Echoes of the Great Song (37 page)

“What in Heaven’s name have you done to your hair?” asked the king, staring at the red mud which caked Viruk’s head.

“It’s a disguise,” said Viruk. “I was trying to look like one of your people. It didn’t work too well, did it?”

“We don’t actually use river mud, Viruk. The clay is mixed with various colors, perfumed, and then applied by a skilled barber.” He stepped in close and peered at the matted mess. “And we usually remove the ants … and the cattle droppings.”

“Perhaps I’ll start a new fashion,” said Viruk cheerfully. “Who is this?” he asked, nodding towards Anwar.

“My First Councillor, Anwar. The other man is—”

“I know who he is,” said Viruk with a chuckle. “How are you, potter? How come you’re still alive?”

“I don’t know, lord,” wailed Sadau. “It is a mystery to me.”

“Probably born under a lucky star like me. Well, come on, man, get on your feet. We’ve a long way to go.”

“And where, pray, do you think we are going?” asked Ammon.

“Back to Egaru. The Questor General ordered me to
bring you there safely. He also told me that the Avatars are to offer you every assistance against the newcomers.”

“I will march with my own army,” said Ammon.

“Wait, sire,” said Anwar. “It might be best to change our plans. I can go to the army, and bring them to Egaru. It would be a great weight taken from me if I knew you were already safe there.”

“Safe with the Avatars? Now there is a novel thought.”

“You know the old saying, sire? The enemy of my enemy must therefore be my friend? It could not be more true. The Avatar have many weapons and their cities are strong. Once your people know that you still live they will flock to your battle standard—wherever it is raised.”

“Very well,” said Ammon. “I accept your offer, Viruk. I take it you have horses close by?”

“No.”

“It will be a long walk.”

“Ah, but it will be made in the very best of company,” said Viruk, hauling the little potter upright and clapping him on the shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Sadau?”

“Anything you say, lord.”

Viruk moved to the dead Almecs and hefted one of the fire-clubs. He spent several minutes trying to understand its mechanisms, then hurled it to one side. “Ugly weapons,” he said. “Noisy—and the smoke smells worse than a pig fart.”

“We obviously move in different circles,” said Ammon. “I cannot say I have ever seen a pig’s backside. However, I will take your word for it.”

Viruk laughed aloud, with genuine good humor. “Can it be,” he asked, “that you dislike me? Surely not.”

“You are no more than an assassin, Viruk. A man in love with death, I think.”

“Your point being?”

“Putting it simply? I despise you and all you fail to stand for. Is that clear enough?”

“You’ll change your mind when you get to know me better. Now let us be moving. My zhi-bow has no more bolts. I do not relish the thought of tackling a kral with only a dagger.”

As they reached the mist barrier Talaban bade farewell to Caprishan and the supply column and led his fifty riders farther northeast. He glanced at the young man riding alongside him. The rider was clad in expensive riding clothes, his tan jerkin crafted from the finest of skins and decorated along the shoulder seams with black pearls. His knee-length riding boots were also of fine leather, each adorned with a silver band at the ankle. He had spoken little since they had left Egaru and then only to answer direct questions.

Up ahead Touchstone was riding scout, and the column moved slowly, seeking to raise as little dust as possible.

The Questor General’s orders had been specific. “Harass the enemy. It is time they learned the cost of invasion. Hit them hard, then move. Do not engage in any pitched battles. Strike like the hawk, then ride.” Talaban had passed the captaincy of the
Serpent
to Methras, the exchange of power witnessed by Mejana and Rael. The young sergeant had accepted his new role with quiet dignity and Talaban had felt a surge of pride.

He was not as happy with his own appointment. He would have preferred to have chosen his own men, but with power being shared now he had also been forced to accept a compromise. Twenty Avatar archers and
thirty Vagar warriors, led by the inexperienced young man who rode now beside him.

Talaban knew little about him—save that he was a merchant, the grandson of Mejana, and he was said to know well the lands into which they rode.

“How far is the first settlement?” asked Talaban.

“Around four miles,” the young man answered. He seemed nervous and on edge.

“Touchstone is a fine scout. There will be no ambush, Pendar.”

