“Why should we pay taxes to the Avatar?” Judon asked them. “Who granted them ownership of our lands? Why do we allow them to dominate us, to keep us impoverished while they grow rich upon our sweated labors? The time has come, my friends—my brothers!—to rid ourselves of these leeches.”
“And how do we accomplish this?” asked an elderly leader. “Their weapons would tear an army asunder. I myself took part in last year’s revolt. Eight thousand died upon that battlefield.”
“They did not die in vain,” said Judon. “The weapons you speak of are almost exhausted. I know that there are less than fifty zhi-bows left among the Avatars.”
He had their full attention now. “The tribes represented here can muster forty thousand warriors within the month. The cities could be ours before the first cool wind of autumn. Think of that, my brothers.”
“Aye, we can think of it,” said another leader. “But I have two questions: firstly, how do you know the strength of their weapons, and secondly where are the Erek-jhip-zhonad? They should be here.”
Judon smiled. “I know because I know. I have friends in the five cities. Good friends who are tired of Avatar tyranny. As for the Mud People …” he spread his fat arms wide. “Perhaps they remain in fear of the Blue-hair. I do not speak for them. When we have taken the cities they can come to us on bended knee and beg for scraps from our table.”
“They have twenty thousand warriors,” said the first speaker. “I do not think they will need to beg. And I, for one, will not commit my soldiers to battle the Avatars without the People of the Stars.”
Judon masked his irritation. The speaker was Rzak Xhen, leader of the Hantu tribe, whose lands bordered those of the Erek-jhip-zhonad. If he were won over he would bring more than 5,000 fighting men with him.
“My dear Rzak, your caution is commendable. I would also prefer the Mud People to ride with us. But, when we conquer, there will be greater riches without them. Now let us break off and eat. The sun is high and hot, and we can meet again this evening.”
Judon’s huge arms pressed down on the side supports of the black throne. With a monumental effort he heaved his bulk upright and moved back into his tent. Here he lay down on padded cushions.
A slender figure stepped forward from the rear of the tent. His face was youthful, his head covered with the white linen burnous of the Hizhak tribe. He sat down beside Judon. “Rzak Xhen is a mouthpiece for the Mud People,” he said. “But I think I know how to sway him.”
“We should cut his treacherous throat,” advised Judon.
The young man smiled. “Invite him here this evening, before the meeting. I will bring him to our cause.”
“How will you achieve this miracle?” asked Judon.
“As I did with you, my lord.”
“That is too much!” objected the king.
“How badly do you want his help?”
Judon filled a goblet with wine and drained it. “Do it, then—but once we have won I’ll want his head.”
Rzak Xhen was a serious man. Left to his own devices he would have worked tirelessly for his Hantu people, increasing their wealth and their prestige, quietly building their strength. Not a man of war, yet he was a fine soldier and strategist, and he was held in great respect by the leaders of minor tribes surrounding Hantu lands. His warriors did not encroach on their territories, and where lesser leaders used sword and spear to dominate their neighbors Rzak Xhen used trade. He had little regard for Judon of the Patiakes. His line was predatory, and inclined to war.
Rzak sat in his tent awaiting the invitation he was sure would come. His eldest son, Hua, sat beside him.
“He will offer us riches,” said Hua Xhen. Rzak shook his head.
“Land. He will promise to increase Hantu lands.”
Hua smiled. “Better than gold, father. We could ask for the Griam Valley. That would give us a route to the sea, and better trade.”
Again Rzak shook his head. “He will not offer what he himself possesses. He is too greedy to part with anything he already owns. No, he will offer us Avatar land—perhaps one of the five cities.”
“What will you do?”
“I will offer to think on it. Then we will go home and prepare our soldiers. When we refuse him he will attack us first.”
“Why refuse him, father?”
“Because he is a pig, with a pig’s appetite. He will—ultimately—share nothing.”
“And you believe Ammon will?”
