ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG by David A. Gemmell

Softly he sang the Song of Far-away, knowing the music of his spirit would touch the dirt within his pouch and would thus reach the mountains of his youth. There the trees would pick up the song, and whisper it through their leaves until it reached the tents of his people.

Then Suryet would hear it sighing on the wind. She would look up, her deep, dark eyes scanning the blue, seeking sign of him. And she would know he was alive and that one day he would find her again.

Eyes closed he sang the song with feeling, repeating it twice more, his mind reaching out to Suryet, hoping for a glimpse of her.

Instead he saw a pillar of fire, surging up through snow and ice. Then it was gone. The vision troubled him, for he could not decipher its message. Ice and fire. It meant little to the Anajo tribesman.

Looping his medicine bag over his neck he tucked it into his shirt, and stretched out upon the rug. Touch­stone did not like beds. Soft pillows made his neck ache.

He lay upon the floor, arms folded across his chest, and pictured again the wild hills and the hunts, saw once more the glorious day of his marriage, and recalled with ever-increasing fondness the first night with Suryet.

Two months later the Blue-hairs had landed in the Sacred Cove. Touchstone had been among the war band who fought them. They would have won, but for a black-haired warrior carrying two swords. His speed was terrifying, and he had stood his ground as others fled. As his comrades died around him Touchstone had hurled himself upon the warrior, seeking to bury his axe in the man’s skull. Someone had struck him upon the head, and he awoke to find himself locked in an iron cage deep in the bowels of this ship.

The journey had been long, and Touchstone had been taken to a city of stone where, day after day, Blue-hairs had come to him, struggling to teach him their language. Months had passed. And he had learned. He had learned their language, and much more. He had learned to hate them.

They asked him many questions about his people, and whether gods walked among them. He answered them with lies and half-truths, until the bright day when he had been allowed to walk in the gardens. He had surprised them then, sprinting away and leaping to grab the low branch of a tall tree. Swinging up he had scaled the trunk and leapt the wall. Landing heavily, he twisted his ankle. Yet still he had escaped into the twisting alleyways around the castle.

Weaponless and injured he had sought a path to the sea, intending to steal a boat. He made it to the dock, and stood staring at the ships moored there. There were no small boats, no canoes. His heart sank.

A figure moved out of the shadows and he found himself facing the same warrior who had killed his friends. Touchstone tensed, ready to attack.

‘I understand you have learned much,’ said the man.

‘I make you dead,’ said Touchstone.

‘Perhaps. But not without a weapon, and certainly not with an injured leg. Sit down on the wharf and I shall heal it for you.’

There was nowhere to run, and with his swollen ankle Touchstone could not have escaped the man. He did as he was bid and sat down. The warrior knelt over him, then took a green crystal from his pouch, holding it to the injured limb. Instantly the pain began to subside. After several minutes the warrior rose. ‘Try standing on it,’ he said. Warily Touchstone did so. All pain had vanished. ‘Come, let us eat and talk,’ said the warrior, turning away from the tribesman and walking towards a dockside inn.

Touchstone had followed him. He still did not know why.

Inside the inn the warrior, Talaban, had ordered a meal of good red meat. Touchstone ate it.

‘One day,’ said Talaban, ‘I shall return to the west. If you desire it I shall take you with me.’

‘Wife is there,’ said Touchstone. ‘Must return.’

‘There is a war coming, and no ships are making that journey now. But when they do you shall travel with them. This I promise.’