ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG by David A. Gemmell

They walked for almost half an hour, passing through foul-smelling alleys and several derelict areas. In the distance they could still hear explosions and faint screams. Finally the woman pointed down towards a winding stream. Small houses were built on both sides of it, the village being joined by a small stone bridge. ‘That’s the village of potters,’ she said. ‘Now pay me handsomely!’

Ammon opened the pouch. The coins inside were all gold. He removed two and handed them to the woman. The slim man moved forward. ‘I think we’ll take it all,’ he said, drawing a long thin dagger.

‘Greed is so unbecoming,’ said Ammon. ‘You have more gold than you have seen in a long time. There is no more to be had. Now, I have other matters to attend to. And I do not wish to kill you. So be content.’

‘Should we be content, my dove?’ the man asked the woman.

‘Nah!’ she said. ‘Gut him, Beli.’

The knife flashed forward. Ammon parried it with his right forearm then slammed the heel of his palm into the man’s filthy face. The point of contact was just below the nostrils. Without a sound the robber fell forward to the ground. The woman stood and stared at the fallen man. Then she dropped to her knees alongside him. She started to shake him. ‘There is no point,’ said Ammon. ‘He is dead.’

‘You killed him, you bastard!’ she screamed. Ammon spun on his heel, the edge of his left hand thundering against her neck. There was a sickening crack and she fell across the body of her lover. Kneeling beside the corpses Ammon retrieved the golden coins.

The toddler awoke and started to cry. Ammon took him from Anwar and rubbed his back. ‘There, there, little one. Be still. We’ll find you food in the village.’

‘You amaze me, highness. You are very skilled at fighting.’

‘Skill is relative to the quality of the opponent. They were hardly expert.’

‘Even so. Where did you learn to make those moves?’

‘You remember the charming boy who visited us from the north. The tall one with yellow hair?’

‘Yes.’

‘He taught me to. The secret, apparently, is in the lack of speed with which the move is begun. It is rather effective.’

‘You mastered the art very well, highness. But there is a great difference between practice with a friend and combat.’

‘Indeed there is. Combat is far more exhilarating.’ Ammon moved out down the slope towards the village.

‘What made you ask for this place, highness?’ asked Anwar.

‘I have a friend here.’

‘You have a friend who is a potter?’

‘Not a friend exactly,’ admitted Ammon with a smile. ‘But he does owe me his life.’

Sadau the potter had been frightened now for most of the morning. The explosions in the north of the city, the fleeing refugees and the news of the invasion had turned his bowels to water. All that kept him from fleeing himself was the thought that, whoever the enemy, they would need pots. He was not an important man – had never wanted to be. And now his very anonymity would protect him.

He hoped.

Which caused the sight of the disguised king standing at his door to unnerve him utterly. Sadau stood, open-mouthed and wordless as he recognized his monarch.

‘I think you should invite us in,’ said Ammon, pushing past the potter. An old man followed him. He was carrying a small sleeping child.

‘Wh … what do you want … sire?’ asked Sadau. The king moved into the dingy room and sat down on a wicker chair.

‘Somewhere to rest for the night. A little food for myself and my friend. Oh … and some milk for the babe.’

Sadau stood stock-still, his mind in a whir. The enemy -whoever they were – would be hunting for the king. They would search all the houses. And probably kill whoever they found hiding him. It was like a nightmare. ‘How … how did you find me?’ he asked.

‘I knocked at the door of one of your neighbours.’

‘My neighbours know you are here?’

‘I rather think they did not recognize me. The poor rarely have the opportunity to observe me closely. Now, come along man, play the host. Fetch us some food.’