ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG by David A. Gemmell

‘How long?’

‘A year. Perhaps two.’

‘I steal small boat. Go myself.’

‘With good winds it will take you three months.’

‘It is so far?’ Touchstone was appalled.

‘Indeed it is. Added to which the western lands are immense. If a ship took you to the northern coast you could walk south for a year and still not reach your lands. That is if the ice did not kill you. Much of the world is covered by ice now.’

‘I think I steal boat,’ said Touchstone.

‘May the Great God watch over you,’ said Talaban. Rising from the table he paid for the meal and walked away.

Touchstone had found a small boat. There was no paddle, but he soon mastered the long oars and began to row himself out to sea. Better to die attempting to reach Suryet than to live as a prisoner of the Blue-hairs.

Eighteen days later, dehydrated and delirious, he had been hauled aboard a black ship. When he awoke the tall warrior was sitting at his bedside.

‘A valiant attempt, my friend,’ he said. ‘Now I think you had best accept my offer.’

Touchstone had done so. But it had now been two years since his capture. Two long, lonely years.

‘I will come home, Suryet,’ he whispered. ‘Wait for me.’

But as he was falling asleep he saw again the vision of the pillar of fire. Unlike most of his visions this was impossible to read, for surely ice and fire could not exist in the same place. Pushing it from his mind, the tribesman slept.

Chapter Three

And while the Frost Giant slept they climbed his matted fur, ever higher towards the great jaws resting upon a mountain top. Each strand of fur was thicker than a man’s arm, and within the fur dwelt demons, spirits of evil men, condemned to live for ever upon the back of the Beast. Tail-avar carried his bow of lightning, Touch the Moon his axe of silver, but Storro had the greatest weapon of all. He alone could find the magic fang and draw its power.

From the Morning Song of the Anajo

Questor Ro returned to the Serpent just before dawn. He was exhausted, though not entirely discouraged. Six times they had linked to the emanations, only for the power to drift away after a few heartbeats. It was not failure that exasperated him. Rather it was the tantalizing closeness to success. His cabin, as befitted a Questor, was large and fitted with wide windows, and a second door which led to a small, but private roofed deck on the port side of the ship. When the Serpent had been fully powered the cabin would have been considered luxurious, with its wide couches, deep chairs and thick carpets. Now, however, the tall windows allowed heat from the brazier to escape and the cabin was always cold. Questor Ro believed Talaban had this in mind when he had offered him these quarters back in the summer warmth of the port city of Egaru, the second city. Questor Ro would have been infinitely warmer in the smaller cabin, below decks, occupied by his Vagar assistant, Onquer.

Suppressing his irritation he added coal to the brazier. Then he practised the first of the Six Rituals, seeking to ease away the bone-numbing weariness that exhaustion and intense cold had brought to his system. Sitting cross-legged upon the floor, head bowed, index fingers held to his temples, the little man chanted the Prayer of One. Concentration was difficult, and random thoughts and fears intruded on the prayer. Even so, the ritual brought him inner warmth. This was pleasant, but did nothing to alleviate the weariness. It hung on him with the weight of failure.

How his enemies would love to see him return in shame. Caprishan would, of course, feign sympathy, while hiding his gap-toothed smile behind his fat hand. Niclin would be more openly hostile. He would be the one to point out the incredible waste of resources, highlighting the fact that he had predicted such an outcome, and had only sponsored it because of the once-infallible reputation of Questor Ro. The others would fall in behind them and Ro’s power on the Council would diminish rapidly.