Echoes of the Great Song

by David Gemmell

  More of the beasts were moving towards him now. Spinning on his heel he began to run for the camp some 300 yards distant.

  More than a dozen soldiers moved from hiding places at the camp’s perimeter. Viruk hurled himself to his right as shots rang out. He was not quite fast enough and a lead ball tore into his thigh.

  Rolling onto his back he saw the krals were almost upon him. Surging to his feet he shot three of them. Then he heard hoof beats. Swinging to his right he saw Niclin galloping towards him.

  Another volley of shots boomed. Niclin was smashed back, his body toppling from the saddle. Viruk ran to intercept the panicked horse, grabbing the pommel of the saddle as the gelding ran by. Viruk vaulted to the saddle and ran the horse at the Almec soldiers. Most were struggling to reload. Two fired their weapons. One shot missed, but the second took Viruk high in the chest.

  The horse galloped into the camp. Viruk steered it past the supplies and on to the river wall. Here he dismounted and scrambled up to the steep slope. The krals were close behind. Dropping to his knees Viruk waited calmly for the beasts to reach the foot of the slope. He had known, as had all the Avatars, that he would die today, and he found himself thinking of his garden. He smiled as he pictured the surprise on Kale’s face when he discovered that Viruk’s house, grounds and wealth had all been willed to him.

  He hoped he would make a home there for the little potter.

  Then he took aim. And sent a bolt of lightning into the hundreds of barrels clustered below.

  The explosion was colossal and a gigantic pillar of fire blasted into the sky. Viruk was lifted from the top of the river wall, his body hurled high into the sky.

  Such was the noise that for a moment all fighting on the battlefield ceased, as men looked up at the billowing smoke, swirling higher and higher. The disciplined Almecs reacted better, shaking off their shock and sending a volley into the massed stunned ranks of the Vagars.

  Once more the Vagars hurled themselves at the Almec line. At the center Pendar urged his soldiers forward. He was bleeding from a cut on the brow, but he felt no pain. The few lessons Talaban had given him in the art of sword play had kept him alive, and he had already killed two Almecs. His soldiers swept around him, giving him a short breathing space. He glanced left and right. The Vagars outnumbered the Almecs by at least three to one, but they were mostly untrained and the defensive line was holding.

  Even though he was unversed in the ways of battle Pendar was still an intelligent man. He could sense the battle shifting. Vagar losses were rising and it would not be long before the fighting citizens were driven back.

  Even as the thought occurred to him he saw a regiment of Almecs moving out in a flanking maneuver.

  Once they had formed a battle line they would be able to send volley after volley into the unprotected right flank of his force.

  Then he heard a series of trumpet blasts from the east.

  Over the hills came a line of marching men, dressed in armor of bronze, and carrying long shields and spears. Hundreds of them came into sight. The trumpets sounded again, and the soldiers formed into four lines and rushed at the flanking Almecs. The fire-clubs boomed, but the shields of the advancing force took most of the impact.

  The long spears dropped into the horizontal attack position. The Almecs tried to stand firm, but the spears tore into them. Then the attacking line opened and hundreds of swordsmen charged the defenders, hacking and slashing. Within moments the Almec regiment had been cut to pieces, the survivors fleeing back to the main force.

  Pendar felt a surging sense of joy. The battle had shifted once more and now the Almecs were fighting for their lives, slowly retreating back up the hill, attempting a fighting withdrawal to the safety of their ships.

  All along the line the almost demoralized Vagars found new heart.

  Pendar shouted for the charge and his soldiers followed him, cutting a path into the fleeing Almecs.

  The retreat turned into a rout, the enemy spinning on their heels and running for the transient safety of the river. Small groups of Almecs formed fighting circles, but these were soon overrun.

  On the city walls Mejana, realizing that victory was close, ordered the last of the militia companies to race out and join the battle.

  The bronze-armored newcomers, in perfect formation, marched across the battlefield to the beat of a score of drums. The Almecs fell back before them, throwing aside their weapons. Some threw themselves to their knees begging for mercy. None was forthcoming.

