Echoes of the Great Song (28 page)

The golden ship closed in, nestling against the stone wall of the wharf. For a moment there was no movement. Then a score of gangplanks dropped and soldiers armed with the black clubs began to run down them. They were lightly armored with breastplates of stiffened leather and helms of copper. They carried no shields.

As the first of them reached the dock Rael led his fifty Avatars from hiding. Swiftly they formed a fighting line and zhi-bolts slammed into the gathering enemy soldiers. Scores died, but the survivors, with great discipline, did not panic. Instead they raised their black clubs to their shoulders. The sound of thunder followed. More than half Rael’s men were punched from their feet. From further along the dock the 200 Vagars emerged and charged the attackers. It seemed to Rael that their fire-clubs were suddenly useless, and only sporadic shots followed. Vagar swordsmen hacked and cut their way through the enemy ranks. Rael yelled to his remaining archers: “The openings! Aim for the openings!” Lifting his zhi-bow he sent a flashing bolt through the first of the gangplank doors. It exploded within, creating a burst of bright light and flame. Bolt after bolt followed. Fire sprang up within the ship.

On the dockside the Vagars in their armor of iron continued their advance. The golden ship drew back. Soldiers still on the gangplanks toppled into the bay. The fighting on the dockside was fierce now. More than a hundred of the copper-skinned warriors had made it to the shore, but they were heavily outnumbered and fighting for their lives. Casting aside their fire-clubs they drew daggers or short swords. But they were no match for the heavily armored Vagars.

As the ship pulled away a ball of fire whooshed from it. Rael saw it. “Get back!” he shouted to his Vagars.

No one heard him above the battle clamor. The fireball exploded in the midst of the fighting men. Scores on both sides died instantly, their clothing aflame, their limbs torn from their bodies. Others began to writhe in agony on the dockside, hair and skin on fire.

Panic-stricken, the surviving Vagars ran back. Almec soldiers leapt into the sea and tried to swim towards the ship.

Rael pulled his Avatars back to the alley. Flames were flickering inside the golden ship, but these were soon snuffed out.

Turning to his men he took ten of them and smashed the door to the warehouse that backed onto the alley. Once inside he ran to the stairs, climbing up to the roof and emerging high above the dock. The golden ship was approaching again. A fireball sailed over the dock. The roof of the next building exploded. Rael began to count, slowly and evenly. As he reached fifteen a second ball hissed overhead, falling behind the building.

“On my mark shoot at the mouth of the fire weapon!” he ordered his men.

Running to the edge of the roof they aimed their bows. Rael counted slowly to ten then loosed a bolt which struck the long bronze tube jutting from the forward deck. Light blazed, but there was no damage to the weapon. Other bolts struck home—to no effect. Rael fired again. This time the bolt flashed into the mouth of the weapon just as the fireball was emerging. It exploded in the tube. The weapon was ripped away in the explosion, sections of bronze soaring into the sky. Fierce, raging flames engulfed the ship’s prow.

Listing to port, the golden vessel backed away. Another ship entered the harbor. Rael swore softly.

Questor Ro tried to open his eyes. His body was a sea of pain, his left eye swollen shut, his left arm pinned beneath
a mound of rubble. He tried to move his right hand—and realized that three fingers were broken. His chest felt cramped, his breathing restricted. Opening his right eye he saw that one of the roof beams had fallen across him. His right hand was wedged against the Sunfire. It was no longer vibrating. Broken stone blocks had half-covered the weapon and the roof beam was resting on its barrel. That was why Ro had not been crushed. As the ceiling fell the beam had struck him but then been stopped by the Sunfire.

Am I dying? he wondered. The pain was excruciating. His legs ached and he tried to move his toes. It seemed to him that he could, but then he remembered an amputee once telling him that he could still feel the fingers of the hand that had been lost. Ro dragged back his broken right hand and tried to reach the pocket of his torn tunic. The fractured fingers flared with fresh pain as he reached inside and he was unable to draw out the crystal. Instead he laid his hand gently upon it and began to speak the first of the Six Rituals. The pain subsided and he felt the bones begin to knit. As his strength returned he pushed away the rocks covering his belly and legs and wriggled free. As he did so he saw one of the golden ships, its prow aflame, backing out of the harbor. A second ship was moving alongside.

