Echoes of the Great Song (38 page)

The ledge was less than two feet wide—just enough to allow the Avatars to crouch down, creating smaller targets. Talaban signalled them to spread out. They did so, and unstrapped their zhi-bows. “Make your shots fast,” he told them. “And let us pray the Vagar comes to our aid with all speed.” So saying he raised his bow, honed his mind to the weapon, and aimed at the back of a kneeling warrior.

Ten zhi-bolts flashed down, then another ten. Below—for a moment only—all was pandemonium. The dead did not have time to scream. Their bodies lay, tunics ablaze, black smoke rising from the terrible wounds in their backs. An Almec officer shouted a command and discipline was instantly restored. Fire-clubs were raised and a volley of shots rang out. Lead shot smashed into the rock face. A stone splinter raked Talaban’s cheek and he felt blood trickle from the wound. He remained where he was, coolly sending bolt after bolt into the startled Almecs. The man beside him was slammed back into the rock. Then he pitched forward, and fell soundlessly, his body striking the ground head first.

Talaban killed one Almec officer and two other men. Then he heard the sound of galloping hooves. He did not risk a glance but continued to shoot. Another Avatar fell from the ledge, then a third. Below his position Talaban saw Touchstone gallop his pony into the fray. The tribesman threw himself from his mount, the blade of his hand-axe slamming into the head of the last Almec officer. The trilling war cry of the Anajo echoed in the pass.

The Almecs began to fall back, moving from boulder to boulder, seeking cover. No one was now firing at the
men on the ledge. Yet there was still no panic among the fleeing men and they retreated at first in good order. The ten mounted Avatars galloped their horses down the pass, shooting from the saddle. The Vagars had dismounted and were fighting hand to hand with a group of Almecs who had taken up a defensive position directly below Talaban and his men. The fighting was fierce. Talaban saw the young Pendar defending himself against an Almec swordsman. The Vagar was ludicrously lacking in skill, his flailing blade causing little concern to his attacker. All that was keeping Pendar alive was the fact that he was backing away furiously.

The Almec suddenly charged forward. Pendar tripped and fell back. The Almec loomed above him. Talaban’s zhi-bolt took him in the side of the neck. The head was torn clear and the body fell across Pendar, blood bubbling from the severed jugular. The Vagar dropped his sword and scrambled back.

The surviving Almecs had retreated deeper into the pass, but they were being harried by the Avatars. Down below, the fighting had ended. Talaban rose to his feet. Only five of his men remained alive on the ledge and two of these were wounded, one in the shoulder, the other shot through the elbow. The drop from the ledge was not quite sheer, but it would still make a difficult climb. Sending the three fit men first Talaban edged along to the wounded.

“I can make it, sir,” said the man with the shoulder wound. He was sitting holding his crystal over the blood-drenched hole in his leather breastplate. “No bones broken.”

“Are you sure?” The man nodded. Then, with a grin, he pocketed his crystal and swung his legs over the ledge. Talaban heard him grunt with pain as he took the weight on his injured shoulder, but slowly the soldier made his way down to the ground.

The other soldier sat with his back to the rock, his face grey with pain and shock. As Talaban moved alongside him he saw that the man had two wounds, the smashed elbow and another hole just below his belt.

“I don’t believe I’ll be making that climb,” he told Talaban, trying to force a grin. Using his dagger Talaban cut away the man’s leggings and examined the wound. The ball had struck the hip, tearing the flesh and, apparently, bouncing from the pelvic bone. The gash was bleeding profusely.

“Where is your crystal?”

The soldier pointed to the pouch at his side. Talaban opened it. Placing the green gem into the man’s left hand he told him to work on the pain from the elbow. Then he took his own healing stone and used its power to stop the bleeding from the hip wound. After some minutes the man’s color began to improve.

“You hurt, captain?” he heard Touchstone call.

“No. Catch my bow!” He dropped the weapon over the ledge. It spiralled down. Touchstone caught it expertly. Returning his attention to the wounded man he gently unbuckled the soldier’s belt and then his own. Buckling them together he helped the man to stand. “I’ll take you down on my back,” he told the soldier.

“You won’t make it. Leave me here. I’ll make a try later.”

