Free Echoes of the Great Song by David Gemmell Page B

orders.”
    “Was he really the king’s brother?”
    “Indeed, lord.”
    “Baffling. But then I suppose it doesn’t take much to become royal among you sub-humans. Are you royal?”
    “No, lord. I am a potter by trade.”
    Viruk chuckled and draped his arm over the man’s neck. “It is always good to have a trade. Now, take your weapon,” he ordered him, “and cut off the head of the king’s brother. Then find yourself a horse and head for home.”
    “His head, lord? The king’s brother?”
    “The king’s
dead
brother,” Viruk corrected him. “Yes, the head. And be careful not to damage that ridiculous beard.” He hesitated and stared down at the dead man. “Why do they do that? What is the point of having a beard waxed so stiffly? I mean how does a man sleep with a beard like that?”
    “I don’t know, lord. Perhaps he sleeps on his back.”
    “I expect that’s it. Now, let us return to the task in hand. Cut off the head.”
    “Yes, lord.” The man drew his sword and struck four blows to the neck of the corpse. Still the head did not fall clear.
    “I hope you are a better potter than a swordsman,” said Viruk, drawing his dagger and kneeling to slice through the last tendons.
    Rising he swung to the man. “My name is Viruk. Can you remember that?”
    “Yes, lord. Viruk.”
    “Good. Tell the king that if there is one more incursion onto Avatar farmlands I will ride into the pitiful hovel he calls his palace and cut out his entrails. Then Iwill make him eat them. Be so kind as to repeat that back to me.”
    The man did so. “Splendid,” said Viruk, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now pick up that head. I’m sure the king will be glad to get it back. It will be something to bury, at least.”
    Walking back to the wagons he glanced into the back of the first. It was filled with sacks of grain. “What is in the others?” he asked his sergeant.
    “Mostly the same, lord. The last wagon contains some plunder. But it is worth little.”
    “Well, take them back to the city.” Then he strolled out to one of the surviving horses and stepped into the saddle.
    “Where are you going, lord?” asked his sergeant.
    “Just for a ride, dear boy. I fancy there may be a few more raiders close by. Wouldn’t want to see you brave lads attacked on the way back, would I?”
    Gathering his zhi-bow the Avatar galloped his horse away to the east.
    “He’s a lunatic,” said the man standing beside the sergeant.
    “Yes he is,” snapped the sergeant. “But we’re all alive. I’ll settle for that.”
    The prisoner rode up to the sergeant. “Do I go now?” he asked.
    “I should,” advised the sergeant. “The captain can be very … changeable. He may decide he doesn’t want the message sent. And then …” he gestured to the bodies.
    Swinging his horse the Mud-man rode away.
    Viruk felt energized in a way no crystal could ever supply. His body was vibrant with power, and the air he breathed tasted fresher and cleaner. Even the shoddy horse he now rode felt like a prime charger. Life was good today. Recalling with delight the expression onthe leader’s face as he loosed the first bolt, Viruk laughed aloud. He wondered what the man had felt in that one dreadful moment when he knew that his life was about to end in an explosion of fire and pain. Did he know regret? Despair? Anger? Did he wonder why he had spent so long grooming that ludicrous wax beard? Probably not, thought Viruk. His expression had been one of disbelief. Even so, the short battle had been wonderfully invigorating.
    He imagined the river king’s face when the messenger arrived with his brother’s head. The man would be furious. It was likely he would kill the messenger—especially when he heard the message. Viruk hoped not. He had taken an instant liking to the little potter.
    Viruk’s action would not find favor with the High Council. They would call it provocative. But he didn’t care. All-out war with the tribes was becoming