Beyond the walking men the single Blue-hair was still out on the ice. He was holding a small box from which dangled bright, shining wires. It seemed to Karesh Var that lanterns had been set upon the glacier, and they were shining brightly, and he could hear a distant hum, like a swarm of bees.
The taller of the two men had halted some twenty paces from the riders. The second man sat down upon a rock, and began to sharpen his axe with a whetstone.
The tall man drew his sword and lowered the point to touch the frosted dirt of the plain. Then, walking across the path of the riders, he steadily cut a narrow line in the earth. This done he sheathed his sword and took up the ornate bow of gold.
Karesh Var was an appreciative man. He had never envied his fellow hunters, even in the days when, as a young man, he could not match their skills. Instead he had watched them, learned from them. Now he appreciated the talents of the man before him. Faced with twenty fighters he had made no overt threat, and yet, with one simple action, had stated his intentions. He had drawn a line, created a border. The message was clear. Anyone who crossed it would face grim retribution. Karesh Var was a proud man, but not overly arrogant. He had nothing to prove to anyone. Some of his more reckless companions would have charged at the man, and he could sense the growing anger in the riders around him. Karesh Var sat his pony in silence, studying the two men. They seemed at ease, not at all nervous. Possible answers came to him. Firstly there might be warriors hidden close by who would rush out and attack if the nomads advanced. Karesh Var scanned the plain. Unless they had dug themselves holes in the tundra no such force could be seen. Secondly the men might be stupid, or unaware that the nomads hated the Blue-hair. They did not look stupid, and the line in the earth was a clever move. This left only one conclusion. They were at ease because they had no fear. They knew their weaponry could destroy the riders. Karesh Var smiled as a last alternative occurred to him. Perhaps they wanted the nomads to believe they were all-powerful. Perhaps it was all a bluff.
Karesh Var dismounted and walked to the line in the earth. Then he looked across at the tall man and opened his hands. The tall man’s expression did not change, but he beckoned Karesh Var forward. The stocky warrior left his seat upon the rock and stood close by, axe in hand.
“Why do you come here?” asked Karesh Var.
“Because we choose to,” said the tall man. His voice was deep. Karesh Var held to the man’s dark gaze, and saw no give there. His eyes scanned the face. It was strong, the answering gaze direct and unafraid. The man was a fighter. Karesh Var could see that in every line.
“You are on my land,” said Karesh Var, keeping his tone even, still trying to read the man opposite.
The man smiled. “Nomads do not own land. They move where they will, and settle where they choose. So it has always been. You take your tents and follow the tuskers. You own only what right of arms wins for you. Were I to kill you I would own your tent, your women, and your ponies.”
Karesh Var was impressed. Not only by the man’s knowledge, but by his calm. There had still been no threats. And the bow he held was not strung.
He decided to draw him out. “What was the purpose of the line in the earth?” he asked.
“Death is permanent,” replied the warrior. “Unnecessary violence is abhorrent to me. Yesterday you made a kill, and the meat will feed your people. Yesterday was a victory over starvation and death. It would be wise to return to your tents to celebrate yesterday. For there can be no celebration found in today’s possibilities.”
“You think not? Perhaps I see it differently.”
The man shook his head. “No, for you are a wise man. A fool would have led his men in a charge, and they would have died.” He spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard by the riders.
“You believe you can kill me and all my men?” Now it was said, and Karesh Var found tension rising within him. His hand had remained close to his hunting knife, and he was poised for battle.
“Of course,” said the man. His thumb touched a jewel on the grip of his bow. Instantly four strings of dancing light flickered into being. Karesh Var was impressed. He had heard of the terrible weapons of the Blue-hair, the bows that loosed lightning.
“An interesting weapon,” observed Karesh Var, his hand now resting on the bone hilt of his knife.
“It is time for choices, nomad,” said the man. “For I am growing cold.” His voice had hardened.