  At the river the dismayed Almec force found the golden ships had deserted them. Milling and confused they offered no real resistance to the swarming, murderous attacks the Vagars launched against them.

  Immediately weary now, Pendar stood back from the slaughter. He made no attempt to stop the massacre. This was, he considered, a day of reckoning.

  A figure in bronze armor walked up to him. “Are you in command?” he said, lifting off his helm.

  “Loosely speaking,” admitted Pendar. The man was incredibly handsome, his hair dyed gold at the temples, his eyes large and violet.

  “I am Ammon. I trust my arrival was timely?”

  “It was indeed, sir. However, there is another army besieging Pagaru. Your aid would be most welcome.”

  Ammon gazed about the battlefield. “Where are the Avatars?” he asked.

  “All dead. They charged the enemy and destroyed their base.”

  “That was the thunder we heard,” said Ammon. “I thought the skies had fallen. All dead, you say?”

  “It was a valiant charge. Glorious to behold.”

  “I am sorry to have missed it,” said Ammon. “This means then that the Lady Mejana controls the city?”

  “Yes and no. She holds power until we can elect a ruling council.”

  “I think you will find you need a king,” said Ammon. “But such thoughts can wait for another day.”

  Sofarita called Methras to her as the first then of the Avatar soldiers, along with Questor Ro, climbed into the silver longboat and headed for the moonlit shore. “You must sail back as swiftly as we came,” she warned him. “If all goes well this will be the last voyage of the Serpent.”

  “The last voyage? I don’t understand. There should be power in her for years yet—even with the Music.”

  “Not for much longer. Anu’s pyramid will not feed the stones, but draw the power from them. That is its purpose. He foresaw the coming of the Crystal Queen. If the Serpent is still at sea when the pyramid is complete she will wallow and sink.”

  “How then will we come back for you?”

  “You will not.”

  Turning away from him she walked to the deck rail and stood beside Talaban and Touchstone. The tribesman was scanning the shoreline. The silver longboat returned. Talaban climbed down the rope ladder, followed by Touchstone and the remaining ten Avatar bowmen. Sofarita climbed last. Her joints ached with the effort and there was a flaring pain in her left hip.

  Talaban helped her down.

  The longboat swung and headed for shore. “Will you tell me now what has happened in Egaru?” said Talaban.

  “They have defeated the invader,” she said. “But at great cost.”

  He gave a grim smile. “Damn the cost. Rael is a fine strategist.”

  “Was,” she said. “He is dead. And the cost was greater than you could imagine. All the Avatars died with him.”

  The men in the boat were silent as she told the story of the destruction of the Library and the last charge, and of how Viruk had galloped his mount through the line of beasts, drawing them into destruction. She told them also of Ammon’s flight from the city to gather the remnants of his army, and how they had arrived in time to turn the battle.

  The longboat came to a stop at the shore, but no one moved. “We are the last of our race,” said Talaban. Sofarita gazed at the faces of the men in the boat. The expressions were thoughtful and heavy with sadness. There was no arrogance in them now. They were no longer the god-race
, merely men who had lost their families and their loved ones.

  Touchstone broke the silence. Laying his hand on Talaban’s arm he said, “Kill Almecs now. Yes?”

  Talaban did not reply, but he stepped over the side of the boat and waded to the shore. The other Avatars followed him, joining the first group and telling them of the disaster. Questor Ro ran to the boat and took Sofarita’s hand.

  Once ashore she took a deep breath. “There is no going back, Questor Ro,” she said.

  “I am where I want to be,” he told her. “Is it true they are all dead?”

  “Yes, it is true.”

  He stood silently for a moment. “We became selfish, but it was not always so. We gave the world civilization, the written word, architecture, poetry, learning. I hope when men remember us they remember the good with the bad.”

  “They will not remember you, Ro,” she told him. “Not as men. You will first become legends, and then the gods you dreamed of being. That is, if we win.”

  A slim figure moved from the shelter of the trees and stood waiting.

