Echoes of the Great Song (6 page)

“Thank you, lord,” said the man.

Questor Ro stood with the box in his hands, feeling the gentle vibration of Communion. Some sixty miles away, buried beneath the ice, the Great Pyramid was even more closely linked to him now. And less than a mile from the pyramid was his home, and the icy, unmarked grave of his beloved wife Tanya and his children. Questor Ro sighed.

“If I could I would have died with you,” he whispered.

Karesh Var heeled his pony into a run and led his men out onto the plain. Far ahead he could see the outline of the black ship against the white ice and just make out the tiny insect figures upon the glacier itself. Why did they keep returning to the ice? What were they looking for? he wondered, as his pony steadily closed the distance between his riders and the coast.

Two years ago just such a ship had moored in the bay. Karesh Var and one hundred men had arrived as it raised its anchor and set sail towards the north. All the nomads found on the ice were holes, as if made by tent pegs. Nothing else. He and his men had dug around for a while. But there was nothing to find. It was perplexing.

As he neared the coast he slowed his pony, raising an arm for the twenty riders to follow his lead. Karesh Var’s keen dark eyes scanned the ice. Only one Blue-hair could he see, a small figure with a forked blue beard. The others were ordinary men. Karesh Var was nervous. Legends told of the great weapons of the Blue-hair, bows that sent bolts of light into the enemy, opening great blackened holes in the chests of warriors, bursting asunder breastplates of bronze. They spoke of black swords that shimmered with lightning, swords that could cut through metal as a wire slides through
cheese. Karesh Var had no wish to tackle a foe armed in such a manner. And yet, and here was the quandary, his young men were fighters. Indeed they loved to fight. They were, he had decided long since, men with little imagination.

“We would ride into Hell for you, Karesh,” young Jiang had told him once. He had smiled and patted the boy’s shoulder. The young were made for such futile gestures, for they believed in immortality. They were convinced—just as he was once convinced—that the power that flowed through their veins would flow forever. They gloried in their strength, and even mocked older men who could no longer ride as hard, or hunt as well as they. As if those men had
chosen
to grow old, or in some way had
allowed
age and infirmity to overtake them.

The young riders who followed Karesh Var wanted to attack the Blue-hairs, to destroy them and thus earn glory back in the village. Karesh Var would also like to destroy them, for had they not brought the world to calamity? Were they not the bringers of ice and fire? Even so he had no wish to lead his men into a battle that would end with the slaughter of his riders.

With these somber thoughts in mind he saw two men walking toward the riders. Neither were Blue-hairs. Karesh Var drew rein and waited for them. One was tall, his long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore no armor, but a short sword was belted at his side and he carried in his left hand an ornate golden bow. Karesh Var narrowed his eyes. The man was carrying no quiver of arrows. He transferred his gaze to the second warrior. This one was shorter and stockier and held a small single-bladed axe in his right hand.

Beyond the walking men the single Blue-hair was still out on the ice. He was holding a small box from which dangled bright, shining wires. It seemed to Karesh Var
that lanterns had been set upon the glacier, and they were shining brightly, and he could hear a distant hum, like a swarm of bees.

The taller of the two men had halted some twenty paces from the riders. The second man sat down upon a rock, and began to sharpen his axe with a whetstone.

The tall man drew his sword and lowered the point to touch the frosted dirt of the plain. Then, walking across the path of the riders, he steadily cut a narrow line in the earth. This done he sheathed his sword and took up the ornate bow of gold.

Karesh Var was an appreciative man. He had never envied his fellow hunters, even in the days when, as a young man, he could not match their skills. Instead he had watched them, learned from them. Now he appreciated the talents of the man before him. Faced with twenty fighters he had made no overt threat, and yet, with one simple action, had stated his intentions. He had drawn a line, created a border. The message was clear. Anyone who crossed it would face grim retribution. Karesh Var was a proud man, but not overly arrogant. He had nothing to prove to anyone. Some of his more reckless companions would have charged at the man, and he could sense the growing anger in the riders around him. Karesh Var sat his pony in silence, studying the two men. They seemed at ease, not at all nervous. Possible answers came to him. Firstly there might be warriors hidden close by who would rush out and attack if the nomads advanced. Karesh Var scanned the plain. Unless they had dug themselves holes in the tundra no such force could be seen. Secondly the men might be stupid, or unaware that the nomads hated the Blue-hair. They did not look stupid, and the line in the earth was a clever move. This left only one conclusion. They were at ease because they had no fear. They
knew
their weaponry could destroy the riders. Karesh Var
smiled as a last alternative occurred to him. Perhaps they wanted the nomads to
believe
they were all-powerful. Perhaps it was all a bluff.