“Indeed it is, stranger,” said Karesh Var, dropping his voice and stepping in closer to the warrior. “However, you seem to be a man of some wisdom, so answer me this: if a war leader brings his men on a raid, and then leaves with nothing to show for it, how then can he remain a leader? It might be better for such a man to risk death in order to save face. Is this not so?”
“It is a sad truth,” admitted the man. “You killed a mammoth yesterday. How long were its tusks?”
“Seven feet.”
“My people also use ivory for ornaments. I will offer thirty silver pieces for the tusks. By my reckoning that is twice what you and your people would receive from trade merchants for your trinkets and brooches.”
Karesh Var relaxed and gave a broad smile. Sharing out the silver would placate his men. “Agreed,” he said, “on one condition.”
“That being?”
“Though we have heard of them, neither myself nor any of my men have seen weapons like the one you are carrying. Perhaps you would give us a demonstration.”
The warrior smiled and Karesh Var knew he understood. His men would need some sign of the power they were facing, in order for the silver to fully placate them. The warrior took a step backward, spun to his right and lifted the bow. The fingers of his right hand stroked the first string. A bolt of white light flashed from the bow, striking a rock some thirty paces to the east. The rock exploded, sending a shower of dust and fragments into the air.
“Most impressive,” said Karesh Var. “I will send two of my men back for the tusks.”
Questor Ro saw the nomads arrive, and watched as Talaban and Touchstone strode out to greet them. Then he transferred his attention to the pyramids. He had more important matters to consider. Nomads came under Talaban’s area of expertise, and Questor Ro wasted no energy considering them. Instead his mind returned to the problem of Communion. The second chest was almost full, the humming subsiding now. But it had taken almost seven hours. This was more than worrying, since the first chest had taken only three. Even allowing for the fact that some residual energy was left in the first chest—since it was the power source for the Serpent—such a time discrepancy was cause for alarm.
The White Pyramid had been buried below the ice for more than seventy years. Could its powers be fading already? That was a possibility rich with terrible implications, and Ro was not yet ready to consider such a calamity. Perhaps, he thought, the second chest, having been empty for so long, had developed a fault. He did not know. And this galled him.
He glanced back to see the silver longboat returning, carrying the third chest. It was also empty of power and could be handled without fear of harm. When the six Vagars carried it to the site he handed the box to the first then, placing the wooden thimbles over his fingers and thumbs, removed the gold wires from the second chest, applying them to the third. As before he carefully slid the poles through the golden rings and stood back as the Vagars lifted the second chest, carrying it to the longboat.
Questor Ro climbed into the silver boat and returned to the ship with the Vagars. Ropes were lowered and tied to each end of the poles. Then sailors began to hoist the chest to the center deck. Questor Ro scrambled up a rope ladder to stand alongside the sailors. “Careful now,” he warned them. “Keep well back.”
The chest cleared the deck rail and a black-clad sailor tugged on the pulley arm. The chest swung over the deck. One of the poles slipped and the chest lurched. Instinctively a sailor stepped forward and threw up his arms to stop the chest sliding clear. As his hands touched the black wood there cam
e a tremendous flash of light and heat. Blue flames flickered over the man and fire exploded from within his body, bursts of flame erupting through his eye sockets. The sailors holding the ropes leapt back as the heat seared them. The chest fell to the deck, landing on one side. The burning man had made no sound, and his blackened body fell across the chest. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air, and the other sailors stood by, horrified. Questor Ro was furious. Taking a rope he looped it over the corpse, dragging it clear of the chest.
The Vagar team clambered aboard. They too stood in stunned silence, staring down at the body. Flames still flickered and his clothing was smouldering. “Move yourselves!” roared Questor Ro. The Vagars, their fingers once more protected by the wooden thimbles, righted the chest. Questor Ro replaced the poles and ordered the men to carry it to the rear of the ship. Here he examined the chest for any cracks or breaks. Finding none he watched as the Vagars placed it inside a larger chest lined with lead. This was then carried below to the store room.
