.

“I suspect you are right,” agreed Cas-Coatl. “Sadly we will have to find out. Lan-Roas is very skilled. He will begin by burning out your right eye, then cutting the fingers from your right hand. Then the hand itself. And that, my friend, will be merely the beginning. You will be amazed at what levels of pain he can inspire in his victims.”

Talaban said nothing as he was taken away and then thrown to the ground inside the grain store. The door slammed shut, leaving him once more in total darkness. With an effort he rolled to his knees, then began to work at the binding on his wrists, tugging and twisting. The leather thongs did not give. Pushing himself to his feet he began to walk carefully until he reached a wall. Turning his back to it he inched his way along it, feeling for any rough edges against which he could saw through the bindings. There was nothing.

How long did he have before the torturer arrived to maim him?

Put such thoughts from your mind, he told himself sternly.

Moving along the wall he reached the doorway. The timbers had been set back into the stone, and once more he found no straight edges with which to work. Lastly he began to move across the floor, slowly sweeping his foot, seeking any piece of stone that might be lying close by. Again there was nothing. Despair touched him with an icy finger. Setting off once more he moved with even more care. His foot scraped against a small object. Sitting down he reached out, the tips of his fingers brushing the dirt floor. At first he could not locate the object, but then his fingers touched something hard. It
was flat and irregular in shape, no more than an inch across. Lifting it carefully he ran his thumb across it. It was a piece of broken pottery.

The edge was sharp.

With great care he lifted it back toward the thongs, and began to saw at the bindings. After some minutes he managed to get his finger against the leather. He had made almost no impression upon it. This could take hours, he knew.

And he did not have hours to spare.

Moving back to the door he managed to wedge the shard into a crack. Then he pressed the edge into his left wrist above the bindings. The skin parted and blood began to flow, wetting the dry leather. He let the flow continue for some minutes until he could feel it dripping over his fingers and dropping to the floor. Then he bunched his muscles and pulled with all his strength.

The bindings held. Taking three quick breaths he tried again. This time there was a little movement. Steadying himself he twisted his left wrist, and pulled again from a slightly different angle. The bindings stretched a fraction more.

He could hear footsteps approaching. The sound gave him renewed strength and he dragged back on the thongs. The skin of his wrists was torn further open as he did so, further drenching the leather. As the footsteps reached the door the thongs parted. Talaban staggered, then lurched towards the opening.

He heard the bar being raised, then the door swung in. A tall man entered. He was carrying a shoulder sack and in his hand was a small saw. He froze as he saw Talaban waiting for him. The Avatar leapt, his right hand sweeping forward, fingers extended. The points of the fingers slammed into the man’s throat, smashing the bones beneath. He fell back against the wall, gurgling
and struggling for breath that would never come again. Talaban pushed past him. Three guards stood beyond the doorway.

There was no way he could defeat them all.

At that moment a dark figure leapt from the low roof. The small bright hand-axe sliced through the throat of the first guard. Talaban sprang at the second, sending a left hook that exploded against his chin. The third guard drew his sword and lunged at the Avatar. The blade took Talaban under the left ribs, ripping away the flesh. Talaban grabbed the sword arm, hauling the Almec forward—straight into Talaban’s rising left elbow. The man half fell. As he righted himself Touchstone’s axe buried itself in his skull.

“Better move quick,” said Touchstone. “Horses beyond village.”

A cry went up behind them. Talaban swung and saw Cas-Coatl and a dozen men running across the square. “Now be good time!” said Touchstone. The tribesman sprinted off. Talaban began to run after him. By the time the Avatar reached the outskirts of the village Touchstone was far ahead, disappearing down into a shallow dry gully. Talaban was close to exhaustion and could run no further.

He risked a glance behind and saw that the Almecs were gaining on him. He heard the thunder of hooves. Touchstone came riding out of the gully, leading a second horse. As he rode past, Talaban reached up, grabbed the saddle pommel and vaulted into the saddle. Fire-clubs sounded behind them, but no shots came near.

The two men galloped their mounts towards the west and up over the hills, riding fast towards the distant Luan. After a while Talaban could just make out the silhouette of the
Serpent
.

Half an hour later he was sitting in his old cabin, Touchstone stitching the wound above his hip. Methras was sitting opposite him. “I did not expect to see you again,” he told Talaban.

“I hope you are not too disappointed.”

Methras grinned. “Touchstone promised to cut my throat if I didn’t give him the chance to track you down.”

Talaban winced with the pain from his wounds. “They took my crystal,” he said.

“Use mine,” said Methras, opening the pouch at his side. Talaban looked into the man’s blue eyes. Only a week ago Vagar possession of such an item would have brought about a swift death sentence.

“Can you use it?” asked Talaban.

“After a fashion. But I will learn.”

Talaban accepted the gem, and held it over the hip wound. Instantly the flesh began to knit. “I will teach you the rituals,” he said.

“I know them. But my Vagar blood holds me back,” said Methras, with a smile.

“How long were you on that roof?” Talaban asked the tribesman.

“Long time. Too many soldiers close.”

“How did you get there without being seen?”

“Plenty skill. Bet you glad see me.”