The older man looked into his son’s eyes. He smiled. “That is better,” he said, a touch of pride in his voice. “Now you are thinking. Of course Ammon will not share. He will expect us to be his vassals. And we will be. Loyal and true. That way the Hantu will continue to grow strong. There is a significant difference between Ammon and Judon. Can you tell me what it is?”
“Both are kings, both seek glory,” answered Hua. “I do not detect any great dissimilarity.”
“Think on it, my son. The answer will come to you.”
Rzak fell silent. Hua was a sensible lad. Not a great intellect, but he was, at least, capable of learning and, given time, he would make a capable leader of the Hantu. The difference between the two kings was obvious to Rzak. Both kings sought glory, but Judon wanted it for himself, whereas Ammon of the Erek-jhip-zhonad desired it for his people. Such men build civilizations. Warlords like Judon destroy them.
The invitation came at dusk, and Rzak struggled to his feet, his arthritic knees paining him. Slowly he walked across the desert floor to the silken tent of Judon. The Patiakes guards offered him no salute, but they stepped aside for him, opening the tent flap. Rzak stepped inside.
The fat king was lounging on padded cushions, a golden goblet full of wine in his chubby hand. A younger man was sitting cross-legged beside him. He was wearing a white burnous, and a white cotton robe. Judon gestured Rzak to join him. The elderly leader suppressed a groan as he sat.
“Welcome, my brother,” said Judon. “You honor me with your presence.”
The words were oily, as was the smile that accompanied them. “How can I be of service?” asked Rzak.
“You could offer me five thousand warriors,” Judon told him. “The Avatars are finished. One great attack would bring them down. Think of the riches that would accrue to the conquerors.”
“I have riches,” said Rzak. “More than I could spend in what remains of my lifetime.”
“Then think of the new lands which will be open to you. I am willing to open a tract of the Griam Valley, allowing you a route to the sea. Added to which you will control Pagaru, the first of the five.”
Rzak sat back against the silk cushions and looked into Judon’s deep-set eyes. For him to have offered the Griam Valley so easily made Rzak suspicious. He flicked a glance to the young man in the white burnous. He was annoyed, but was trying to mask his irritation. This confirmed Rzak’s suspicions. The offer was too high, too soon. And that made it worthless. When at last Rzak spoke his voice was even and he managed a small smile. “You are very generous, Judon. I will think on what you have said.”
“My offer is not yet done,” said the king. “What is it that the Avatar possess which fills your heart with yearning?”
“Immortality,” said Rzak at once.
“This I can also give you.”
Rzak Xhen gave a cold smile. “It would be best not to mock me, Judon. I make a very good enemy.”
“There is no mockery,” said the king. Turning to the young man he spoke. “Show him!”
The youth rose smoothly and stepped across to where Rzak sat. Reaching into the pouch at his side he produced a cheap green crystal. As he leaned over the Hantu leader Rzak reached into his sleeve and drew a short dagger which he held to the young man’s belly. “I do not like tricks,” he said.
“No more do I,” agreed the young man. Touching the crystal to Rzak’s chest, he closed his eyes. Heat permeated Rzak’s skin and the throbbing pain from his joints ceased. The young man stepped back.
/> “Your arthritis is gone,” he said. “I have given you a taste of what is to come.”
Rzak stretched out his arms. It was true. There was no pain, no stiffness.
“I told you I had many powerful friends,” said Judon smugly.
Rzak Xhen seemed to ponder this. Then he spoke. “Why would an Avatar wish to see the fall of his own cities?” he asked.
“I am not an Avatar,” said the young man, calmly.
“And yet you have mastered their magic?”
“I have. And it is not magic.”
Rzak leaned forward and picked up the king’s empty goblet, then he drained his own. In one sudden move he tossed both goblets towards the young man. Instinctively his hands swept out and he caught both goblets cleanly.
“You are an Avatar,” said Rzak Xhen. “Why deny it?”
“You are wrong. My father was an Avatar. My mother was Vagar. They tried to run away together. But they were caught. My mother was returned to her home that day as an old woman, bent and crippled. My father was crystal-drawn—murdered.”
“Not an unusual tale,” said Rzak. “Save that you survived. I thought all offspring of such unions were dispatched.”