Ro scrambled to the rear of the Sunfire, pushing aside the rubble. The firing handle had snapped off halfway down and the rear sight was gone. Even so he could see that the weapon was pointing directly at the two ships.

He paused momentarily. Even if the weapon fired he could only take out one of the vessels. The other would certainly destroy him.

Death. That long descent into darkness. It was an appalling thought for a man who could live forever.

What is life without honor? he asked himself. Grabbing
the broken handle he wrenched it down. For a moment nothing happened. Then a blue flash erupted from a fracture in the barrel—and the last bolt it would ever fire tore itself clear of the Sunfire. The weapon had been tilted by the roof fall and the massive bolt of energy almost missed the second ship. The charge struck high on the upper deck, ripping the control cabin clear. Deflected, the bolt shot high into the sky where it burst with the sound of a hundred thunders.

The stricken golden ship increased its speed and clove through the water towards the docks. It loosed no fireballs, nor slowed as it approached the wharf. Its prow struck the stone. The timbers shivered and gave. And the ship ploughed on, smashing its hull, then listing heavily. Men scrambled to the decks and jumped over the side.

Ro eased himself clear of the ruined Harbor Tower and sat down on the rubble. He was tired and still in great pain, but he watched with dispassionate interest as Rael and his archers killed the survivors.

The golden ship tilted once more, then rolled and sank.

Outside the harbor the lead ship drew back. Across the bay four more of the golden vessels were sending fireballs into the helpless city of Pagaru.

Crouched on the western battlements of Pagaru, Niclin and four senior officers waited for the invasion. Behind them a score of buildings were ablaze. Bodies littered the streets. A section of the wall to Niclin’s right was torn away. Three Avatar soldiers were carried to their deaths.

Keeping low, Niclin edged along the battlements and peered through the hole in the wall. The first of the golden ships was gliding towards the dockside. Openings
appeared in the ship’s hull and Niclin could see warriors gathering there.

Suddenly a huge explosion lit up the sky. Niclin blinked, and transferred his gaze out to sea. One of the golden ships was listing badly, smoke pouring from her midsection. As Niclin watched she toppled and sank swiftly below the waves. Below, in the harbor, the openings in the golden ship’s hull were swiftly being closed as the vessel drew back. His view restricted, Niclin pushed himself to his feet—and saw salvation!

Like a black shadow of death
Serpent Seven
hove into sight, her dark prow cutting through the waves at full speed. A blast of light flashed from her, striking a second golden ship, ripping away the stern. The two remaining Almec vessels sped out to sea, and the
Serpent
swung back into the harbor.

Avatar soldiers moved from their hiding places at the dockside and began cheering. Niclin himself felt a wave of exultation, but he quelled it and marched back along the battlements to where his officers waited. Keeping his voice calm he told them to organize fire crews and rescue workers. Then he strode down to the dockside.

As the gangplank was lowered Niclin boarded the ship. A young Vagar sailor led him to Talaban’s cabin. Niclin entered. The tribesman Touchstone was seated on the rug. Talaban rose from behind his desk, bowed and offered the Questor a goblet of wine.

“Your arrival was timely, captain,” said Niclin, accepting the drink. “Though it would have been more pleasant to see you an hour ago.”

“The fault was entirely mine, Questor. We took shelter from the storm last night. It delayed our arrival.”

“A shame it did not do the same for the Almecs.”

“They are under no power restraints,” said Talaban. “Are your casualties high?”

Niclin sipped his wine. He did not like Talaban, but he knew he was being surly toward a man who had proved the savior of the city. He sighed, and when he spoke his voice softened. “Rescue work is just beginning, but I would think several hundred lost their lives. You used the Sunfire well, Talaban. If we had five more like it we could even win this war.”

“It is not lost yet, Questor,” Talaban pointed out.

“No, not yet. Eight of the golden ships sailed up the Luan. They will have landed an army to our rear. An equal number moved south. The Questor General has sent orders to Pejkan, Boria and Caval to surrender without a fight. He believes such a move will prevent excess casualties, and destruction to property. I disagree. If he had commanded the Vagars to fight they would have killed at least some of the enemy.”