Karesh Var dismounted and walked to the line in the earth. Then he looked across at the tall man and opened his hands. The tall man’s expression did not change, but he beckoned Karesh Var forward. The stocky warrior left his seat upon the rock and stood close by, axe in hand.

“Why do you come here?” asked Karesh Var.

“Because we choose to,” said the tall man. His voice was deep. Karesh Var held to the man’s dark gaze, and saw no give there. His eyes scanned the face. It was strong, the answering gaze direct and unafraid. The man was a fighter. Karesh Var could see that in every line.

“You are on my land,” said Karesh Var, keeping his tone even, still trying to read the man opposite.

The man smiled. “Nomads do not own land. They move where they will, and settle where they choose. So it has always been. You take your tents and follow the tuskers. You own only what right of arms wins for you. Were I to kill you I would own your tent, your women, and your ponies.”

Karesh Var was impressed. Not only by the man’s knowledge, but by his calm. There had still been no threats. And the bow he held was not strung.

He decided to draw him out. “What was the purpose of the line in the earth?” he asked.

“Death is permanent,” replied the warrior. “Unnecessary violence is abhorrent to me. Yesterday you made a kill, and the meat will feed your people. Yesterday was a victory over starvation and death. It would be wise to return to your tents to celebrate yesterday. For there can be no celebration found in today’s possibilities.”

“You think not? Perhaps I see it differently.”

The man shook his head. “No, for you are a wise man. A fool would have led his men in a charge, and they would have died.” He spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard by the riders.

“You believe you can kill me and all my men?” Now it was said, and Karesh Var found tension rising within him. His hand had remained close to his hunting knife, and he was poised for battle.

“Of course,” said the man. His thumb touched a jewel on the grip of his bow. Instantly four strings of dancing light flickered into being. Karesh Var was impressed. He had heard of the terrible weapons of the Blue-hair, the bows that loosed lightning.

“An interesting weapon,” observed Karesh Var, his hand now resting on the bone hilt of his knife.

“It is time for choices, nomad,” said the man. “For I am growing cold.” His voice had hardened.

“Indeed it is, stranger,” said Karesh Var, dropping his voice and stepping in closer to the warrior. “However, you seem to be a man of some wisdom, so answer me this: if a war leader brings his men on a raid, and then leaves with nothing to show for it, how then can he remain a leader? It might be better for such a man to risk death in order to save face. Is this not so?”

“It is a sad truth,” admitted the man. “You killed a mammoth yesterday. How long were its tusks?”

“Seven feet.”

“My people also use ivory for ornaments. I will offer thirty silver pieces for the tusks. By my reckoning that is twice what you and your people would receive from trade merchants for your trinkets and brooches.”

Karesh Var relaxed and gave a broad smile. Sharing out the silver would placate his men. “Agreed,” he said, “on one condition.”

“That being?”

“Though we have heard of them, neither myself nor
any of my men have seen weapons like the one you are carrying. Perhaps you would give us a demonstration.”

The warrior smiled and Karesh Var knew he understood. His men would need some sign of the power they were facing, in order for the silver to fully placate them. The warrior took a step backward, spun to his right and lifted the bow. The fingers of his right hand stroked the first string. A bolt of white light flashed from the bow, striking a rock some thirty paces to the east. The rock exploded, sending a shower of dust and fragments into the air.

“Most impressive,” said Karesh Var. “I will send two of my men back for the tusks.”

Questor Ro saw the nomads arrive, and watched as Talaban and Touchstone strode out to greet them. Then he transferred his attention to the pyramids. He had more important matters to consider. Nomads came under Talaban’s area of expertise, and Questor Ro wasted no energy considering them. Instead his mind returned to the problem of Communion. The second chest was almost full, the humming subsiding now. But it had taken almost seven hours. This was more than worrying, since the first chest had taken only three. Even allowing for the fact that some residual energy was left in the first chest—since it was the power source for the
Serpent
—such a time discrepancy was cause for alarm.