“My brother was … as you say … dispatched. But we were twins. My mother told me that I had a fever the day before the soldiers came. I was in the house of a medicine woman. When the soldiers took her they took my brother with them. I survived. My mother raised me for four years—then old age and decrepitude took her. She was twenty-one.”
“And because of three deaths you are willing to sacrifice five cities?”
“Yes,” said the young man. “To see an end to tyranny.”
Rzak masked the smile he felt. How short-sighted were the young. Did this hate-filled Vagar truly believe that by helping Judon to absolute power he would see an end to tyranny? What did it matter whose boot was upon your neck, Avatar or Patiakes? It was still a boot. “Show me the magic gem,” he said, holding out his hand. The young man dropped it into his outstretched palm. Curling his hand into a fist he felt the sharpness of the crystal against his skin. But nothing else. “Where is the magic?” he asked.
“In here,” said the young man, tapping his own temple. “Such crystals can be purchased in any marketplace. Once fed with power only those with Avatar blood can use them.”
Judon struggled to his feet. From behind the cushions he lifted a silver mirror, which he tossed to Rzak. Rzak looked at his reflection. There were dark streaks in his beard. He chuckled. “Take another ten years away and you shall have my five thousand,” he said.
Viruk sat by the roadside and examined the petals of a small white flower edged with blue. He didn’t recognize it, but found its beauty exquisite. There were clusters of the plant on both sides of the road, and a heady scent filled the air. The gray horse tethered by the trees let out a whinny and stamped his foot. Viruk rose and stretched, then strolled across to the stallion. “Impatience is not to be encouraged,” he said. “Not in men or horses. I don’t much like sitting here either, but this is the road back to Patiakes land and some time or other the fat king will travel along it. Now let us have no more shows of petulance, or I shall prick out one of your eyes and tell the General you caught it on a thorn.”
The horse tilted its head and stared at the smiling man. Then, stretching its neck, it nuzzled against his chest. “Stupid beast,” said Viruk, reaching up and scratching its ears. “Is it possible that you like a man who threatens to mutilate you? I thought animals had a sixth sense for danger.” The stallion’s ears came up and he swung away, looking back towards the east. Viruk untied the tether and stepped into the saddle. “There now, the wait is nearly over,” he said. “Then we can ride back and enjoy a fine rest.”
Touching his heels to the white flanks he rode out through the flowers and sat waiting in the center of the road.
The chariot appeared over the crest of a hill, two riders flanking it, a third bringing up the rear. The fat king was sitting on a velvet-covered seat, his driver urging the two black horses on. They were breathing heavily. “See how lucky you are,” Viruk told the stallion. “But for an accident of birth you too might have been pulling that mammoth around the desert. There’s a fine prospect, eh?”
The horse flicked its ears back as the man spoke, but made no other movement. “I like you,” said Viruk. “You’re not much of a conversationalist, but you are a fine listener.”
The two riders galloped their horses forward, dragging them to a stop just in front of Viruk. The Avatar lifted his leg over the pommel of his saddle and leaned his elbow on his knee. “Good afternoon, peasants,” he said.
The lead rider, a wide-shouldered swordsman wearing a burnished helm of bronze, reddened, and laid his hand on his sword hilt. Viruk smiled at him, a bright engaging smile. “Much as I would like to shed some of your neanderthal blood I have been told to ensure there are witnesses to my conversation with your king. So you would be best advised to leave that pig-sticker in its scabbard.”
“What do you want here, Avatar?” said the man, his voice deep, his eyes angry.
“From you, turd-breath? Nothing at all. I need to speak to the waddling pig you serve.”
The bronze sword hissed from its sheath as the rider spurred his horse forward. Viruk’s arm lifted, then snapped forward. A small throwing knife flashed through the air, slamming into the rider’s throat and pitching him from the saddle. He hit the ground hard, struggled to rise, then slumped back. Viruk glanced at the second rider and smiled. “I don’t know what the world is coming to,” he said, his voice light and tinged with regret. “You try to be pleasant. You make it as clear as rainwater what your intentions are. And what do you find? Violence and unpleasantness. I do hope we do not find ourselves in a similar misunderstanding.” The man glanced nervously back towards the chariot, awaiting orders. Judon of the Patiakes heaved himself to his feet. “How dare you accost me in this manner?” he bellowed.
