The last of the perils, but by no means the least, lay in the herds of tuskers, who roamed the forests to the east. Their shaggy hides protected them from the severity of the cold, and their tusks, some measuring more than ten feet, made them dangerous adversaries. Even sabre-tooths generally avoided the mammoths – unless they could isolate a stray.
The vast plain appeared empty. Talaban gestured to his sergeant, Methras, positioned on a hillside some 600 paces to the east. The man spread out his arms in a flat line, signalling nothing to report.
A movement out to sea caught Talaban’s eye. At first he thought it was a ship, but then he saw the great back of a blue whale lift and dip, before the sea swallowed it once more. The mystic’s words came back to him again. And now he knew that, as the tidal wave engulfed Parapolis, a whale had crashed against the Monument’s crown, ripping it away. He wondered if the little mystic had survived.
Down in the bay, sails furled, Serpent Seven was at anchor. Even here in this gentle bay the huge black ship looked unseaworthy, her decks too high, her draught too low. Talaban sighed. Drawing his black woollen cloak around him he strode down the hillside. Three Vagars, waiting for the ship’s boat, were crouched in the shelter of several boulders. They were wearing coats of white fur, and boots of sheepskin. Even so their lips were blue with cold. Talaban knelt among them. ‘Once there were vineyards here,’ he said, ‘and away to the north was a lake where the Avatar Prime had a palace. I swam in that lake as a child, and my shoulders were burned red by the sun.’
‘The lake is ice now, lord,’ said one of the Vagars, blowing into his hands. ‘Everything is ice now.’ His voice was toneless and he did not look up at Talaban.
‘Two more days, and then we will sail back to the city,’ Talaban told them.
His words did nothing to lift their spirits and he moved away from them down to the water’s edge. Chunks of ice were floating along the shoreline. Raising his arm he signalled the ship. Instantly the silver longboat was lowered to the surface.
Swiftly, without oar or sail, it glided through the water and Talaban could see the hunched, hooded figure of Touchstone seated at the tiller. Talaban shivered once more. The cold was seeping into his bones now. The three Vagars hurried down to the water’s edge as the boat neared, then waited until Talaban had stepped aboard before scrambling over the side.
‘Them’s cold rabbits,’ said Touchstone, grinning, gesturing towards the shivering Vagars. Talaban smiled. Touchstone pushed back his fur-lined hood, shaking free his black braids. ‘Nomads are close,’ he said, tapping his nose. ‘I smell them.’
The three Vagars tensed, and Talaban saw the fear in their eyes. At least they’ve forgotten how cold they are, he thought.
‘How close?’ he asked Touchstone. ‘Half a day. Twenty riders maybe. Hunting tuskers they are. They be close to here tomorrow. By dusk maybe.’ ‘And you can smell all this?’ put in one of the Vagars. ‘A good nose I have,’ said Touchstone with a wink, stroking his long curved nose. He grinned at the man. ‘You see. Tomorrow. Come dusk.’
Talaban raised his arm to signal the ship, and immediately the silver longboat began to glide backwards out into the bay. Touchstone pulled the tiller arm and the craft swung towards the waiting ship. Talaban’s gaze focused on the black vessel, with its high prow, and long, raking lines. The newly added masts were an abomination, but sadly necessary in these days of fading power. Fifty years ago there were seventy or more warships, sailing the oceans, mapping new lands, keeping the peace of the Avatar Prime. Now there was one, Serpent Seven, its power chest almost empty, its beauty scarred by the clumsy wooden masts hammered into its deck. Where once it had cleaved through the sea like a giant dolphin, now it laboured like a sick whale, needing to keep close to the shoreline, wary of every wave that threatened to capsize it.