Two blood-smeared tusks had been laid here, which brought a new flicker of annoyance to Questor Ro. This was also his workroom, and he was less than pleased to find them here. Most especially since they had been unceremoniously dumped upon his desk and blood had smeared upon several of his papers. “Remove them,” he ordered two of the Vagars. “Put them in a corner somewhere. And clean the blood from them,” he added.
“Yes, lord,” said one of them, bowing deeply.
“And send for Onquer,” he said. “We have work to do.”
“Lord,” said the man, bowing low, “I regret to tell you that Onquer died. He was dead before we reached the ship.”
This was really too much. Questor Ro had spent eight years training the Vagar. Now he would have to find another assistant and waste valuable time initiating him in the rigors of research.
He said nothing more to the Vagars and made his way to his cabin.
Two chests were full, a third was in place. All in all, it had not been a bad day.
Chapter Five
The Frost Giant’s mouth was open. Storro climbed between the white gates of its teeth, and found the magic fang. Casting a great spell he began to draw its power. The Beast stirred, but did not yet wake. It did not need to, for the terrible demons who dwelt upon it sensed the theft, and began to climb through its fur towards the thieves.
From the Morning Song of the Anajo
The coal oil lantern flickered, its light casting deep shadows upon the walls of the windowless Heart Room deep in the belly of the Serpent. Talaban watched the four Vagars carefully lower the chest into the carved recess at the center of the room. Once they had done so he dismissed them. As the door closed behind them Talaban moved to a panel beside the recess, which he slid open. Within were two small bronze wheels. He slowly turned the first. Two copper cups inside the recess inched towards the bronze spheres at the front of the chest. Talaban spun the wheel until the cups covered the spheres. The warrior could feel his excitement rising as his hands moved to the second wheel. This he turned two full circles. At the rear of the panel was a second, hidden recess. Talaban opened it. A long sheet of shining mica met his gaze. There were six deep indentations in the mica and in one a solitary white crystal glowed. Talaban opened the pouch at his side and from it took five more crystals, which he laid in the remaining indentations. Sliding closed the lid, Talaban took a deep breath—and gave a final turn to the second bronze wheel.
Instantly light flared from the two crystal globes set into the wall. Talaban’s spirits soared. Blowing out the lantern he stepped into the corridor beyond, locking the door behind him. All along the corridor there was clean, bright light. Climbing the circular stair to the central deck Talaban leaned over the port rail. Serpent Seven was no longer bobbing in the bay. She sat, calm and proud, free of the pull of the sea.
Climbing to the upper deck he saw his sergeant, Methras, and a group of soldiers sitting by the port rail, staring up at the lights which had appeared all over the ship. The men were Vagars, and had never seen a Serpent under full power. Talaban summoned Methras to him. Methras bowed low. He was a tall slender warrior, fair-haired and balding. Despite the harsh race laws there was every indication that Methras had Avatar blood. Highly intelligent, he was the best Vagar sergeant Talaban had known. This alone would not have stirred Talaban’s suspicions, but the man was also fully ambidextrous and this was the one trait that separated the Avatar from the other races. All Avatars had this advantage, and the allied ability to work simultaneously with both hands on different tasks. Talaban had mentioned the sergeant’s skills to no one. To do so might have alerted the officers of the Council, and threatened the man’s life.
“What a fine sight, sir,” said Methras, pointing at the lights.
“Fine indeed,” agreed Talaban. “Fetch axes and saws from the store room and rid this ship of those damned masts.”
“Masts, sir? Sails and all?”
“Sails and all,” said Talaban.
“Yes, sir,” said Methras dubiously.
“Fear not,” said Talaban, with a broad smile. “The Serpent will sail faster without them. And I promise you there will be no motion sickness upon the return journey.”
Talaban returned to his cabin. Touchstone was waiting for him there. The tribesman was sitting on the floor, his face tense, his eyes fearful. “What is wrong?” asked Talaban.
“Wrong? Nothing wrong,” said Touchstone. “I am well. Very strong.”