“And been wiped out in the process,” Talaban pointed out. “And that would have affected the morale within the twin cities.”

“Those are all we control now,” said Niclin, sourly. “Five golden ships have been destroyed. Nineteen remain. And, within days, there will be two—perhaps three—land-based armies to oppose us.”

“One problem at a time, Questor,” said Talaban. “Today we have a victory. Let that suffice for now.”

Niclin nodded, and when he spoke again there was sadness in his voice. “I saw three Avatars killed today. In an instant. Men I have known for more than two hundred years.” He flicked his fingers. “Like that they were gone. This morning they were immortal. They were gods. Now they are twisted dead flesh. If I were a religious man I would suspect that the Source has deserted us.”

Talaban poured a goblet of wine and handed it to Niclin. “It seems to me,” he said, “that victory always
goes to the strong. The Source—if such a creature there be—has little to do with it.”

Touchstone chuckled and shook his head.

“You have something to say, savage?” said Niclin.

Touchstone moved smoothly to his feet. “You dream small dreams,” he said. Then he left the room.

Thirty-five Avatars had lost their lives on this, the first day of battle. Thirty-five immortals. Men whose lives had spanned the centuries. Rael sat in the Council Chamber, his heart heavy. With him were Questors Niclin and Caprishan and strewn on the table before them were several of the black fire-clubs. Lifting one, Rael examined it. There was a long hollow metal barrel, encased in polished wood, and a number of sprung levers. “It is not a weapon of magic,” said Niclin. “It is not linked to the mind of the user.” Opening a pouch found on the body of a dead Almec he tipped the contents to the table. It was filled with a gritty black powder. A second pouch contained small round balls of heavy metal. “In some way,” continued Niclin, “these balls are propelled with great force along the barrel.”

“Find out how,” said Rael.

“We captured fifty Almecs,” said Caprishan. “They are being questioned now. But they are hardy men and are saying little.”

Rael glanced up. His eyes were cold. “Take ten of them to the Crystal Chamber. Draw the life from one of them while the others watch. Then see how swiftly they want to speak.”

“The weapons are not as effective as zhi-bows, Rael,” said Niclin.

“I want to know everything about them. Their range, the speed of use. On the dock they were used once only. I saw men struggling to recharge them. How long does such a recharge take?”

“We will discover these things,” said Niclin. “The question is, what action do we take now?”

“There is nothing we can do,” said Rael. “They act, we react. We do not have the men to carry the battle to them. Not yet. But Viruk has gone to aid Ammon. With his army, and the tribes who owe him allegiance, we can yet destroy the invaders.”

“You really believe we can achieve a victory?” asked Caprishan.

“I have to believe it,” said Rael.

It was midnight before the carriage came to a halt outside his home and Questor Ro climbed down wearily, neglecting to thank the driver. Ro’s broken hand was extremely painful, and his ribs and left leg were aching. He had used the ritual to begin the healing process, but broken bones needed at least four sessions, and no more than two in any single day. Otherwise the point of the break remained brittle and liable to snap easily.

He limped towards his front door. A servant saw him coming and, bowing low, stepped out to greet him. Ro paused at the steps and stared back over the city. From the high ground where his imposing home was situated Ro could look down on the harbor and the estuary beyond. Some buildings were still burning, and a red glow hung over the docks. He sighed, and felt the pain of his wounds.

“May the Source be praised that you are alive, lord,” said Sempes, bowing again. Ro looked closely at the old man and wondered if he meant it. It was not a thought that would have occurred to him before today.

“How long have you been with me, old one?” he asked.

“Thirty-three years, lord.”

“Are you married?”

“I was, lord. My wife died last year.”

“I am sorry for your loss.” The old man looked at him quizzically.

“Are you ill, lord?”

“I think that I have been. Would you be so kind as to prepare me a bath?”

“I shall arrange it immediately, lord. The water is already being heated.”

Ro stepped into the hallway and gazed around at the lantern-lit walls. They were covered with beautiful paintings, landscapes of Parapolis and the surrounding countryside. “Let me remove your boots, lord,” said Sempes, kneeling beside a gold-embossed chair. Ro sat down and extended his right leg. Sempes pulled the boot clear. Ro winced as the old man tugged at his left boot. “Your leg is hurt, lord. I am sorry.”