“I am not afraid,” said Pendar, his tone defensive. That the Vagar disliked him was obvious, and, Talaban realized, wholly natural. But the Avatar hoped that when they came into contact with the enemy Pendar would have the intelligence to put his hatred aside. Until then there was little point in trying to make a friend of the man.

Urging his horse into a run Talaban moved ahead of the column. The land was becoming more ridged. Towering cliffs of red stone reared to their left and they were approaching the wide Gen-el Pass. Touchstone had reined in his pony and was staring ahead. He glanced back as Talaban rode alongside.

“What have you seen?” asked the Avatar.

“Nothing. But enemy there.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Someone watches. I know this. I feel his eyes.”

Talaban scanned the pass. The sun was high and there was no movement to be seen. Not a bird flew, and even the breeze had dropped.

Talaban swung his mount and rode back to his Avatars, calling the sergeant aside. Goray was a large man, his short-cropped hair dark, his trimmed trident beard dyed blue. He was a veteran of many tribal wars and was one of the older Avatars, well over three hundred. For sixty years he had been an officer of high
rank, but had retired from the army twelve years before to spend more time studying the stars. He had not been best pleased when the Questor General summoned him and other retired Avatars to return to the army. “The enemy is in the pass,” Talaban told him.

“I would expect so, captain. What is your plan?”

“Have you ridden this pass?”

“Not in seventy years.”

“What do you make of the Vagar?”

“He is untried and his men are wary of him. There is too much of the woman showing in him.”

“His sexuality is immaterial to me.”

“And to me,” said Goray equably. “But that is not what I meant. I am talking about perceptions. Not what it is—but what
shows
. His men are afraid. In war soldiers look to their leaders as wells of courage or inspiration. They drink from those wells. I fear that, for many of his soldiers, he is a figure of fun, someone to mock. This worries me.”

“I accept that,” said Talaban. “But I asked what
you
made of him.”

“He needs a victory, something to give him confidence in himself—and to inspire his men.”

Talaban rode back to the column where he called Pendar aside. “Touchstone believes there is a force waiting for us in the pass. Is there another way forward?”

Pendar was silent for a moment. “We could swing north, but that would bring us in close to Morak, Ammon’s capital. It would also add three days to our journey both ways. And, since we are carrying supplies for only ten days, it would limit our opportunities to harass the Almecs. Can we not fight them here?”

Talaban ignored the question and stepped down from the saddle, gesturing Pendar to follow him. Moving to an area of bare, dry earth he knelt down. “Sketch me
the pass,” he said. He watched as Pendar drew his dagger and began to cut a series of lines.

“Once into the mouth of the pass it bends to the right and then undulates. The walls are sheer for the first four hundred yards. After that the pass narrows for a way—perhaps another five hundred yards. There have been many rock falls, and there are hundreds of hiding places among the boulders. After that it becomes sheer again.”

“So the main site for an ambush would be around a quarter of a mile into the pass?”

“I would say so, but I am no soldier.”

“You are now. Get used to it.” Pendar reddened, but before he could answer Talaban spoke again. “Touchstone believes we are being observed. At what point does the pass bend to the right?”

Pendar pressed his dagger into the earth. “Here. Is it significant?”

“If we are being watched it is from high on the cliff. Have you ever been up there?”

“On the left side only. You can walk to the top. There is a narrow series of paths and ledges. The right is sheer.”

“Then the watcher is on the left. He will lose sight of us as we enter the pass.” Talaban took a deep breath. “Let’s move!”

Stepping into the saddle he raised his arm and the column moved forward, across the open empty land. Touchstone rode back. “I see him. He crouches behind big stone. High on left.”

“How high?”

“Three hundred feet.”

The walls of the pass reared up before them, pale red sandstone sculpted by thousands of years of wind and rain and running water. Deep vertical lines were scored into the towering walls as if chiselled there by a master hand. Talaban halted the column. Dismounting he
gazed at the rock wall to his left. It was sheer, but there were no overhangs and he could see a shelf of rock some 60 feet above him. Calling his Avatars to him he outlined a plan and asked for ten volunteers. Every man raised his hand. Talaban chose the slimmest and smallest of the men, then summoned Pendar.