The White Pyramid had been buried below the ice for more than seventy years. Could its powers be fading already? That was a possibility rich with terrible implications, and Ro was not yet ready to consider such a calamity. Perhaps, he thought, the second chest, having been empty for so long, had developed a fault. He did not know. And this galled him.

He glanced back to see the silver longboat returning, carrying the third chest. It was also empty of power and
could be handled without fear of harm. When the six Vagars carried it to the site he handed the box to the first then, placing the wooden thimbles over his fingers and thumbs, removed the gold wires from the second chest, applying them to the third. As before he carefully slid the poles through the golden rings and stood back as the Vagars lifted the second chest, carrying it to the longboat.

Questor Ro climbed into the silver boat and returned to the ship with the Vagars. Ropes were lowered and tied to each end of the poles. Then sailors began to hoist the chest to the center deck. Questor Ro scrambled up a rope ladder to stand alongside the sailors. “Careful now,” he warned them. “Keep well back.”

The chest cleared the deck rail and a black-clad sailor tugged on the pulley arm. The chest swung over the deck. One of the poles slipped and the chest lurched. Instinctively a sailor stepped forward and threw up his arms to stop the chest sliding clear. As his hands touched the black wood there came a tremendous flash of light and heat. Blue flames flickered over the man and fire exploded from within his body, bursts of flame erupting through his eye sockets. The sailors holding the ropes leapt back as the heat seared them. The chest fell to the deck, landing on one side. The burning man had made no sound, and his blackened body fell across the chest. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air, and the other sailors stood by, horrified. Questor Ro was furious. Taking a rope he looped it over the corpse, dragging it clear of the chest.

The Vagar team clambered aboard. They too stood in stunned silence, staring down at the body. Flames still flickered and his clothing was smouldering. “Move yourselves!” roared Questor Ro. The Vagars, their fingers once more protected by the wooden thimbles, righted the chest. Questor Ro replaced the poles and ordered the men to carry it to the rear of the ship. Here he
examined the chest for any cracks or breaks. Finding none he watched as the Vagars placed it inside a larger chest lined with lead. This was then carried below to the store room.

Two blood-smeared tusks had been laid here, which brought a new flicker of annoyance to Questor Ro. This was also his workroom, and he was less than pleased to find them here. Most especially since they had been unceremoniously dumped upon his desk and blood had smeared upon several of his papers. “Remove them,” he ordered two of the Vagars. “Put them in a corner somewhere. And clean the blood from them,” he added.

“Yes, lord,” said one of them, bowing deeply.

“And send for Onquer,” he said. “We have work to do.”

“Lord,” said the man, bowing low, “I regret to tell you that Onquer died. He was dead before we reached the ship.”

This was really too much. Questor Ro had spent eight years training the Vagar. Now he would have to find another assistant and waste valuable time initiating him in the rigors of research.

He said nothing more to the Vagars and made his way to his cabin.

Two chests were full, a third was in place. All in all, it had not been a bad day.

The coal oil lantern flickered, its light casting deep shadows upon the walls of the windowless Heart Room deep in the belly of the
Serpent
. Talaban watched the four Vagars carefully lower the chest into the carved recess at the center of the room. Once they had done so he dismissed them. As the door closed behind them Talaban moved to a panel beside the recess, which he slid open. Within were two small bronze wheels. He slowly turned the first. Two copper cups inside the recess inched towards the bronze spheres at the front of the chest. Talaban spun the wheel until the cups covered the spheres. The warrior could feel his excitement rising as his hands moved to the second wheel. This he turned two full circles. At the rear of the panel was a second, hidden recess. Talaban opened it. A long sheet of shining
mica met his gaze. There were six deep indentations in the mica and in one a solitary white crystal glowed. Talaban opened the pouch at his side and from it took five more crystals, which he laid in the remaining indentations. Sliding closed the lid, Talaban took a deep breath—and gave a final turn to the second bronze wheel.