Now, as she lay in her bed, she thought again of Talaban.
His bravery had not surprised her, but she had been pleased with his sensitivity in dealing with Pendar. She wondered what it would be like to touch Talaban’s skin, to stroke her fingers across his cheek. For a moment only she was a farm girl again, remembering her first time with Veris. Only it wasn’t Veris in her imagination. It was the lean, powerful figure of Talaban the Avatar.
Cold reality struck her.
You are not a farm girl any longer. You are a goddess.
A dying goddess.
Questor Ro was not asleep. The day had been a long one, supervising the training of new recruits at the three barracks. The task was not easy. Thousands of Vagars wanted to enlist and each one needed to be physically examined and questioned at length. In turn this led to massive lines of men, snaking out around the buildings, blocking thoroughfares. Ro had been summoned to create order from the chaos. At the first of the barracks he had found Rael and Mejana in heated debate. She wanted to know why fit young men could not merely sign their name and be assigned to a unit. Rael was struggling to explain the military ramifications of such a move. Neither was making an impression on the other.
Ro stepped in. “If I may speak,” he said. Mejana was struggling to hold her temper. Rael also was ashenfaced. Both nodded. “Let me first sum up both points of view. The Questor General is concerned that our new army be disciplined and effective. You, lady, are worried about the need for such rigorous examination, fearing it may be some part of a secret Avatar plan to retain control of the army.”
“Exactly,” said Mejana.
“I am not, as Rael knows, a military man,” said Ro. “But I do know certain principles that should always apply. Our army is small but it has, over the years, proved effective. Lines of communication are well drawn, officers and men know one another well. Orders, when given, are carried out with speed and efficiency. A huge influx of untrained recruits could prove chaotic. It is, I understand, the Questor General’s plan to add one thousand new soldiers. This would almost double our force.”
“We could put twenty thousand men on the field of battle,” said Mejana. “We would outnumber the Almecs five to one.”
“And watch them all slaughtered!” snapped Rael.
“With respect, lady,” said Ro, soothingly, “and I do mean with respect, for I believe you to be a formidable woman, you are out of your depth in this matter. What I said about lines of communication is not just important, but utterly vital. In any battle a general must be able to formulate changes in strategy, give orders and see them carried out swiftly. What you are suggesting is that we face the Almecs with an undisciplined mob. We Avatars have fought such armies before. We always won. At the first attack hundreds of them are killed. The rest become demoralized. Some decide to run for safety. This causes confusion and, more often than not, panic. We do not have time to train a huge force. However, I think I know a compromise.”
“It needs to be a good one,” said Rael.
“There should be two forces,” said Ro. “The first will be the army and we will continue our examinations as before, seeking only one thousand of the fittest, most able men. The second will be a militia force under appointed commanders in every district. These will be men who will defend the walls when called upon or who will fight on the streets if the walls are breached. Each district commander will appoint sub-commanders and they will organize distribution of weapons. How does that sound?”
“A recipe for disaster,” said Rael.
“I like it,” said Mejana. “My people will feel, perhaps for the first time, that their destiny is in their own hands.”
“Then we are done here,” said Rael. “Excuse me.” He stalked from the room. Mejana turned to Ro.
“Will you assist me in organizing the militia?” she asked him.
“Of course, lady.” Ro was silent for a moment, then he looked into Mejana’s eyes. “He is a fine soldier. We could have found none better to oversee the defense of the cities.”
“But?” she said.
“But he has nothing to fight for. If he wins, he loses. You understand?”
“The day of the Avatar is over,” she said. “I would do nothing to change that, even if I could.”
“I understand that,” Ro told her. “That is not the point I am making. No matter what is done with the militia, or new Vagars drawn into the army, the fighting spearhead of the war will be the Avatar soldiers, with their zhi-bows. Men fight best who fight for causes. As matters now stand, why should Rael not gather the few hundred Avatars left, take control of the Serpent, and sail to a far land to rebuild?”
