Echoes of the Great Song (49 page)

Bereft of leadership the Almecs moved back from the pyramid, frightened lest it should turn its wrath upon them.

Leaving the powder wagons behind they fled for the river and the ships that would take them home.

The One-Eyed-Fox gathered his men about him, moving to each and laying his hands over their eyes. With each man he chanted a few words before moving on. At last he came to the Avatars. Talaban guessed the tribesman was singing a prayer song of power to aid the warriors.

He was right—but not in the way he expected. The darkness around them was almost absolute, thick clouds obscuring the moon. But when the One-Eyed-Fox lifted his hands from Talaban’s face the Avatar found he could see as clearly as if it was noon. It was bizarre. There was no color around him, merely a sharpness of black, gray and white.

The shaman summoned the men to him. “The blood
seekers will try to attack us in the dark. But we, like mountain cats, can fall upon them. They will be as blind men.”

The fourteen Anajo men and Suryet hefted their bows and their arrows of flint and melted away into the undergrowth. Talaban made to follow them, but the One-Eyed-Fox stepped in front of him. Touching Talaban’s brow he closed his eyes. His voice echoed inside Talaban’s mind. “You make too much noise, my friend. Wait here with your brothers and kill any who reach the end of the trail.”

Then he was gone.

Talaban drew his sword and dagger, signalled his three men to stand with him, and positioned himself at the crest of the trail. More than a hundred of the enemy would be climbing the mountain. Even with the advantage of superb night vision the Anajo could not stop them.

I am going to die here, he thought suddenly. I do not even have the week that Anu promised me. Fear struck him and he felt suddenly nauseous. I don’t want to die on this foreign mountain, he thought. I have no sons to carry my blood like a gift into the future, and no wife to mourn for me. He thought of Sofarita. He had accepted Anu’s warning of death, but had hoped that Sofarita’s power could save him. But she was not here. For the first time in his life Talaban found himself wanting to run away. Yet he did not. Could not. He looked at the man to his right. The shock jarred him from his melancholic thoughts. The Avatar’s eyes were wide, the pupils slitted like a cat. He saw from the surprise on the soldier’s face that he too must look equally sinister. Talaban grinned suddenly. The man responded, then reached out his hand. Talaban gripped it, then turned and shook the hands of each of the warriors.

“Not as glorious as the last ride,” he said. “But we
lived like gods and we’ll die like men. It is enough, I think.”

The screams of wounded men sounded from down the trail, and several fire-clubs were loosed.

Talaban hefted his sword.

Back in the city of Egaru fat Caprishan knelt in his luxurious bed-chamber emptying bags of fully charged crystals into two chests. He had declined Rael’s invitation to ride out against the Almecs and was now trying to estimate how much life these crystals would allow him. Like all Avatars his mind was skilled in calculation. There were over 2,000 crystals, each one capable of keeping a normal man healthy for months. Caprishan was not a normal man. His immense weight and his prodigious appetite had weakened his heart, and he could exhaust a fully charged crystal within six days. Twelve thousand three hundred and sixty days. Less than thirty-four years!

Disappointment seized him. “Better than being dead and rotting on a field of battle,” he told himself. “And who knows, perhaps there are more crystals to be found?”

He sat staring into the chests, watching the light glitter on the gems. Much could happen in thirty-four years.

A crystal vase on his windowsill suddenly shattered. The sound made him jump. Pushing himself ponderously to his feet he waddled to the window, looking out to see who had thrown a stone. There was no one in sight. A strange popping sound came from behind him. He swung, and saw green dust spraying out from the chests. He stumbled back and fell to his knees. The crystals within were writhing and splitting. “No!” he shouted, digging his fat hands into the first chest, closing his fingers around the few remaining gems. But even
inside his grip he felt them shatter and turn to dust. The red gems in the rings on his fingers exploded.

Caprishan began to weep piteously. One of his servants ran into the room.

“What is it, lord?” he asked.

