ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG by David A. Gemmell

Anwar saw an opening to an alleyway on the left and pulled Ammon into it. He no longer knew where he was, but he stumbled on. Ammon took him by the arm, pulling him to a halt. ‘Rest for a moment,’ said the king. ‘You are exhausted.’

Anwar shook his head and struggled to move on. The king held him. ‘You are too valuable to me, Anwar. If you keep this up you will have a seizure. Now let us walk.’

‘They were krals!’ said Anwar. ‘I saw one once, while journeying south. It was dead. But it was huge and terrifying nonetheless.’

Ammon gazed about him. The street was very narrow and human excrement had stained the road below the small windows. A rat moved out from a doorway and scuttled across Anwar’s foot. The old man jumped back. ‘You take me to the most interesting places,’ remarked Ammon.

More screams sounded from a parallel street. The king now led his councillor, moving swiftly to another alley, then cutting right into a deserted market square. A small child, little more than a year old, was sitting on the steps of a building. It was wailing loudly. Ammon swept it into his arms. ‘What are you doing?’ cried Anwar.

‘Seems a shame to leave the mite,’ said Ammon. ‘And he’s not heavy.’

Anwar was lost for words. Had the king lost his senses? Had the attack on the capital unmanned him? ‘Let us move on, highness,’ he said.

At the next corner they rejoined the line of surviving refugees who were heading towards the southern gates. The king came to a halt. ‘What is it?’ asked Anwar. They were on high ground now, and Ammon pointed to the land beyond the city walls. Enemy soldiers had fanned out across the gateways. The toddler, exhausted by his wailing, was now asleep on the king’s shoulder.

‘That’s what we should do,’ said Ammon. ‘Find a place to sleep.’

‘They will search the city for you.’

‘Thirty-six thousand dwellings. That will take time.’

Ammon swung left again and, holding the toddler close, moved back into the narrow lanes and alleys of the poorer quarter. Here there were people who had not run. Their clothes were rags, their faces filthy, their eyes devoid of emotion. Scabrous figures sat in open doorways and everywhere there was the stench of poverty. A stick-thin woman emerged to stand in front of Anwar. ‘You wants to pass through here, rich man? Well you can pay the toll.’ She held out a filthy hand.

‘I am carrying no coin,’ said Anwar.

‘Oh give her your ring, Anwar. I’ll buy you another.’

‘You listen to your pretty boy, old man,’ said the woman, producing a small knife and holding it to Anwar’s throat.

Holding the toddler in his left arm Ammon’s right hand flashed out, his slender fingers snapping around the woman’s wrist and twisting it. The knife clattered to the stone. Ammon picked it up and tossed it to the woman. ‘You do not seem too frightened by the invasion,’ he said, conversationally.

She rubbed her wrist. ‘What difference will it make to the likes of us? They won’t kill us. We’re nothing to them. Just as we’re nothing to the likes of you. Life will go on. Or it won’t.’ She shrugged. ‘Now give me the ring!’

‘First you will take us to the village of potters.’

The woman grinned, showing brown and broken teeth. ‘You want to have a vase made?’

‘And several goblets. Do this for me and I will pay you handsomely.’ She gazed at his rough grey tunic.

‘I don’t see no money pouch.’

‘She has a point, Anwar. Are you carrying coin?’

‘I … I don’t think this is the time or place to discuss it …’

‘Give it to me.’

Anwar reached inside his purple gown and produced a small, but heavy, pouch. ‘Lead on, lady,’ said Ammon.

‘You are a strange one and no mistake,’ she said. With a wink to a man standing in the shadows she moved off. Ammon passed the sleeping toddler to Anwar and followed her. He seemed uninterested in the slim man who followed them. Anwar cast nervous glances in the man’s direction and kept close to the king.