“I’m glad I gave you that axe.” Returning his attention to Methras he said: “We need to get back to Egaru as fast as possible. The Almec army marches tomorrow. They will be at the city in less than five days.”

“The Questor General knows. There are three armies marching. Close to eight thousand men.”

“Big number,” said Touchstone. “We lose maybe.”

Talaban grunted as he rose from the bed. “I need to rest,” he said. “Where is my cabin?”

“This
is
your cabin,” said Methras.

“No, not any longer.”

Methras smiled. “I shall be spending most of the night in the control room. Rest here. I will wake you when we reach Egaru.”

Too weary to argue, Talaban stretched out on the familiar bed.

As Touchstone made to leave Talaban reached out and took his arm. “You are going home, my friend. To Suryet.”

Then he closed his eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

For Rael the events of the last month had been unremittingly bleak. Nothing seemed to have been right since the day Questor Ro returned with those four fully-charged chests of power. It was as if, at the point of greatest hope, the Source had turned against them.

Now three disciplined and deadly armies were marching on the twin cities, the Vagars were waiting to take control of their own destinies and the witch woman was growing in power daily. Rael was weary. Taking a white crystal from his pouch he held it to his brow. Cool, invigorating energy swept through him. He sighed, and his thoughts returned to Sofarita. Whenever he saw her Rael had to leave his crystals behind. Close proximity to her drained them. As a result he no longer invited her to the Council Chamber, but instead visited her at Ro’s home.

Rael sat at his desk, staring down at the mass of paper there.

Lifting the first, he read of the food situation. From the day he had learned of the Almecs he had ordered massive imports of food and the grain stores of the twin cities were now bulging. Even so a prolonged siege would see the populations begin to starve within three weeks. Rationing would have to begin tomorrow.

Moving to his window he looked out over the bay.
The
Serpent
was at anchor there, with some fifty smaller Vagar vessels. They had been supplying the city for days, but now there was nowhere for them to sail. The grain villages along the Luan were deserted, the people fled or slain.

Returning to his desk he shuffled through the papers, coming at last to the report from the Crystal Treasury. Caprishan had taken a second chest to Anu, as requested. The third was in use now, re-powering zhi-bows. The last chest remained in the heart of the
Serpent
. Soon Rael would need to have it removed. Then the
Serpent
would sail no more.

In some ways
Serpent Seven
was like the Avatar—powerful but doomed.

Short of power, and short of men, Rael was in a grim mood. Talaban had called him the greatest strategist alive. Rael believed it. But there was little point in being a fine strategist if one did not have the means to execute those strategies.

Ideally Rael would have sent out several strong units to harry the advancing armies, cutting off their supplies, wearing them down. But with fewer than 200 fighting Avatars he could not afford such a move. And sending out lightly armed Vagars against the fire-clubs of the Almecs would have proved suicidal. Therefore the advancing armies could move at their own pace, dictating the course of the war.

The one advantage Rael possessed lay in the deadliness of the Almecs. Had their invasion been less bloody they could have used the captive population to keep them in supplies. As it was, they would need to take the cities with speed.

Rael pondered this. Pagaru’s walls were not strong. They had been built fast in the early days of conquest. They would be breached, he was sure. Egaru, with a smaller perimeter, could be held far more effectively.
With this in mind he decided to dispatch more Avatars to Pagaru.

Then he turned his mind to Ammon. The king was in the apartments chosen for him on the second level of the Council Building. Soon Rael would have to meet with him. His 5,000 men could help turn the tide, but how sensible would it be to invite 5,000 essentially hostile warriors into the cities? If, by some miracle, the Almecs could be massively defeated Ammon would find himself in a position he had longed for. In control of the Avatar Empire.

Empire?

What empire? The thought depressed Rael. There was no empire any more.

The door opened and Viruk stepped inside. “What do you want, cousin?” he asked, irritated by the sudden intrusion.

“Don’t cousin me, you whoreson!” thundered Viruk. “You send me from an Avatar city to rescue an androgynous sub-human and what do I find when I return? The city being run by Vagar dogs. I ought to cut your throat, you treacherous bastard!”

Coldly angry, Rael rose from his desk and moved to stand in front of the outraged warrior. “If anyone is guilty of treachery it is you, you arrogant fool,” he said. “The village woman you bedded is the real power in the cities now. And do you know why? Because you broke the law and healed her, Viruk. She is crystal-joined. Surely even you will understand what that means. We tried to kill her. We failed.”

“I could kill her,” said Viruk. “There is nothing that lives or breathes that I cannot kill.”

“It is not—at this time—an option. Her powers give us at least a fighting chance against the Almecs. But once Anu’s pyramid is complete we may have a better chance.”

“What then? Do we seize back power?”

“Of course,” lied Rael, smoothly.

Viruk smiled broadly. “That is more like it.”

“Now I must greet my guests.” Rael looked at Viruk’s travel-stained clothes. “I suggest you go to your home and bathe.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know if my marsh marigolds arrived safely?” asked Viruk.

“No, I wouldn’t,” the Questor General told him.

After Viruk had left, Rael walked down to the Council Chamber and sent a servant to request the presence of the Lady Mejana and Ammon.