ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG by David A. Gemmell

Viruk rode on, crossing the rich farmland, ignoring the burnt-out buildings. The raiders had cut a wide swathe through the valleys. With only fifty zhi-bows left in the city most of the garrison troops had been withdrawn, leaving the farmers helpless against raids. Viruk did not agree with the policy. It invited the Mud People and other tribes to enter the corn valleys, disrupting trade and causing shortages of food in the five cities. But then Viruk had chosen not to be part of the policy-making team. He preferred life as a soldier-captain, free to ride the wild lands, fighting and killing. Now he almost regretted his decision. The Questors had given their short-sighted orders and Questor General Rael loyally saw them carried out. Rael should forget about tradition and strip the Questors of their power, thought Viruk.

But he wouldn’t. Rael, for all his skills, was a prisoner to tradition, chained by a code of honour that had died with the tidal waves that destroyed the home world. He should have declared himself Avatar Prime. Then perhaps the outlook would have been less grim.

Viruk rode to the crest of a hill and looked down upon the walled village of Pacepta. The raiders had bypassed it to strike at lone farms, and Viruk, hungry now, decided to ride down and eat.

The guard above the gate looked frightened as he approached, but made no hostile move. ‘What do you want?’ he shouted down.

Viruk drew rein and hefted his zhi-bow. Then he rode closer. ‘You have one more chance to ask that question properly,’ he told the young man. ‘If you do not I shall kill you.’

‘A thousand pardons, sir,’ said the youth. ‘My eyes are not good. I did not see you were a … lord.’

‘Open the gate, numbskull,’ said Viruk. The youth shouted a command to someone beyond the walls and the thick timber gates were dragged open. Viruk rode through. The buildings here were squalid and there was no tavern. Riding to the largest of the nearby homes he stepped down from the saddle and moved to the front door, opening it and stepping inside. A large man was sitting at a long table, upon which a large bowl of soup was steaming gently. The man held a chunk of bread in his hand and was about to dip it into the soup as Viruk entered. The man’s small eyes blinked rapidly as he saw the Avatar. He dropped the bread and rose, his chair falling back to the floor. An elderly woman was kneeling by a fire stirring a pot of soup with a wooden spoon. She did not rise, but bowed from where she was.

‘Welcome, lord,’ said the man, forcing a smile.

‘You have bread between your teeth,’ chided Viruk, righting the chair and sitting at the table. ‘Fetch me food,’ he ordered the woman.

The man rushed away to the back of the house, returning with half a fresh-baked loaf and a dish of butter. The woman ladled soup into a clay bowl and placed it before Viruk. Then both the Vagars stood in silence as the Avatar ate. Finally Viruk sat back. ‘You have wine?’ he asked.

‘I will fetch some, lord,’ said the old woman, hurrying from the house.

Viruk looked up at the large man. He was beardless and bald, and his stomach bulged over the length of rope holding up his canvas leggings.

‘When did the raiders pass here?’ he asked the man.

‘Yesterday morning, lord.’

‘They are dead now,’ said Viruk. Leaning forward he took the last of the bread and dipped it into the remains of the soup. Finishing it he looked up at the man once more. ‘I saw when I rode in you have only two wagons. Surely a supply village like this should have more?’

‘Raiders took five of them, lord.’

‘The wagons were outside the walls?’

The man’s face paled. Viruk could see he was toying with the idea of a lie. He gave him a cold smile. All thoughts of fabrication vanished from the man’s mind. ‘No, lord. They demanded the wagons and we gave them.’

‘Upon whose order?’

‘Our headman, Shalik. He said that five wagons was a small price to pay for our lives.’