Talaban shook his head. “It is not possible with one arm. Now do as you’re told.” Pushing one end of the belt into the soldier’s good hand he slipped it around the soldier’s body, then tightened it around his own waist. “Put your arm around my neck and hold on. Not too tight, I’ll need to breathe.”

“This is not wise,” said the soldier.

“We’ll talk about wisdom when we get to the ground,” said Talaban. “Move slowly with me.” Strapped together the two men crouched down over the
ledge. “Lean your weight forward onto my shoulders,” said Talaban. Bracing himself he lay down on his stomach, then swung his legs over the edge. The soldier’s dead weight dragged him back, and for one terrifying moment Talaban thought he was being torn from the ledge. Then his foot struck a jutting rock. Taking a deep calming breath, Talaban began to move down the face. The soldier was heavier than he had appeared and Talaban felt the muscles of his shoulders being stretched to tearing point.

From below men shouted encouragement, telling Talaban where the footholds were. “A little to your left and down. That’s it, captain. There’s another just below that!”

Talaban’s breath was coming in ragged gasps now and sweat was blinding him. His right hand began to tremble with fatigue. Two of the Avatars climbed alongside him, leaning in to help him with the weight of the soldier. Slowly they made their way down. Eager hands grabbed at Talaban as he reached the foot of the face. A soldier unbuckled the doubled belt and helped the wounded man to a boulder where he slumped down and closed his eyes in a prayer of thanks.

Regaining his breath, Talaban summoned Goray to his side. “Report,” he said.

“Six Avatar dead, three wounded. Two Vagars dead, nine wounded. None badly.”

“The enemy?”

“I’ve counted seventy-two bodies,” said Goray. “The survivors fled to the east. No more than a dozen escaped.”

“Gather the fire-clubs, the black powder bags and the ammunition. Give the weapons to the Vagars and explain how they operate.”

“Yes, sir.” Goray had been one of thirty Avatars to
have experimented with the captured weapons back in Egaru. He had shown great aptitude with them.

Talaban strolled across to where Pendar was seated on a boulder. His sword was still on the ground near the headless Almec some 20 paces away.

“Are you feeling sick?” asked Talaban.

“Not any more. I’ve emptied what feels like the contents of three stomachs already. Now I just feel weak and faint. I see you are wounded,” said Pendar, pointing to the cut on Talaban’s cheek. It was still leaking blood which had stained the right side of his face.

“I think it must look worse than it is. A fragment of stone pierced the skin.” Removing his crystal, Talaban held it to the cut, which sealed instantly.

“That was a fine climb,” said Pendar. “The men will love you for it.”

Talaban ignored the compliment. “You have never had training with the sword, have you?”

“No. Was it you who saved me?”

“Yes. I shot fast and high. I am sorry. It must have been a shock when the bolt struck.”

“Shock
does not truly describe it. One moment he was leering at me—the next he had no face to leer with. I would have known then—if I had not known already—that I am really not suited to this kind of work.” He smiled and looked away.

“Do not underestimate yourself, Pendar. Soldiering is about acquired skills. You have a keen mind and you will learn. Stick close to me. Observe the routines. It will come to you. You have already made a beginning. You led that charge well. My thanks for that. It was bravely done.”

Pendar smiled. “A timely compliment, Talaban.” The Vagar relaxed, and scanned the battle site. “So this is what it is like to be a warrior,” he said. “I cannot say it
has much to recommend it. There is a stench to the air that is gathering flies.”

“When men die in combat their bowels open,” said Talaban. “There are so many songs about battles and heroes and not one mentions the stench. I think few of the song writers ever fought in one.” He sat down beside the Vagar. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. What now?”

“We send the badly wounded back to Egaru and we push on to kill as many Almecs as we can. Would you prefer to go back? There is no disgrace in it. I will commend you in my report.”

“I don’t think my grandmother would appreciate that,” said Pendar. “She is grooming me for political office. She thinks that a hero will be well received by the people.”

“She is not wrong.”

“She rarely is. She’s a tough woman, and singleminded.”

Touchstone strolled to where the two men were sitting. “I go to clifftop,” he said. “Kill watcher. Meet later, yes?”

