ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG by David A. Gemmell

‘I will rot in seven hells before I serve you.’ The angry words frightened Shori, and she began to cry.

‘I want to go! I want to go!’ Boru hugged her and kissed her head.

‘It is all right. It is only a little argument,’ said Boru. ‘It is not important.’ Her crying subsided and Boru re­turned his attention to the Avatar. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.

‘Ammon’s capital is under siege. A war has begun that could see us all enslaved. I have sent messengers to Ammon, offering him assistance. I want you to go to him and convince him to bring his warriors to Egaru. It is the natural centre for defence.’

‘And for this you will return my youth?’

‘Yes.’

Boru turned to Mejana, who was now sitting beside a Vagar merchant. ‘How is it that you live, woman?’ he asked. ‘I know the blow was well struck.’

‘I was healed, you treacherous cur,’ she told him icily.

‘Now, will you do as the Questor General requests, or will you have your head cut from your shoulders?’

Boru grinned. ‘You may not believe it, Mejana, but I am glad you are alive. And it is fascinating seeing you all sitting down with the enemy. I suppose, ultimately, all life is compromise.’ He swung towards Rael. ‘Very well, I will try to find Ammon. But know this: I am your enemy, and as long as blood flows in my veins I will remain so.’

‘A threat to bring me many sleepless nights,’ said Rael, turning away. ‘Your wagon will be brought here presently. You may leave your daughter with the Lady Mejana.’

‘What? No! She comes with me.’

Rael moved in close. ‘She will be safer here than on a battlefield, Boru. But if you would prefer I can have you both killed now, and find another messenger. Make your choice swiftly.’

Boru was beaten and he knew it. He carried the child to where Mejana sat. ‘She is all that I love in this world,’ he said.

Mejana’s face softened. ‘No harm will befall her – whatever happens. This is my promise.’

Chapter Twenty-One

Anwar watched as the fireballs rained down on the capital then turned to the young king. ‘We must leave, highness. The royal guards will not be able to stop them.’

Resplendent in a gown of brilliant blue satin edged with gold, the king swung towards him. ‘Where is my new army, Anwar? Where are my soldiers?’

‘They are training, my lord, in the hills to the north. But I fear even they would prove ineffectual against these … savages.’

A fireball struck the side of the palace. A large section of painted plaster fell from the ceiling of the king’s bedchamber. Dust filled the air. ‘I rather think now is the time, highness.’

Ammon moved to the window and stared malevolently across at the golden ships. Three of them had come close to the shore. Copper-skinned warriors in golden armour were streaming down lowered gangplanks. Fifty of the king’s guards rushed at them. The enemy soldiers were carrying what looked like short black clubs. They held them to their shoulders. Fire spewed from them. The first line of guards were hurled from their feet. The remainder broke and ran.

Hundreds of enemy warriors were ashore now. Ammon swung from the window.

‘Where would you have me go, my friend?’

‘I would suggest the opposite direction to that of the enemy, highness. And let us move nowl’

Anwar led the king through to the rear of the apart­ments, down the narrow stairwell, and out to the servants’ entrance. A young slave was cowering below a kitchen window. Anwar called to him. ‘Come here, boy! Do it now!’ The slave blinked nervously, then crept forward. ‘Remove your tunic. At once.’ The boy lifted the drab grey cloth over his head and stood naked. Taking the tunic, Anwar gave it to the king. ‘Be so good as to put this on, highness,’ he said.

‘You want me to dress in a rag?’

‘I want you to be alive at the day’s end, highness.’

Ammon pulled the satin gown from his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. Then he donned the grey tunic. Anwar opened the side door and looked out. Refugees were streaming away from the city centre. A fireball landed in their midst. Three men and a woman were lifted high into the air and dashed against the wall of the palace. Anwar moved out into the throng, closely followed by the young king. They flowed into the crowd, which surged towards the southern quarter of the city. Anwar linked his arm with the king. The old man was breathless now, his lungs burning, his legs weary. Ammon threw his arm around him and half-carried him. Terrified screams broke out from the refugees ahead of the fleeing column. Huge beasts wearing black leather cross belts on their fur-covered chests had appeared from an alleyway. They were tearing into the refugees with fang and talon. The crowd panicked and began to run faster.