Echoes of the Great Song (8 page)

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

The lead rider, a burly man, his face tanned nut-brown, drew on his reins and waited for Viruk to approach. His men hefted their spears and bunched alongside him, ready to charge.

“You have strayed from your lands, Mud-man,” said Viruk, amiably. “In doing so you have disobeyed the General’s directive.”

The rider grinned. His front teeth were made of gold. “Your power is failing, Avatar,” he said. “You cannot enforce your
directives
. Now give me your zhi-bow and I will let you live. I will send you back to your general with a message from the king, my brother.”

“The king is your brother?” said Viruk, feigning surprise. “I suppose that makes you an important man among your people. A man not to be taken lightly. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I will send a message to the king, your brother.” His voice hardened, and his eyes grew more pale. “The survivors among your band can deliver it.” Lifting the bow he sent a bolt into the rider’s chest. It exploded with a fearsome sound, spraying blood and shards of bone over the other men. Terrified horses reared, pitching their riders. Viruk’s thin fingers danced upon the strings of light and four more bolts thundered into the milling riders. One man’s arm was torn clear of his body. Another’s head fell to the ground and rolled toward Viruk. The Avatar warrior kept shooting. One rider spurred his horse into a charge. Viruk shot the horse in the head, stopping it dead in its tracks. The rider flew over the headless neck, landing heavily. He scrambled up, but an arrow took him through the neck and he pitched to the ground.

His Vagars had come from their hiding places now, and were sending a rain of shafts into the raiders. Within moments the massacre was over. The only living Mud People were the drivers of the five wagons. Viruk approached the terrified men, ordering them to climb down. They did so. The Avatar assembled them in a line.

Tossing his zhi-bow to a startled Vagar he approached
the first of the drivers. Placing his left hand on the man’s shoulder he leaned in close. “Such violence is dreadful, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Yes … dreadful,” agreed the man.

“Then you shouldn’t have come,” said Viruk, brightly, ramming a dagger deep into the man’s chest. The victim screamed and tried to drag himself back from his killer. But the blade pinned him. He died and sagged against Viruk. The Avatar patted the dead man’s cheek. “So nice to meet a man who doesn’t outstay his welcome,” he said. Dragging the knife clear he let the body drop. The other prisoners fell to their knees, and began to beg for mercy.

“What I need,” said Viruk, “is a man who can remember a message. Can any of you sub-humans do that, do you think?”

The men glanced at one another. One of them raised a hand. “Good,” said Viruk. “Follow me.” Swinging away he glanced at the Vagar sergeant. “Kill the others,” he said.

The remaining raiders scrambled to their feet and started to run. Three of them were cut down instantly, but the fourth was dodging and weaving and running so fast that none of the archers could hit him. “I don’t know,” said Viruk, laying his hand on the trembling prisoner’s shoulder. “They are supposed to be highly trained archers. But do you think any of them could hit a cow’s arse from five paces?” He shook his head. “Wait here.”

Then he strolled back to the others, took up his zhi-bow and sent a light bolt through the man’s back at almost 200 paces.

Returning to the survivor he gave an engaging smile. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.” The man was still wearing his sword. But he stood stock-still, his eyes
fixed to Viruk’s pale gaze. “What are you staring at?” asked Viruk.

“Nothing, lord. I was … just … awaiting your orders.”

“Was he really the king’s brother?”

“Indeed, lord.”

“Baffling. But then I suppose it doesn’t take much to become royal among you sub-humans. Are you royal?”

“No, lord. I am a potter by trade.”

Viruk chuckled and draped his arm over the man’s neck. “It is always good to have a trade. Now, take your weapon,” he ordered him, “and cut off the head of the king’s brother. Then find yourself a horse and head for home.”

“His head, lord? The king’s brother?”

“The king’s
dead
brother,” Viruk corrected him. “Yes, the head. And be careful not to damage that ridiculous beard.” He hesitated and stared down at the dead man. “Why do they do that? What is the point of having a beard waxed so stiffly? I mean how does a man sleep with a beard like that?”

“I don’t know, lord. Perhaps he sleeps on his back.”

“I expect that’s it. Now, let us return to the task in hand. Cut off the head.”

“Yes, lord.” The man drew his sword and struck four blows to the neck of the corpse. Still the head did not fall clear.

“I hope you are a better potter than a swordsman,” said Viruk, drawing his dagger and kneeling to slice through the last tendons.

Rising he swung to the man. “My name is Viruk. Can you remember that?”

“Yes, lord. Viruk.”

“Good. Tell the king that if there is one more incursion onto Avatar farmlands I will ride into the pitiful hovel he calls his palace and cut out his entrails. Then I
will make him eat them. Be so kind as to repeat that back to me.”

The man did so. “Splendid,” said Viruk, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now pick up that head. I’m sure the king will be glad to get it back. It will be something to bury, at least.”

Walking back to the wagons he glanced into the back of the first. It was filled with sacks of grain. “What is in the others?” he asked his sergeant.

“Mostly the same, lord. The last wagon contains some plunder. But it is worth little.”

“Well, take them back to the city.” Then he strolled out to one of the surviving horses and stepped into the saddle.

“Where are you going, lord?” asked his sergeant.

“Just for a ride, dear boy. I fancy there may be a few more raiders close by. Wouldn’t want to see you brave lads attacked on the way back, would I?”

Gathering his zhi-bow the Avatar galloped his horse away to the east.

“He’s a lunatic,” said the man standing beside the sergeant.

“Yes he is,” snapped the sergeant. “But we’re all alive. I’ll settle for that.”

The prisoner rode up to the sergeant. “Do I go now?” he asked.

“I should,” advised the sergeant. “The captain can be very … changeable. He may decide he doesn’t want the message sent. And then …” he gestured to the bodies.

Swinging his horse the Mud-man rode away.

Viruk felt energized in a way no crystal could ever supply. His body was vibrant with power, and the air he breathed tasted fresher and cleaner. Even the shoddy horse he now rode felt like a prime charger. Life was good today. Recalling with delight the expression on
the leader’s face as he loosed the first bolt, Viruk laughed aloud. He wondered what the man had felt in that one dreadful moment when he knew that his life was about to end in an explosion of fire and pain. Did he know regret? Despair? Anger? Did he wonder why he had spent so long grooming that ludicrous wax beard? Probably not, thought Viruk. His expression had been one of disbelief. Even so, the short battle had been wonderfully invigorating.

He imagined the river king’s face when the messenger arrived with his brother’s head. The man would be furious. It was likely he would kill the messenger—especially when he heard the message. Viruk hoped not. He had taken an instant liking to the little potter.

Viruk’s action would not find favor with the High Council. They would call it provocative. But he didn’t care. All-out war with the tribes was becoming increasingly inevitable. Every Avatar warrior knew it. Just as they knew the outcome.

Without the zhi-bows the cities would fall within days. Viruk hefted his own bow, checking the power. It was low. Perhaps five bolts remained.

Viruk rode on, crossing the rich farmland, ignoring the burnt-out buildings. The raiders had cut a wide swathe through the valleys. With only fifty zhi-bows left in the city most of the garrison troops had been withdrawn, leaving the farmers helpless against raids. Viruk did not agree with the policy. It invited the Mud People and other tribes to enter the corn valleys, disrupting trade and causing shortages of food in the five cities. But then Viruk had chosen not to be part of the policy-making team. He preferred life as a soldier-captain, free to ride the wild lands, fighting and killing. Now he almost regretted his decision. The Questors had given their short-sighted orders and Questor General Rael loyally saw them carried out. Rael should forget about
tradition and strip the Questors of their power, thought Viruk.