Talaban moved to his desk and sat down, gesturing for Touchstone to rise and sit in the chair opposite. The tribesman did so. “Speak,” said Talaban. “I can see you are concerned over something. Was it the death of the sailor?”
“No. It is demon lights. So bright,” admitted Touchstone. “No flame. Little suns in glass.” When the lights had first flared Touchstone had screamed—a fact he would admit to no one. He had been sitting on the floor, but had surged to his feet in a panic. He had run into the door, then wrenched it open, flinging himself into the corridor beyond—only to find that the globes there had also filled with light. His heart had thumped like a war drum and he had difficulty catching his breath. Then a sailor had come walking along the corridor, seemingly unconcerned by the demon light. He had grinned at Touchstone and moved past him.
Still trembling, the tribesman had returned to the cabin. Steeling himself he approached a globe, staring hard into it. This had made his head ache, and for a while almost blinded him. He had retreated to the rug at the center of the room, squatting down and closing his eyes, awaiting the return of Talaban.
“There is nothing demonic about them, my friend. And you are quite right to call them little suns, for that is what they are. The power of the sun held in glass.”
“How you trap sun?” asked Touchstone, seeking to appear only mildly interested.
“Everything traps sunlight,” said Talaban. “Every living thing. We are all born of the power of the sun, every man, every plant. We hold the sunlight within us.” Touchstone looked sceptical. Talaban rose from his desk and moved to a shelf on the far wall. From it he took a jar of sugar. Opening the lid he reached inside and scooped out a handful of white granules. This he tossed into the coal brazier. Instantly flames roared up. “The sugar stores sunlight. The coals released it, and it reverted to energy. The coals themselves were once trees, and filled with sunlight. When we light them we free them to return to what they once were. Fire from the sun. You understand?”
Touchstone did not, but it seemed that he should and so he nodded, adopting what he hoped was an expression of enlightenment. Talaban fell silent. Touchstone felt he should say something wise. “So,” he said at last, “dead sailor was sunlight.”
“Exactly. The power chests store energy. They must be handled with great care, and certainly never touched by human flesh. The sailor inadvertently drew power from the chest, and it released the sunlight within him.”
“Why you need come to ice?” asked Touchstone. “If sun gives energy why
not leave boxes in sunlight?”
“It is not quite that simple. Your axe is made of iron, fastened to a wooden haft. At some time in the past the wood was merely timber, the iron a lump of metal. Then an armorer was given the wood and the iron, and he fashioned them into an axe. In the same way the sunlight was—in effect—refashioned by the White Pyramid into something we could store in the chests. The pyramid radiated that power to all corners of the empire, so that wherever there were Avatar cities their chests could be replenished.”
“How long this new power last?” asked Touchstone.
“If the chest remains in the ship, five years at the very least,” said Talaban.
“Maybe you become gods again,” said Touchstone.
“Maybe we will,” agreed Talaban. “But I hope not.”
On the morning of the third day a blizzard raged over the bay. Four chests had been recharged, but the process was becoming ever more slow—a phenomenon Questor Ro did not wish to examine. He feared he already knew the answer. One of his teams was still on the ice, seeking to recharge the fifth chest. Swirling snow and icy winds made their work increasingly difficult. Talaban, his zhi-bow recharged, stood with them. Touchstone moved alongside him.
“Air is bad,” he shouted above the howling wind. “Must leave here. Now!”
“It is cold,” Talaban agreed.
“Not cold. Bad. Death is coming.” Talaban knew the tribesman’s uncanny talents were rarely wrong. Ducking his head against the wind, he struggled across to where Questor Ro was kneeling by a flickering pyramid. “Back to the ship!” shouted Talaban. Questor Ro glanced up. He wanted to argue, but he knew Talaban was right. The weather was making Communion almost impossible to maintain. He nodded and began to unloop the gold wire from around the pyramid’s base. Touchstone loosened his fur-lined robe and drew his axe from his belt, his green eyes squinting as he tried to see through the swirling snow.