  Sofarita saw that it was a woman, and one of the wolf soldiers. Her face had been smeared with red lines, her brow painted black. Touchstone gave a wild whoop and ran towards her. The woman stood very still. Touchstone halted before her.

  “All is complete,” he said. “The winter of my soul is over.”

  She did not smile, but she reached out with her left hand. Touchstone took it in his right, and held it to his heart. “Did you hear my prayer-songs?” he asked her.

  “Every one,” she replied. “Did you feel my heart reach out to you?”

  “I felt it. Aya! But this is a good day!” Still holding her hand he led her to Talaban. “This Suryet,” he said proudly. “This wife of heart. Die happy now.” Then he spoke in Anajo to Suryet. “This is the Lord of the Black Ship, who promised to bring me to you. He is a good man, a fine warrior, and he has come to aid the People against the invaders. Greet him as a brother of my soul.”

  Suryet stepped forward and placed her hand over Talaban’s heart, then transferred it to her own. This done she spoke a swift sentence to Touchstone and swung away, walking swiftly toward the trees.

  “She say we go,” said Touchstone. “Enemy close.”

  Talaban nodded and led his men after her. For an hour they followed Suryet along deer paths and narrow trails through the trees. Sofarita found the journey increasingly difficult and began to fall behind. Questor Ro called out to Talaban. The warrior loped back. “What is the problem?” he asked her.

  “My joints are crystallizing,” she said. “I cannot walk much farther.” Tossing his zhi-bow to Ro, Talaban swept her into his arms. She was lighter than he expected. Ro looked crestfallen as the warrior moved back toward his men. Being small and slight he could never have carried her far, but the sight of her in the arms of another man was hard to bear.

  For Sofarita the relief from pain was more than welcome and she nestled her head on Talaban’s shoulder.

  The moon was bright in the sky, its light bathing the forest in a spectral glow. It was silent and ghost-like, not a breath of wind disturbing the trees. At the head of the column Suryet walked with Touchstone, neither of them speaking.

  Towards dawn Suryet threw up her hand, then crouched low. The Avatars halted. Setting Sofarita down, Talaban moved alongside Suryet. She touched a finger to her lips then pointed away to the right. There were campfires in a large hollow by a stream. Suryet indicated that the column should swing to the left and move around them. Talaban nodded, and the journey began again. Talaban was tired now, and ordered an Avatar soldier to carry Sofarita. Talaban himself walked at the head of the column, alongside Touchstone and Suryet.

  With the coming of the dawn they emerged from the tree line. Ahead of them was a range of mountains, but it was not the mountains that caught the eye and made the breath catch in the throat. Beyond the range was what appeared to be a black wall across the world, gigantic and dark, and stretching as far as the eye could see.

  “Almec land,” said Touchstone.

  It was alien and unnatural and Talaban could not tear his gaze from it. “It stretches for hundreds of miles,” said Sofarita.

  “Open ground now,” said Touchstone, pointing to the narrow plain between them and the mountains. “Big danger.”

  Talaban alerted his Avatars. All along the line string of light appeared on the zhi-bows. “Time to go,” he said.

  Moving out onto the slope the Avatars spread out, bows ready. There was at least a mile of open ground to cover before they would reach the foot of the mountains. They were halfway across when one of the Avatars shouted a warning. Behind them they could see armed men emerging from the trees.

  The chasing group was a half-mile back, but carrying Sofarita was slowing the Avatars, and Talaban knew there was little doubt that the Almecs would get into range before they reached the shelter of the slopes.

  Sending half the men onward Talaban and ten Avatars dropped back. The range of the fire-clubs was around one hundred yards—half that of the zhi-bows. Talaban hoped at least to slow the pursuit.

  The Almecs were running now and the gap was closing. Five hundred yards. Four hundred. “Ready!” yelled Talaban. There were at least 500 men in the chasing force.

  Three hundred yards. Two hundred.

  Talaban loosed a bolt, then another, and another. The zhi-bows sang and more than thirty Almecs were blasted from their feet.