Mejana considered the question, and its ramifications. If such an event were to take place Egaru and Pagaru would certainly fall to the Almecs.
“I have nothing to offer them,” said Mejana, at last.
“You could make it clear that there will be no retribution against my people should the war be won.”
“Such an offer would be a lie,” she admitted. “Hatred of the Avatar is so deeply ingrained that it would manifest itself very swiftly.”
“I know,” said Ro, sadly. “And so does Rael.”
“What then can I do?”
Ro did not reply. He had sown the seed and could do no more.
The day had been exhausting, but by dusk the beginnings of organization could be seen. Twenty district commanders had been appointed and ten further training areas identified. The long lines of recruits had thinned and a sense of order was beginning to prevail.
An hour before midnight Ro had returned to his home, dismissed his servants, and requested that Sempes wait for the arrival of the Lady Sofarita. Ro himself had taken a long bath and retired to his bed.
Sleep would not come. His mind was in a whir. He thought of his lost wife and children, his years of work and study, his meeting with Sofarita, and the emotions that meeting had unleashed—emotions that would never be fulfilled. At first he had entertained hopes for the deepening of their relationship, but then he had seen how she looked at Talaban. How could he hope to compete with him? Talaban was tall and handsome. Such physical considerations should have had little to do with genuine love. But the reality was far different, Ro knew.
He climbed from his bed and filled a goblet with cool water. His door was open, and he felt a chill breeze. His gaze flicked to the open window. No draft was coming from there and the curtains were not moving. Walking to the door he stepped into the hallway. Immediately he began to tremble with cold.
This was ridiculous! Running back into his room he threw a woollen cloak around his shoulders and returned to the hall. It was dark, and yet he could see a faint blue light coming from Sofarita’s room. Was she working some magic? Would he disturb her if he ventured in? He shivered. Then walked along the hallway. The door was open. Thick ice had formed on the walls and swirling snow filled the room. Ro stepped inside.
Sofarita was lying in bed, snow and ice covering her face.
Ro ran to her side. As he did so he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. Swinging round he saw—just for a moment—the transparent figure of a young woman, white-haired and ghostly, with eyes of cold green. Then she was gone. Dragging back the covers Ro pushed his arms under Sofarita’s limp body and, with a grunt of effort, lifted her clear of the frozen bed. Staggering out into the hallway he carried her to his own room. Her skin was icy cold, her lips blue. There was no time to light a fire. Ro laid her on the bed and tore off her frozen clothes. Covering her with a blanket he threw off his cloak and night-shirt and slipped in beside her, drawing her to him, allowing the warmth of his body to raise her temperature. Gently he rubbed at the cold flesh of her arms.
For a time he felt sure he would fail and that she would die in his arms. But then a soft moan escaped from her lips. Ro hugged her close, feeling the warmth seeping back into her body.
Sofarita’s eyelids flickered. “She … tried to … kill me,” she whispered.
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“You are safe now,” Ro told her. “Safe with me.”
She gave a weak smile and snuggled in closer. Then she slept.
Ro drew the blanket over her shoulder. She was warmer now, and he could feel the heat beginning to radiate from her flesh. Ro became acutely aware of her thigh pressed close to his own. He lay back and closed his eyes. Sadness touched him, for he was now where he had dreamed of being, alongside the naked Sofarita, her arms around him. And yet he sensed there would never be another moment like this, never the physical closeness, the intimacy, the sheer joy of togetherness. Ro wanted it to last, and he lay without moving, holding to every memorable sweet and fleeting second.
• • •
Talaban lay still in the darkness, his hands lashed behind him, his head pounding from the blows he had taken. He could taste blood from a gash inside his mouth. Why he was alive he did not know. They had been riding for the rendezvous point with the Serpent when they had come across a hunting party of Almecs. Pendar, heady with the success of the last few days, had led his men in a wild charge. Talaban had galloped after them, shouting for them to turn back.