“Be careful,” warned Talaban. “We leave in one hour.” Touchstone smiled and loped away.

“I watched him kill four men with that small axe,” said Pendar. “It was terrifying.”

“He is from a warrior people. They believe that battle is the only route to greatness.”

“And
this
is greatness?” said Pendar, gesturing towards the dead.

“No,” said Talaban. “This is savagery, and the antithesis of everything civilization stands for. But in some respects Touchstone’s people do understand truths we have long forgotten. Only in strife do we grow. What you have learned today, in a few brief moments, no book or song or teacher could ever have imparted to
you. You sat upon your horse in the mouth of the pass and you faced death. Then you overcame your fear and you charged. Have you ever felt so alive?”

“No, never,” admitted the Vagar. “And yet it was still appalling.”

“Yes, it is. All these dead men—Almec, Avatar and Vagar—could have led useful productive lives. Now they are meat for scavenging birds. If your grandmother is right, and you move into political life, you can take what you have learned here and use it to benefit your people. In my long life I have grown to realize that all men sway between being base and noble. They make decisions daily that draw them one way, then the other. Leaders should inspire nobility of spirit. Today you have seen much that is base and more that was noble. You will either be a better or a worse man for it. I think you will be a better man. Now pick up your sword. I think it is time for a few basic lessons.”

It had been a long day and Sofarita was bone-weary as she returned to the house. Questor Ro was sleeping; all but one of his servants had retired to their beds. Old Sempes was waiting for her as she arrived.

“Would you like some food, lady?” he asked. “Or perhaps I could prepare you a bath?”

“No, thank you. I think I will just sleep,” she said. She slowly climbed the stairs. Her knees and hip joints ached as she did so, yet another indication of the advancing crystallization of her limbs. She paused at the top of the stairs, then pushed on to her room. It was a small, westerly-facing bedroom with a wide arched window and a small balcony beyond. Through it she could see the stars shining above the glittering ocean.

Too tired to disrobe she kicked off her shoes, pulled back the blankets and lay down. The pillow was soft and inviting, but she did not drift away into sleep.

It was eight days since Talaban had ridden from the city with his men. She had observed his first encounter with the Almecs and found herself terrified that he might be killed. He was occupying a great deal of her thoughts now. There was something about him that reached out to her. She could not identify it. He had fought four skirmishes since then, lightning raids on Almec columns, and was now heading for his rendezvous with the
Serpent
, which Methras had sailed up the Luan estuary.

Elsewhere the news had all been dark. The Almecs had slaughtered most of the residents of Boria, Pejkan and Caval, and 3,000 soldiers were now marching slowly up the coast towards Egaru. They would be in sight of the capital in eight days. Another army of similar size was preparing to move from Ammon’s capital.

Methras had sunk two golden ships, but more and more were sailing up the river, bringing soldiers and weapons of war.

Viruk, with Sofarita’s aid, had linked with the agent Boru and together they were bringing Ammon to Egaru. She had last seen the wagon earlier that day, trundling over the farmlands near her own village of Pacepta. The settlement was deserted, the farmers having taken to the hills in search of safety.

The Almecs had landed armies all over the continent. To the far south they had crushed the nomads, killing hundreds. To the east they had fought a pitched battle with the Hantu tribe. The Almecs had suffered heavy losses, but at the day’s end more than 2,000 Hantu lay dead upon the field, among them the leader Rzak Xhen.

Twenty miles from Egaru another Almec army was camped close to the mist barrier around the Valley of the Stone Lion. They had assembled a structure of metal poles, boxes and wires and were studying the mist. Twenty of their men had tried to march through.
One made it back. He died within moments, his body aged beyond belief.

Sofarita had flown through the mist, to find that Anu’s pyramid had reached the thirty-first course, and was now almost 200 feet high. She had entered Anu’s tent. He was asleep on his cot bed. His hair was sparse and cloud white, deeply etched lines scored his face, and his limbs were stick thin. Anu awoke and gazed up at her. “I was wondering when you would visit,” he said, aloud. “Or am I dreaming?”

“It is no dream, Holy One.”

Anu closed his eyes and lay back. A faint blue aura glimmered around his body, and then his spirit rose clear. “It is good to see you, child,” he said. “How are you faring?”