Free Echoes of the Great Song by David Gemmell

the Avatar warrior.
    They were such dissimilar men. Talaban so cool and in control, Viruk wild and dangerous.
    And quite insane.

Chapter Six
    Of all the gods who walked the earth when the sun was young and not yet strong, the worst and best was Virkokka, the god of war. He dwelt within the Fire Mountain, dreaming dreams of death and pain. His face was fair, his manner calm, but those who saw his smile were those about to die. And on this day, when Virkokka left his place of fire, the world trembled, and all was changed for ever.

    From the Evening Song of the Anajo

    Viruk lay very still, watching the riders as they moved, out into the valley. There were thirty in the raiding group, and five wagons were being hauled slowly behind them. The wagons' wheels were cutting deep grooves on the dirt road. The raiders have done well, thought Viruk. His pale grey gaze fastened on the lead rider. He wore a bright red cloak, with a brooch of yellow gold in the shape of a sunburst at the neck. His clothes were of gaudily dyed wool, and he wore loose-fitting leggings and wooden shoes. His beard had been covered in red wax and jutted from his chin like a blood-covered tongue, which identified him clearly as a nobleman of the Mud People. Viruk smiled. The full tribal name was Erek-jhip-zhonad, which Viruk - and most Avatars - found impossible to pronounce, and, in translation, the People of the Stars - too pompous to consider. Hence the derogatory title bestowed by the Council.
    The leader's men were dressed more simply, boasting no golden brooches. They wore breastplates of stiffened leather and carried long spears. Their hair was caked in a mixture of red clay and wax, giving the impression of poorly designed helmets of pottery.
    Viruk glanced to his right. Outnumbered three to one, the ten Vagar archers awaited his command. To a man they all looked terrified. Viruk gave a tight smile and hefted his zhi-bow. It was black and unadorned, save for the two red crystals above the grip. Viruk had refashioned it himself. It seemed to him that the traditional zhi-bows were too complicated. Why have varying levels of power in the bolt? If a man was attacking you why merely knock him down and stun him, when you could rip out his chest and watch his blood spray out like a flower in bloom? Zhi-bows were meant to kill. And they did it beautifully.
    The riders were closer now and well within range. But Viruk gave no orders to the hidden Vagar archers under his command. Equipped with only traditional bows and knives the men were sick with dread as the riders approached.
    'Shoot when I do,' ordered Viruk. Then he rose to his feet and strolled down the hillside to meet the advancing raiders. He was a tall slender man, his long yellow hair dyed blue at the closely shaved temples, and he wore no armour, sporting only a shirt of light blue silk, black leather leggings and grey lizard-skin boots.
    The lead rider, a burly man, his face tanned nut-brown, drew on his reins and waited for Viruk to approach.
    His men hefted their spears and bunched alongside him, ready to charge.
    'You have strayed from your lands, Mud-man,' said
    Viruk, amiably. 'In doing so you have disobeyed the General's directive.'
    The rider grinned. His front teeth were made of gold. 'Your power is failing, Avatar,' he said. 'You cannot enforce your directives. Now give me your zhi-bow and I will let you live. I will send you back to your general with a message from the king, my brother.'
    'The king is your brother?' said Viruk, feigning surprise. 'I suppose that makes you an important man among your people. A man not to be taken lightly. I'll tell you what we'll do. I will send a message to the king, your brother.' His voice hardened, and his eyes grew more pale. 'The survivors among your band can deliver it.'
    Lifting the bow he sent a bolt into the rider's chest. It exploded with a fearsome sound, spraying blood and shards of bone over the other men. Terrified horses reared, pitching