A larger force was hidden in the undergrowth and a vicious volley of shots ripped into the Vagars. Ten men were hurled from their saddles and the charge faltered. “Get back to the river!” bellowed Talaban. The survivors needed no second order. Wheeling their horses they had thundered back towards the Luan. Talaban swung on his reins. At that moment two Almecs came running from cover. One loosed his fire-club, the shot taking Talaban’s mount in the skull. The horse tumbled forward. Talaban was hurled over its dipping head. Landing awkwardly he struggled to rise. Something struck him a wicked blow to the side of the head and he had opened his eyes to find himself tied hand and foot and travelling in the back of a wagon.
They had brought him to a deserted village and had thrown him into an empty grain store.
There were no windows and the Avatar did not know if it was day or night. Occasionally he lapsed into unconsciousness. Each time he woke he felt nauseous and cold.
The door was pulled open. Two men moved into the store, took Talaban by the arms and dragged him out onto open ground. Two other men stood waiting. One, dressed in breastplate of shining gold and a helm adorned with golden feathers, had a face which shimmered in the moonlight, like glass. The other was a hunchback holding a golden rod, topped with a circle. Talaban was hauled before them, then kicked savagely in the back of the knees, causing him to tumble to the earth. Someone grabbed his hair and dragged him to his knees.
“You have been troublesome, Avatar,” said the man with the glass face. “But no more troublesome than a bee sting. Tomorrow I begin my march on your cities. We know much about your defenses and the plans of your leaders. You, however, will tell me more.”
“You will learn nothing from me,” said Talaban.
“On the contrary. Everything you have ever known will be divulged to my servant. He has a particular skill—as you will discover.” He turned to the hunchback. “Drain him,” he said.
The hunchback tucked the golden rod into his belt and moved alongside the prisoner. His hands clasped Talaban’s head, his fingers pressing into the temples. Fire lanced through the Avatar. It was as if a snake had entered his ear and was eating his way through the flesh of his brain. Talaban honed his concentration, moving into the first of the rituals, seeking a defense against the probing snake. The movement inside his head slowed. He threw up a mental wall, created from darkness. The snake’s fangs ripped at it, shredding it like rotten silk. Talaban retreated, holding to his identity. The snake advanced. Talaban moved into the Second Ritual, then the Third. Utterly focused now he let the snake advance.
Then he counterattacked, driving his spirit into the snake like a spear. Instantly images began to form. A childhood spent in isolation and fear, bullied, beaten, mocked. Sold by his parents to a group of beggars, who used his deformity to earn coin. They scratched his skin and smeared it with animal excrement, causing terrible sores that made the hunchbacked child ever more grotesque and therefore more valuable.
The snake tried to draw back, but Talaban had him now.
He saw the hunchback’s childhood, his adolescence, and his training by Cas-Coatl. Crystal-fed, he had developed amazing talents to read the minds of others. Suddenly the hunchback had power and he used it mercilessly for more than 300 years.
Talaban saw it all, and through the hunchback’s thoughts relived the magical flight from their own doomed world, saw the magic used to achieve it.
Almeia, the glorious goddess, the Crystal Queen.
And, in one sudden, brilliant flash, he saw why Almeia needed so many deaths.
The snake was struggling now, desperate to pull clear.
“Your life has been sad,” Talaban told him. “Your youth saw you abused and hurt, your manhood saw you abuse and hurt others. I pity you.”
The snake ceased its struggle. “I am what men made me,” said the hunchback.
“May your next life be a happy one,” Talaban told him.
Moving into the Fourth Ritual Talaban severed the head of the snake.
The hunchback fell dead to the ground. Talaban swayed but remained upright on his knees.
Cas-Coatl knelt beside his fallen servant. “How did you kill him?” he asked, conversationally.
Talaban looked up. “In the same way you would have, Cas-Coatl,” he said.
