‘Aren’t you a little old to be siring children?’ Viruk asked the old man.
‘It would certainly appear so, lord,’ replied the man.
‘Where have you travelled from?’ asked Viruk.
‘Ren-el-gan, lord. My vineyards are close by.’
‘I have heard of the place. Which tribe are you?’
‘Banis-baya, lord. There are not many of us left now. Perhaps fifty. But we are no longer persecuted. The Avatar Lords have forgiven us, I think.’
Tribal history had never been of interest to Viruk. The sub-humans were always warring on one another. And the wine was making him drowsy. Climbing to the rear of the wagon he pushed aside the child’s dolls and lay down.
The sun was setting and, as he fell asleep, he felt the girl’s warm body snuggle down alongside him.
Children liked him. They always had. Which was strange, considering he loathed them.
Chapter Ten
With the sun setting, Boru angled the wagon down a shallow slope and hauled the team to a halt beside a narrow stream which flowed into the Luan River. Kicking the brake into position he climbed into the back of the wagon and gazed down on the sleeping Avatar.
How easy it would be to cut your throat, he thought.
His daughter Shori was cuddled in close to the Avatar and she was sleeping deeply, her right thumb in her mouth. Had the Avatar been alone Boru would have killed him, but he was frightened that Shori would wake, and then the blood nightmares would begin again. Taking a blanket he covered Shori. This meant covering also the hated man who slept beside her. Boru swallowed back his hatred and moved past the sleepers, gathering two feed sacks of grain. These he took to the oxen and fed them.
Then he built a small fire within a group of boulders and sat watching the sunset.
‘Aren’t you a little old to be siring children?’
Boru stroked his white beard, and felt the gnawing ache of arthritis in his bones. Shori was seven. He would not live to see her grow into a young woman, would not be there as she tossed the grain and swung the veil. Bitterness touched him then, but he pushed it aside.
He had been twenty-three years of age when the Avatars captured him, following the revolt. He and 200 others had been taken in chains to Pagaru, the second city. There they were put on trial. Boru had never been inside a city,
and the scale of the buildings had, for a brief moment, swamped his fears for his life. There were wide paved streets and columned temples. There was a marketplace, with shops and taverns, and at the centre an intricately fashioned fountain, with a jet of water rising thirty feet. Boru was from the desert where water was revered, and he gazed from the prison cart with reverence at the gushing fountain.
The courtroom was also impressive, and two Avatar magistrates sat high upon a carved dais looking down at the prisoners, who were brought in ten at a time. Boru found himself standing next to Fyal the Baker’s son. The two had been friends since childhood and they exchanged glances. Boru whispered, ‘What will they do?’ Fyal shrugged.
One of the magistrates, a slender man with shoulder-length blue hair, leaned forward. He was wearing a gown of shimmering crimson and upon his head was a skullcap of silver inset with runes.
‘You men,’ he said, his voice sombre, ‘have been accused of crimes against the empire, to wit’ – he glanced down at a scroll on the desk before him – ‘taking part in an unlawful gathering, being in possession of swords and other weapons, and of making an assault on a government building in the village of Asep.’ His pale eyes fastened on the men in chains. ‘One of you will speak in answer to these charges. You!’ His skinny finger pointed at Boru. ‘You will speak for yourself and your comrades.’
‘What would you have me say?’ asked Boru. ‘We do not accept your laws. You sent armed men into our ancestral lands and declared them under your control. We resisted. We continue to resist. We will always resist. How could we be men otherwise?’