Echoes of the Great Song (9 page)

But he wouldn’t. Rael, for all his skills, was a prisoner to tradition, chained by a code of honor 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.”

“Did he, indeed? Fetch him to me.”

“Yes, lord. He had the best interest of the villagers at heart, lord.”

“I’m sure that he did,” said Viruk amiably. “Fetch him.”

The woman returned with a jug of wine. Viruk tasted it. It was cheap, young, and remarkably sour. Looking up at the woman he ordered her to wait outside.

The large man reentered the building just as she was leaving. Behind him came an elderly man dressed in a full-length tunic of green wool. “You are Shalik?” said Viruk.

“I am, lord,” he answered, offering a deep bow.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“Little to tell, lord. I have been headman now for seven years, appointed by the General.”

“You have a family?”

“Yes, lord. A wife, four sons, two daughters. We have recently been blessed with two grandchildren.”

“How nice,” said Viruk. “Now, you gave away five of the General’s wagons yesterday. Would you explain the thinking that led to this deed?”

“There were thirty raiders, lord. They could have sacked the village. Instead I negotiated with them. At first they wanted all the wagons, but I am a skilled negotiator. They settled for five.”

“And why do you think they needed these wagons?”

Shalik blinked and licked his thin lips. “To … carry goods, lord?”

“Indeed. Without the wagons they could not have plundered farms and settlements. As a result of your
negotiation
they filled their wagons with the General’s property. Because of your
skill
they felt empowered to slaughter the General’s workforce. Not so?”

“I was protecting my village, lord.”

“Men make choices,” said Viruk, with a smile. “Sometimes they are good choices, sometimes bad. You made a choice. It was a bad one. Now go home and cut
your wrists. I will come by to examine your body before I leave. Go now.”

Shalik threw himself to his knees. “Oh lord, I beg of you … spare me!”

The emotional display irritated Viruk, but he did not show it. “You aided the enemy, man. The penalty for such a crime is your execution and the deaths of your entire family. Do this small thing, Shalik, and your family can go on with their lives, secure in the knowledge that you saved them. For, if you are not dead within the hour, I will come to your house and I will kill your wife, your four sons, your two daughters and your grandchildren. Now be gone, before I regret my generosity.”

The large man led the weeping Shalik from the house. He returned moments later.

“You are now the headman,” said Viruk. “What is your name?”

“Bekar, lord.”

“Well, Bekar, the next time raiders approach you will deny them any aid. Is that not so?”

“It will be as you command, lord.”

“Good. Is Shalik’s house better than yours?”

“It is, lord. He is a rich man.”

“He is a dead man. His property is yours.”

“Thank you, lord.”

“Now send me one of the village whores. It has been a long day and I need the services of a woman.”

“There are no whores in the village, lord.”

Viruk stood and gave the man a broad smile. “You could become one of the shortest-lived headmen in history, Bekar. Is that what you want?”

“No, lord. I will fetch a woman immediately.”

There were many things that Sofarita wanted to say as she stood in the doorway of her father’s house. She wanted to look into the Avatar’s pale eyes and tell him she loathed him worse than any plague. She wanted to ask him how he could consider rutting when a good man was sitting with his family, telling them he was being forced to kill himself. Yet she could not. For despite her pride, and an irrepressible personal courage, she knew that to anger this man would bring terrible retribution on others. Sofarita would have willingly spoken her heart to this man, even in the sure knowledge of death. Yet the Avatar, this slim young killer, would have no compunction about killing her entire family. Perhaps the whole village. To risk such a tragedy would be foolhardy in the extreme.

Instead she stood in the doorway, head bowed, hands clenched tight beneath the red shawl wrapped around her slender shoulders, hoping that the racking cough she had endured for the last three months would not ruin what chance she had of placating this man of evil.

Her father had chosen her for this distasteful mission because she had been married for two years. He felt his widow daughter would find the violation easier to accept. How simple men are, she thought. How little do they understand the nature of such violation.

Yet she had not criticized him. At twenty-two Sofarita could read the faces of men, and she saw in Bekar a terrible fear, and a great longing. He had been made headman and this, he believed, would bring wealth and security to his family. Yet it all rested on the charms of his daughter.

Sofarita thought him short-sighted. There would be no wealth, and precious little security for the headman of Pacepta. They were too close to the borders of the Erek-jhip-zhonad, and soon other raiders would come, followed by settlers who would either kill the villagers or force them from the land. The Avatars would be wiped out. Everyone knew that. The sure knowledge of it whispered in the movement of the wind-rustled corn. It could be heard in the fluttering of a sparrow’s wing. But great damage could still be done to the Vagars in the death throes of the Avatar Beast.