“We are going to climb the cliffs and move out above and behind the enemy. If there are a hundred or less we will shoot down into them. Once we begin shooting it is vital you lead a charge into the pass immediately. For there will be no cover for us, and their fire-clubs will cut us to pieces. You understand?”

Pendar nodded. “But surely any one of the Almecs could look up and see you?”

“Touchstone will ride out and appear to be scouting the pass. Their eyes will be upon him.”

“They could just kill him.”

“Pendar, they are seeking to ambush our whole force, not one scout. However, you might be right. But then that is soldiering. Nothing is without risk.”

Talaban moved to the rock face. Loosening his belt he strapped his zhi-bow to his back then began to climb. Hand and footholds were numerous, but the rock was dry and apt to crumble. Testing each hold carefully he inched his way up the face. At 45 feet the handholds disappeared. To his right a narrow vertical crack in the rock snaked up towards the shelf above it. The crack was no more than two inches deep. Talaban edged his way to it, then thrust his right hand up and inside it. There were tiny holds here, but the crack was not deep enough for him to be able to insert the toe of his boot for a foothold. He glanced up. The crack opened wider some eight feet above him. He could hear the men climbing below him. Looking down he saw that the first soldier had almost reached him.

“Steady yourself,” he told the man. “I need your
shoulder.” The soldier grinned. Moving up close to Talaban he settled himself against the face.

“Ready, sir.”

Wedging his hand into the crack Talaban hauled himself high then, placing his foot on the soldier’s shoulder, he levered himself up to where the crack was wider. Using another wedge hold he climbed on, pushing his foot into the crack, and up over the lip of the shelf.

Below him the other ten soldiers were following his lead but this left them one man short, for there was no one to help the last climber. Talaban signalled him to return to the ground, then led his nine men carefully along the shelf.

Seated on his pony Touchstone waited for Talaban’s signal. When it came the tribesman swung the reins and walked his mount out into the pass.

It was eerily quiet here and Touchstone could feel sweat trickling down his spine. The ambushers should not react to seeing the scout. They would be anxious to kill as many of the invading force as possible. But there might just be one nervous Almec. Touchstone rode on. Ahead and to the left he saw the signs of many rock falls. A shadow moved behind a boulder, but Touchstone did not react. He looked both left and right as if scanning the pass. He allowed himself one glance up and to his left and saw Talaban and his nine soldiers moving warily along a narrow ledge.

Touchstone drew rein, lifted his water canteen from the pommel of his saddle and took a sip. It was hot here in the pass, the air heavy. Another movement caught his eye, the merest flicker of shadow behind a huge boulder. They are not so skilled, he thought. And they are too anxious for the kill. Swinging his pony he rode slowly back towards the mouth of the pass.

“What did you see?” asked Pendar. The man was sweating profusely, and fear shone in his eyes.

“Hundred I reckon,” said Touchstone.

“Then we will fight them?” The thought obviously dismayed the young man.

“You ride hard when battle starts,” Touchstone warned him. “Talaban in open. No cover. Get ready. Killing time soon.”

Pendar drew his sword. His hand was trembling. Ignoring him, Touchstone cast his eyes over the waiting Vagar warriors. They too were on edge. He grinned at them and lifted his axe from his belt. They did not respond. Fighting men, he knew, took their inspiration from their leader. This Pendar was untried. He was frightened and that fear was contagious.

Touchstone moved his pony alongside Pendar’s mount.

And the wait began.

Sweat dripped into Talaban’s eyes as he inched his way along the narrow ledge. From here he could see the hidden warriors below. All but the two officers were dressed identically, sleeveless black shirts and dark leggings, no adornments on their arms, no bangles or bracelets of copper or gold. Nothing to glint or shine. Each man wore a small pack strapped to his upper back. The officers also eschewed colorful garb. Their breastplates were of blackened metal, as were their round helms. Talaban estimated that around 130 men were crouched behind boulders, their fire-clubs held ready. They were still and poised, which spoke of good discipline, and Talaban did not believe they would break and run at the first attack. His mouth was dry as he considered his plan. It was fraught with danger. Not one of the Almecs had yet looked up. But they would when the battle started. Exposed as they were here the Avatars would certainly take losses. Indeed, thought Talaban, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that
all of them could be killed in the first volley. He glanced back at his men. The same thought had occurred to them.