Methras swam to a raft. Several men had clambered aboard and they pulled him up.
He sat down and turned to watch the Serpent. Like a sick whale it rolled and pitched. Then it tipped completely and sank beneath the waves.
“What happened?” asked a Vagar seaman.
“Anu’s magic,” he said.
“I thought he was on our side.”
“He is,” said Methras. “The golden ships will be sinking just as we did.”
“He could have waited another hour,” grumbled the man. “We’d have been in port by then.”
As the dawn rose over the sea Ro felt a strange sensation rippling through him. Attuning his mind he focused on it. It was music, whispering on the wind. It was discordant and yet … it made him feel a part of everything, the earth, the sky, the rock beneath his feet.
A strangled cry came from Sofarita. He turned to her and saw her begin to tremble. Rising he threw his arms around her, holding her stiff body close. She fell into him, almost carrying them both from the ledge. Ro struggled to stay upright. Sofarita’s arms were outstretched, still stiff, her joints locked. She was trying to speak, but her tongue could form no words. “I am here,” he said. “I am with you. Remember the rituals. Join with me.”
At first there was nothing, then a terrible pain swept over him. His body was shattering like glass. Ro fought down panic and instinctively concentrated on the reality of flesh, the softness of the wet tissue that bonded into strong muscle, the flowing of rich, warm blood.
The Music in his mind expanded, a magnificent symphony, a song as large as the universe. It flowed over them both.
Sofarita’s head lowered to his shoulder, her arms dropping. Ro could feel her flesh beneath his hands, soft and warm. He laid her down on the ledge and knelt beside her. “Speak to me,” he said. “Show me you are alive.”
Her eyes opened. “The power is gone from me,” she said. “I am a woman again. How did you make the Music?”
“It was not mine.”
She sighed and struggled to sit. “I am no longer a goddess, Ro. I am just a Vagar woman.”
“You are the woman I love,” he said, surprised as the words rushed out. He waited for her rejection, knowing it would be kind and burn him like fire.
“I love you too,” she said. “I’ve known it since the night you saved me from Almeia, when you lay beside me and warmed me with your body.”
A fierce wind swept across the ledge. Ro clung to a rock. Sofarita was thrown against him.
A brilliant light blazed in the sky. Ro looked up, to see a second sun shining brightly through swirling clouds. A terrible groan came from the wall across the world. Boulders began to rain down from it. Then, with an awesome wrench the wall, and the land beyond it, broke away and lifted into the sky, tipping as it rose. A huge earthquake rippled across the floating land mass and it split into two. Both parts continued to rise towards the second sun. Something glittered in the air like a golden bird. Ro saw that it was a ship, spinning through the air to crash into the airborne land. More ships appeared, as if being drawn up by an invisible whirlwind.
A ring of fire hundreds of miles in diameter flared in the sky. The broken land floated towards it, entering the circle of flames. As Ro watched, the land of the Almecs disappeared. The fire ring began to close, shrinking smaller and smaller.
Then it was gone.
There was no wall now, no dark and threatening land. A vast and ruined plain lay before their eyes.
“The grass and trees will grow again,” said Sofarita, “and streams will flow. Life will flourish again.”
Ro stood and, holding Sofarita by the hand, walked back along the ledge.
Further down the trail they met the One-Eyed-Fox and Touchstone and Suryet. Four other Anajo tribesmen were still alive.
At the mouth of the trail Ro saw a mound of bodies. Just back from them Touchstone was kneeling beside the fallen Talaban. Ro ran forward, thinking the Avatar merely injured. But as he came close he saw the terrible wounds and the cold, still face. He sighed and felt deep shame at the surging joy he had experienced when Sofarita told him she loved him. Talaban had given his life so that he could hear those words.
Moving to the fallen Avatar he knelt by the body.
“He and the others killed more than twenty,” said Touchstone in Anajo. “They did not give way. Talaban was the last to die. I tried to reach him, to help him. I wanted to save his life as he saved mine. He saw me running forward. They were all around him. He died just as the sun rose.” Drawing his dagger Touchstone cut a lock from Talaban’s hair. “I shall make a prayer song for him. It will reach all Anajo spirits. They will make him welcome.”