“Leave me alone!” shouted Caprishan. The man backed away. Caprishan pushed himself to his feet and walked to the balcony.

He could wait for the six days to pass, and die slowly and horribly.

Or he could …

His fat body sailed through the air and smashed onto the stone path beside a fountain.

And the music of the pyramid swept out over the ocean.

Serpent Seven
was close to the shore when all power vanished. For a little while the black ship struggled on, carried by her momentum and by the inrushing tide. But then she began to wallow in the waves, tipping and rolling.

On the journey back Methras had ordered the crew to strip the cabins and holds of everything that would float. Several rafts had been made, and makeshift oars. The men had thought the orders strange, but they had obeyed them.

The ship swung broadside to the land and tilted perilously. “Over the side!” yelled Methras. The crew began to throw empty barrels into the sea, then the rafts were hurled after them. One by one the men jumped into the ocean. The strongest swimmers set out for the shore. Those unskilled in the water clung to the rafts or other floating debris. Methras saw a crewman go under. He dived and grabbed at the man’s collar, hauling him up. The Vagar struggled and almost pulled them both down, but Methras spoke to him calmly, then helped
him to a floating barrel. “Hold on and kick out with your feet,” he advised the man. “The tide will carry you in.”

Methras swam to a raft. Several men had clambered aboard and they pulled him up.

He sat down and turned to watch the
Serpent
. Like a sick whale it rolled and pitched. Then it tipped completely and sank beneath the waves.

“What happened?” asked a Vagar seaman.

“Anu’s magic,” he said.

“I thought he was on our side.”

“He is,” said Methras. “The golden ships will be sinking just as we did.”

“He could have waited another hour,” grumbled the man. “We’d have been in port by then.”

As the dawn rose over the sea Ro felt a strange sensation rippling through him. Attuning his mind he focused on it. It was music, whispering on the wind. It was discordant and yet … it made him feel a part of everything, the earth, the sky, the rock beneath his feet.

A strangled cry came from Sofarita. He turned to her and saw her begin to tremble. Rising he threw his arms around her, holding her stiff body close. She fell into him, almost carrying them both from the ledge. Ro struggled to stay upright. Sofarita’s arms were outstretched, still stiff, her joints locked. She was trying to speak, but her tongue could form no words. “I am here,” he said. “I am with you. Remember the rituals. Join with me.”

At first there was nothing, then a terrible pain swept over him. His body was shattering like glass. Ro fought down panic and instinctively concentrated on the reality of flesh, the softness of the wet tissue that bonded into strong muscle, the flowing of rich, warm blood.

The Music in his mind expanded, a magnificent symphony,
a song as large as the universe. It flowed over them both.

Sofarita’s head lowered to his shoulder, her arms dropping. Ro could feel her flesh beneath his hands, soft and warm. He laid her down on the ledge and knelt beside her. “Speak to me,” he said. “Show me you are alive.”

Her eyes opened. “The power is gone from me,” she said. “I am a woman again. How did you make the Music?”

“It was not mine.”

She sighed and struggled to sit. “I am no longer a goddess, Ro. I am just a Vagar woman.”

“You are the woman I love,” he said, surprised as the words rushed out. He waited for her rejection, knowing it would be kind and burn him like fire.

“I love you too,” she said. “I’ve known it since the night you saved me from Almeia, when you lay beside me and warmed me with your body.”

A fierce wind swept across the ledge. Ro clung to a rock. Sofarita was thrown against him.

A brilliant light blazed in the sky. Ro looked up, to see a second sun shining brightly through swirling clouds. A terrible groan came from the wall across the world. Boulders began to rain down from it. Then, with an awesome wrench the wall, and the land beyond it, broke away and lifted into the sky, tipping as it rose. A huge earthquake rippled across the floating land mass and it split into two. Both parts continued to rise towards the second sun. Something glittered in the air like a golden bird. Ro saw that it was a ship, spinning through the air to crash into the airborne land. More ships appeared, as if being drawn up by an invisible whirlwind.

