Echoes of the Great Song by David Gemmell Page B

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 sawsfrom 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 rugat 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