“I am glad you survived,” said Ro. “That would have pleased him.”
“I thought I would die. But when the second sun rose the Almecs fled. What will you do now, Questor Ro? Will you try to go back to your place of stone?”
“No. I will stay here if you will have me. I will teach and I will learn. I will find a way to make a history of these events.”
Touchstone laid his hand on Talaban’s brow. “He will live in my heart always. And my sons shall learn of him. And their sons. He is a part of the People now. We will not forget.” Sofarita came alongside and Ro took her hand. She gazed down at the dead Avatar, and Ro felt no jealousy at the sorrow in her eyes.
Epilogue
On the day that men call Reshgaroth the gods went away to continue their war in the heavens, leaving the fields and the forests, the mountains and the valleys. They journeyed far beyond the bright stars, lifted on the backs of silver eagles. All vanished, save one. Virkokka knew that the Frost Giants would return. He alone remained among the People to protect them from the cold of death.
From the Evening Song of the Anajo
On the shores of the Luan work was underway clearing the bodies, for disease was an ever-present threat after a battle. Vagar and Avatar corpses were carried away for burial, while the Almecs, stripped of their clothing, were burned on huge pyres.
Three Vagar workmen had paused for a noon break. They walked down to the Luan and splashed their faces with cool water. One, a young carpenter named Leshan sat down and glanced toward the north. “Another body there,” he said, pointing to a blackened corpse half out of the water.
“Leave it. I’m exhausted,” said another.
“I like to do what I’m paid for,” said Leshan, rising and walking across to the body. It was lying face down, the clothes singed, the shirt in tatters. The flesh beneath showed black and red burns. Leshan could not tell whether the corpse was Vagar or Almec. With an effort he rolled it onto its back. The man’s chest was badly scarred and most of his hair had been burnt away, but his face was unmarked. Leshan knew him. Who did not? He was the deadliest and most hated of all the Avatars.
Viruk’s eyes flickered open. They were pale, and gray and cold. Then he groaned.
“He’s alive,” shouted Leshan.
“Of course I’m alive,” grunted the wounded man. “I’m a god, you moron!” Viruk closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the pain. Leshan’s hand slid down to the knife at his belt. With one thrust he could destroy this man, plunging the blade deep into the heatblistered neck.
He saw Viruk’s eyes were open again, and that the Avatar was watching him. “You deserve to die,” said Leshan.
Viruk grinned, and levered himself to one elbow. “I don’t know why you sub-humans cannot grasp simple realities,” he said. “We don’t get what we deserve, idiot. We get what we get. Now if you are going to stab me, do it. If not, call for a surgeon. I may be a god, but I am a god with a broken leg.”
Leshan shook his head and smiled. Viruk was in terrible pain, and at his mercy. Yet still he could hurl casual insults and defy death.
Who could kill such a man, he thought?
And when the last of the Frost Giants had been slain Virkokka grew bored. Then Storro, the Speaker of Legends, journeyed across the star-filled ocean of the night
sky to the Stone City and told Virkokka of a great war brewing, of sorcerers and chieftains and armies hungry for blood. Virkokka laughed with relief as he heard this. And he took up his sword of fire, and went forth once more, to battle evil.
From the Evening Song of the Anajo
Don’t miss a single spellbinding novel
in David Gemmell’s acclaimed
Rigante series!
SWORD IN THE STORM
MIDNIGHT FALCON
RAVENHEART
STORMRIDER
Fierce and proud, the highlanders dwell deep in the mountains, where magic permeates the land. Wielding sword and bow, their leaders are legend—Connavar the king, his bastard son Bane, and the warrior known as Ravenheart. Their exploits crackle with action, high adventure, and dark sorcery. They are clansmen, and more than that, they are Rigante …
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David Gemmell, Echoes of the Great Song
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