The Avatar Beast …

She raised her eyes and looked at the man. His face was handsome, his yellow hair close-cropped at the front and sides, long at the back. At the temples the hair was dyed sky blue. He smiled and beckoned her forward. It was a gracious smile, full of warmth and friendship. But then, thought Sofarita, if evil wore an ugly face no one would yearn for it.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said. The voice was light, but yet still manly. It was the voice of a bard or a singer. She looked into his pale grey eyes, seeking sign of the cold killer she knew him to be. There was nothing to be seen. The horror lay below the skin, behind the eyes.

“I am a widow, lord,” she said, averting her dark gaze from him.

“And that is your life story? How drab. Did your husband teach you to be a good lover before he died?”

Anger flared in her, but she suppressed it, though her
cheeks burned red. Suddenly she coughed, the spasms rocking her. Bile and blood entered her mouth but she swallowed them down.

“Have I offended your Vagar sensibilities?” he asked her. “If so I apologize. Now close the door and show me your body.”

As she did so she considered his question. Had Veris made her a good lover? Did a woman need a man to show her how to make love? But then, she reasoned, he does not mean what he says. To a man a good lover was someone who offered
them
the most pleasure. Veris had not
made
her a good lover, he had
been
a good lover. Something she believed this Avatar would never understand. Sofarita pushed shut the door, then turned and let her shawl fall to the floor. Beneath it she was wearing a simple dress of white wool, laced at the front with silver ribbon. She began to untie the lace. The Avatar rose, moving smoothly to stand before her. His nimble fingers took her hands and drew them away from the ribbon. Then he untied the dress, slipped it over her shoulders and allowed it to fall to the dirt floor.

His right hand slid over her belly. “You have borne no children,” he said. “How long were you married?”

“Three months.”

“Follow me,” he said, and walked through to the back of the house and into the main bedroom. The bed was of carved wood, the mattress laid over wooden slats. He dragged back the blankets and knelt by the bed. For one insane moment Sofarita thought he was praying. Then he rose. “No bugs that I can see,” he told her. Swinging toward her he suddenly slapped her face. It was not a hard blow, but it stung.

“Why do you strike me?” she asked him.

“For your impertinence,” he told her, with a bright smile. “The correct answer was ‘Three months,
lord.’
How did your husband die?”

Her face was hot from the slap. “He was gored by a bull, lord.”

“How sad. Now get into bed.” Sofarita did so, averting her eyes as he removed his clothing.

His lovemaking was assured and surprisingly gentle, and Sofarita did her best to make him believe that she was enjoying the experience. When at last he rolled clear of her she even reached out to stroke his cheek. His fingers snaked out and grabbed her wrist. “There is no need for further play-acting,” he said, still amiable. “You did well. The tension is gone from me.”

“I am glad I pleased you, lord,” she said.

“No, you are not. You are glad that your father will not suffer.”

Rising from the bed he dressed swiftly and walked back to the outer room. Sofarita lay for a while in her parents’ bed, then she followed him. Lifting her dress from the floor she shook the dust from it and put it on.

“Shall I leave, lord?” she asked.

“No, sit with me for a while.” She joined him at the table and he poured her a goblet of wine which she sipped dutifully. She felt the cough rising again, and took another sip of wine. “Did you know that you are dying?” he asked her, his voice bright, almost cheerful.

The words shook her. “You are going to kill me?” she asked.

Leaning forward he slapped her again. “How many times must you be told? Are you so stupid that a simple instruction, a small courtesy, is beyond you?”

“I am sorry, lord. Your words frightened me. Are you going to kill me, lord?”

“No, I am not going to kill you. You have a cancer in your chest. It has already covered one lung. How long have you been bringing up blood?”

“Some weeks now, lord.” Deep down she had known the truth but had not faced it. Now she was forced to.
Her energy had been low now for months, and weight had been dropping from her despite the meals she consumed. She took a breath, seeking calm. It was a shallow breath, but all she could manage these days. Then he spoke again.

“Well, a man should always pay for his pleasures,” he said, rising to tower over her. From a pouch at his belt he took a green crystal which he held to her breast. Pain pierced her and she cried out. “Sit still,” he said. A feeling of warmth entered her belly, rising into her chest. It seemed to focus on the right side of her body, seeping deeper. Sofarita felt dizzy, but the Avatar’s left hand dropped to her shoulder, steadying her. At last the warmth subsided.

“Take a deep breath,” he said.

She did so, and to her delight her lungs filled with air.

“You are healed,” he told her. “Now you may go.”

“You have given me life, lord,” she whispered.

“Yes, yes. And next time I see you I may take it away. Now go and tell your father I am well pleased. Tell him also to bring out Shalik’s body so that I may see it before I leave.”

Sadau, the potter, had no desire whatever to deliver the head of the king’s brother. He had seen the bodies of those who had angered Ammon—bodies impaled outside the royal palace. Sadau had no wish to be impaled. As he rode to the first bridge across the Luan he halted his pony and gazed around. No one was in sight. With one heave he sent the head spinning out into the rushing water. It sank like a stone.