ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG by David A. Gemmell

‘You weren’t expected to enjoy it, Tia. That’s what hurt him.’

Sofarita looked into her mother’s careworn face, seeking some secret sign that would say: I don’t mean it the way it sounded, but I have to say it. There was none.

Sofarita struggled to her feet once more. The giddiness had passed and she moved slowly to the bedside chest, upon which was a small oval mirror. Lifting it she looked at her face. Her right eye was bruised and swollen shut and her cheek showed two purple bruises where Bekar’s knuckles had struck her. Replacing the mirror she walked into the main room and then out onto the street, crossing it swiftly to the small home she had made with Veris.

From a chest at the back of the bedroom she took her savings. Twenty-six silver pieces in a canvas pouch. She hung it around her neck, hiding it in the folds of her white dress. From a cupboard she took a small shoulder sack and stuffed her second dress into it. Veris had owned a black pony and it was stabled behind the house. Sofarita filled a sack with what food she had to hand: a fresh-baked loaf, a chunk of honey-roasted ham and a wedge of cheese wrapped in muslin. Then she walked to the stable and saddled the pony. It took her some time to ease the bridle bit into place, but at last she managed it.

It was a 30-mile ride to the city of Egaru. She would not make it before dark.

Moving back to the kitchen she found Veris’ hunting knife, a long curved blade set in a hilt of deer horn. Belting the sheath at her waist she threw a black hooded cloak around her shoulders and returned to the pony Veris had taught her to ride and she mounted smoothly.

Then she rode along the side of the house and out into the main street, heading for the gate.

Bekar came running from his new house, shouting for her to wait. Sofarita swung the pony.

‘Where do you think you are going?’ he thundered. A crowd began to gather.

‘I am going where no decent woman is ever forced to rut with strangers,’ she said, her voice loud, almost strident. ‘I am going to a place where fathers do not give their daughters to every swordsman who happens by.’

His fat face reddened. ‘Get off that pony now,’ he ordered her, ‘or I will drag you from it.’

Without haste she drew the hunting knife from its sheath. ‘Come near me again and I will kill you,’ she told him. He stood, blinking in the fading light, the eyes of the villagers upon him. She felt no pity for him.

He stood very still, his huge arms falling to his side. All the strength seemed to flow from him. ‘I am sorry, Tia,’ he said at last, his voice breaking.

‘So am I,’ she told him.

‘Stay with us. I will make it up to you. We will be friends again.’

‘We will never be friends,’ she said coldly. ‘For I never intend to see you again.’

With that she rode the pony out through the gate, heading west towards the setting sun.

Viruk followed the line of the Luan River for several hours, hoping for sign of more raiders. But there was none, and he was growing bored. Across the wide river he could see Mud People settlements, huts of mud-caked wattle, and poorly constructed paddocks. The tribes bred like lice and if Viruk had his way he would bring an army down on them, wiping them from the face of the earth.

There were just too many people now in this land and a cull was needed.

The Questors spoke of the migration of the tribes, caused by the ice and floods that now covered more than half the planet. To survive, the northern tribes moved south to this fertile land, while the tribes far to the south were pushing north.

Soon there would not be enough corn to feed them all.

Viruk’s pony was tiring as dusk approached and he stumbled as Viruk forced him up the last hill before the old stone bridge. The river narrowed here. Viruk dismounted and gazed down at the crossing. This had been his last hope of making a good kill. But there were no soldiers to be seen.