A ring of fire hundreds of miles in diameter flared in the sky. The broken land floated towards it, entering the
circle of flames. As Ro watched, the land of the Almecs disappeared. The fire ring began to close, shrinking smaller and smaller.

Then it was gone.

There was no wall now, no dark and threatening land. A vast and ruined plain lay before their eyes.

“The grass and trees will grow again,” said Sofarita, “and streams will flow. Life will flourish again.”

Ro stood and, holding Sofarita by the hand, walked back along the ledge.

Further down the trail they met the One-Eyed-Fox and Touchstone and Suryet. Four other Anajo tribesmen were still alive.

At the mouth of the trail Ro saw a mound of bodies. Just back from them Touchstone was kneeling beside the fallen Talaban. Ro ran forward, thinking the Avatar merely injured. But as he came close he saw the terrible wounds and the cold, still face. He sighed and felt deep shame at the surging joy he had experienced when Sofarita told him she loved him. Talaban had given his life so that he could hear those words.

Moving to the fallen Avatar he knelt by the body.

“He and the others killed more than twenty,” said Touchstone in Anajo. “They did not give way. Talaban was the last to die. I tried to reach him, to help him. I wanted to save his life as he saved mine. He saw me running forward. They were all around him. He died just as the sun rose.” Drawing his dagger Touchstone cut a lock from Talaban’s hair. “I shall make a prayer song for him. It will reach all Anajo spirits. They will make him welcome.”

“I am glad you survived,” said Ro. “That would have pleased him.”

“I thought I would die. But when the second sun rose the Almecs fled. What will you do now, Questor Ro? Will you try to go back to your place of stone?”

“No. I will stay here if you will have me. I will teach and I will learn. I will find a way to make a history of these events.”

Touchstone laid his hand on Talaban’s brow. “He will live in my heart always. And my sons shall learn of him. And their sons. He is a part of the People now. We will not forget.” Sofarita came alongside and Ro took her hand. She gazed down at the dead Avatar, and Ro felt no jealousy at the sorrow in her eyes.

On the shores of the Luan work was underway clearing the bodies, for disease was an ever-present threat after a battle. Vagar and Avatar corpses were carried away for burial, while the Almecs, stripped of their clothing, were burned on huge pyres.

Three Vagar workmen had paused for a noon break. They walked down to the Luan and splashed their faces with cool water. One, a young carpenter named Leshan sat down and glanced toward the north. “Another body there,” he said, pointing to a blackened corpse half out of the water.

“Leave it. I’m exhausted,” said another.

“I like to do what I’m paid for,” said Leshan, rising and walking across to the body. It was lying face down,
the clothes singed, the shirt in tatters. The flesh beneath showed black and red burns. Leshan could not tell whether the corpse was Vagar or Almec. With an effort he rolled it onto its back. The man’s chest was badly scarred and most of his hair had been burnt away, but his face was unmarked. Leshan knew him. Who did not? He was the deadliest and most hated of all the Avatars.

Viruk’s eyes flickered open. They were pale, and gray and cold. Then he groaned.

“He’s alive,” shouted Leshan.

“Of course I’m alive,” grunted the wounded man. “I’m a god, you moron!” Viruk closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the pain. Leshan’s hand slid down to the knife at his belt. With one thrust he could destroy this man, plunging the blade deep into the heatblistered neck.

He saw Viruk’s eyes were open again, and that the Avatar was watching him. “You deserve to die,” said Leshan.

Viruk grinned, and levered himself to one elbow. “I don’t know why you sub-humans cannot grasp simple realities,” he said. “We don’t get what we deserve, idiot. We get what we get. Now if you are going to stab me, do it. If not, call for a surgeon. I may be a god, but I am a god with a broken leg.”

Leshan shook his head and smiled. Viruk was in terrible pain, and at his mercy. Yet still he could hurl casual insults and defy death.

Who could kill such a man, he thought?