  The charge continued. “Once more!” said Talaban. Twenty more Almecs died. Still they came on.

  The fire-clubs boomed. Shots slashed all around the Avatars. One man was struck in the forehead and dropped without a sound.

  “Back!” yelled Talaban. The Avatars began to run across the grassland. Another man was hit, but he kept running.

  “All Avatars to me!” shouted Talaban. Up ahead the soldier carrying Sofarita lowered her to the ground, retrieved his zhi-bow from Ro and turned, with the other nine bowmen, to run back to join Talaban. Forming a wide line the Avatars began to shoot into the oncoming Almecs. More than a hundred of them died before the charge broke, the remaining enemy warriors dropping to the ground and discharging their fire-clubs. Three Avatars were hit, but only one killed.

  On the mountain slopes Touchstone was now carrying Sofarita, and they were almost at the tree line. Talaban waited until they were safely out of sight then led his men onto the slope. The Almecs rose from the ground and sent a volley after them. Another man was hit in the leg. He stumbled, but carried on running.

  Twice more Talaban swung the Avatars to send more zhi-bolts into the enemy.

  And then the Avatars reached the transient security of the trees. From here they unleashed their bolts to terrible effect on the Almec warriors exposed on the slope. More than half the enemy force had been killed before they were forced to fall back.

  “One has to admire their courage,” said Questor Ro, moving alongside Talaban.

  The warrior nodded. “They certainly do not lack bravery,” he admitted. “Where to now, Questor?”

  “Sofarita says we must continue to climb. She needs to be higher than the land mass of the Almecs. Then she can really attack the Crystal Queen.”

  Talaban and his men faded back from the tree line. The two wounded men volunteered to stay behind and harass the enemy. Talaban agreed, shook their hands, and moved off.

  “They will die there,” said Ro.

  “And they know it,” said Talaban.

  Slowly they climbed on. The sounds of fire-clubs came from behind them, and the screams of dying men.

  Up ahead Suryet and Touchstone had stopped near a waterfall. From the undergrowth around them rose Anajo warriors. The One-Eyed-Fox hugged Touchstone, then moved beyond him to Sofarita. “We will hold them here,” he said. “You must go on.”

  Reaching out she took the One-Eyed-Fox by the arm. Power coursed through him. “My thanks to you,” he said with a wide grin.

  “And mine to you,” she s
aid. “It is a small repayment for saving my life.”

  Talaban came up. The One-Eyed-Fox spoke to him, but the Avatar could not understand a word. “He say you welcome,” said Touchstone. “He also say second army coming from north.”

  “We need a defensive position,” said Talaban. “Somewhere narrow that we can hold.” Touchstone translated for the One-Eyed-Fox. The two men spoke swiftly. “He say there is such a place. But with so few men we not hold long. Maybe day.”

  “We need two days,” said Sofarita. “At the very least.”

  “If it is possible it will be done,” promised Talaban.

  As the years passed within the Valley of the Stone Lion the workers grew ever more close knit. This had, at first, surprised Yasha. It was one thing, with the promise of riches, to commit oneself to a twenty-year contract, quite another to labor through the endless years in bleak monotony. Yet it had not been bleak. In the main the work had been joyous, as course after course of the pyramid was completed. An added advantage was the perennial youth and strength of the workers. The years passed, but not a gray hair was seen among them. The men felt vibrant and always full of energy.

  All save the Holy One. He aged by the day, growing ever more frail.

  It was as if he alone had accepted the burden of their passing years. At first the workers had found the change in him disconcerting, but slowly they had come to love him for it. His physical deterioration made a powerful contrast to their perpetual youth.

  When news reached them of the terrible war raging beyond the mist they felt safe here, and when Anu assured them that the building they were constructing would save the cities, and their families, they worked even harder and with greater zeal.

  Now it was almost over, Yasha felt curiously bereft.

  He stood in the deserted camp staring up at the golden pyramid. One million two hundred thousand blocks of limestone and granite weighing three million tons and standing 250 feet high. One hundred courses of stone, some blocks weighing in excess of 25 tons.