Free Echoes of the Great Song by David Gemmell

surprised by Talaban’s heresy, but he feigned shock nonetheless. “You are losing your faith, Talaban. We were born to rule. And there is no question that we are superior to lesser beings. We are virtually immortal, and our knowledge is as far above theirs as they are above dogs.”
    “Precisely, Questor. Knowledge. That is all it comes down to in the end. We discovered the secrets of the sun’s power. They did not.”
    “And that, in itself, proves our superiority,” said Ro triumphantly. “I have lived with Vagars these last seventy years. I know what they are capable of. They can be loyal, and really quite bright. But they do not possess our insights. The Avatar is a different breed—a race apart. Take Viruk, for example. He embodies all that is strong in the Avatar.”
    Talaban fell silent. Ro met his level gaze. “Say what you are thinking, captain. Do you disagree?”
    Talaban smiled. “It is good to see you well, sir. I must attend to Touchstone.”
    Rising, he bowed low, then departed.
    Questor Ro sat at his desk for a while, thinking over the brief conversation. He had hoped Talaban would take the bait, and condemn Viruk. It would have been pleasant to have passed on the information to 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 forever
.
    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—andmost 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