“Ah, I see. You Avatars are truly similar to my people. Unfortunately for you this means I must resort to torture.” He swung to the two guards. “Lock him away and send for Lan-Roas. Tell him to bring all his … tools.”
The guards took Talaban by his arms and lifted him. “Torture will gain you nothing, Almec,” said the Avatar.
“I suspect you are right,” agreed Cas-Coatl. “Sadly we will have to find out. Lan-Roas is very skilled. He will begin by burning out your right eye, then cutting the fingers from your right hand. Then the hand itself. And that, my friend, will be merely the beginning. You will be amazed at what levels of pain he can inspire in his victims.”
Talaban said nothing as he was taken away and then thrown to the ground inside the grain store. The door slammed shut, leaving him once more in total darkness. With an effort he rolled to his knees, then began to work at the binding on his wrists, tugging and twisting. The leather thongs did not give. Pushing himself to his feet he began to walk carefully until he reached a wall. Turning his back to it he inched his way along it, feeling for any rough edges against which he could saw through the bindings. There was nothing.
How long did he have before the torturer arrived to maim him?
Put such thoughts from your mind, he told himself sternly.
Moving along the wall he reached the doorway. The timbers had been set back into the stone, and once more he found no straight edges with which to work. Lastly he began to move across the floor, slowly sweeping his foot, seeking any piece of stone that might be lying close by. Again there was nothing. Despair touched him with an icy finger. Setting off once more he moved with even more care. His foot scraped against a small object. Sitting down he reached out, the tips of his fingers brushing the dirt floor. At first he could not locate the object, but then his fingers touched something hard. It was flat and irregular in shape, no more than an inch across. Lifting it carefully he ran his thumb across it. It was a piece of broken pottery.
The edge was sharp.
With great care he lifted it back toward the thongs, and began to saw at the bindings. After some minutes he managed to get his finger against the leather. He had made almost no impression upon it. This could take hours, he knew.
And he did not have hours to spare.
Moving back to the door he managed to wedge the shard into a crack. Then he pressed the edge into his left wrist above the bindings. The skin parted and blood began to flow, wetting the dry leather. He let the flow continue for some minutes until he could feel it dripping over his fingers and dropping to the floor. Then
he bunched his muscles and pulled with all his strength.
The bindings held. Taking three quick breaths he tried again. This time there was a little movement. Steadying himself he twisted his left wrist, and pulled again from a slightly different angle. The bindings stretched a fraction more.
He could hear footsteps approaching. The sound gave him renewed strength and he dragged back on the thongs. The skin of his wrists was torn further open as he did so, further drenching the leather. As the footsteps reached the door the thongs parted. Talaban staggered, then lurched towards the opening.
He heard the bar being raised, then the door swung in. A tall man entered. He was carrying a shoulder sack and in his hand was a small saw. He froze as he saw Talaban waiting for him. The Avatar leapt, his right hand sweeping forward, fingers extended. The points of the fingers slammed into the man’s throat, smashing the bones beneath. He fell back against the wall, gurgling and struggling for breath that would never come again. Talaban pushed past him. Three guards stood beyond the doorway.
There was no way he could defeat them all.
At that moment a dark figure leapt from the low roof. The small bright hand-axe sliced through the throat of the first guard. Talaban sprang at the second, sending a left hook that exploded against his chin. The third guard drew his sword and lunged at the Avatar. The blade took Talaban under the left ribs, ripping away the flesh. Talaban grabbed the sword arm, hauling the Almec forward—straight into Talaban’s rising left elbow. The man half fell. As he righted himself Touchstone’s axe buried itself in his skull.
“Better move quick,” said Touchstone. “Horses beyond village.”
A cry went up behind them. Talaban swung and saw Cas-Coatl and a dozen men running across the square. “Now be good time!” said Touchstone. The tribesman sprinted off. Talaban began to run after him. By the time the Avatar reached the outskirts of the village Touchstone was far ahead, disappearing down into a shallow dry gully. Talaban was close to exhaustion and could run no further.