Viruk steered the stallion forward until he was alongside the king. “The Questor General bade me come to you and convince you of the error of your ways. War is such an unpleasant business. You sub-humans dress up in your battle finery and we Avatars shoot you down like dogs. There is no sport in it. You understand? It is all so boring.”
“I have no intention of declaring war,” said Judon. “There has been a grave misunderstanding. The Avatars are my friends.”
Viruk raised his hand, his expression one of mild distaste. “Please do not use the word friends. It suggests an equality that does not exist. You are servants. Your ingratitude is baffling.” He shook his head. “What were you before we came among you? Little more than animals, grubbing around in the Luan mud. We taught you to build, to irrigate your lands. To store your surplus. We have given you laws. We have raised you like children and you repay us with petty wars and raids. It really is galling.”
“As I said, there is no war,” Judon told him. “What is your name?”
“I am Viruk.”
“Well, Viruk, rest assured I shall be reporting this incident to the Questor General. I am not accustomed to watching my men murdered.”
“Oh, I shall report it myself upon my return. The only question is, what course of action to take.”
“Action?” queried Judon.
“You see, here is my problem: the Questor General says you are planning a war. You say you are not. Do I ride back to him and tell him he has made a mistake? I think not. Difficult, isn’t it?”
“All men make mistakes,” said Judon, forcing a smile. “I’m sure the General understands that. You can assure him of my goodwill towards your people.”
Viruk was about to reply when he saw the king’s glance flick to his left. Instinctively Viruk swayed in the saddle. The knife hurled by the rider behind him sliced the air and flew on to clatter to the ground. “Now that wasn’t friendly,” said Viruk, drawing his sword. The third rider drew his own blade and heeled his horse forward. Viruk ducked under a sweeping cut and sl
ashed the flat of his blade to the man’s temple, dislodging his bronze helm and hurling him from the saddle. The knife-thrower charged him, this time a sword in his hand. Viruk parried a thrust, leaned across his saddle, grabbing the man by his cloak and dragging him from his horse. The rider landed heavily but struggled to his feet. The flat of Viruk’s saber sent him sprawling.
The fat king stood open-mouthed as his men fell. Viruk turned to him. “Do you believe in the Great God?” Viruk asked him conversationally.
Judon nodded.
“As do I,” said the Avatar. “Give him my best regards when you meet him.”
With that Viruk rode away. Judon stood watching him. At one hundred paces the Avatar turned. In his hand was a zhi-bow. Judon blinked, then jumped from the chariot and began to run.
The bolt struck him between the shoulderblades, lifting him from his feet. He landed face-first on the road, his clothes aflame around a huge hole in his back. Viruk rode back to where the warriors had regained their feet.
“You really are the clumsiest opponents,” he said. Turning to the charioteer, a small man with thinning black hair, he spoke again. “I think the horses may enjoy the return journey now. I have rarely seen a man so fat.”
“Yes, lord,” said the charioteer nervously.
“Don’t worry, little man. I was told to leave witnesses. You are quite safe.”
“Thank you … lord.”
Viruk swung the gray and rode several paces. Then he turned in the saddle and asked one of the soldiers: “What are those little white and blue flowers called?” The man glanced down at the blooms.
“Sky stars,” answered the soldier.
“An odd name. I must look into it. Thank you.”
Heeling the gray into a run, he headed west toward Egaru.
Chapter Twelve
As the sun set, and the ship’s lights flickered into life, Methras began his rounds, moving first to the crew’s quarters on the lower deck. The high spirits that had accompanied the Serpent’s rebirth had faded now, as the sailors began to reconsider their careers. None of them were needed now that the masts had been cut away and hurled overboard. Talaban controlled the Serpent from the high cabin, and the mood of the sailors was low.