The steep slopes and narrow trails of hilly Tokoban would slow them when they came, but as the horizon widened day by day and he saw the multitude of slaves toiling in fields too wide for him to see across, and they passed cities greater than the Sky City and stepped off the road to let free people, not only Pechaqueh, pass them, he knew the hills wouldn’t stop them. He began to suspect nothing would. Were they still on a peace mission, or just a negotiation to delay the inevitable? Could trade and tithes stave off their endless numbers? Or would they be forced to accept the song before they were allowed to live in peace? Would even that concession be enough to sate Pechaqueh lust? Would anything?

PILOS

Singing City, Pechacan, Empire of Songs

148th day of the Great Star at morning

It was good to be home. Better than good, it was cleansing to the soul to be back in the Empire, to be back under the song that had been absent his blood for so many months. It coursed both around him and inside him, through his veins, beneath his skin and within his bones, the comforting endless music of divinity, of glory. Of home.

High Feather Pilos, commander of the Melody and all its Talons, wore a fresh tunic and kilt in alternating bands of red and black, new sandals laced up at his ankles, and a cloak of feathers denoting his rank, brushed of dirt and freshly oiled against the rain. More feathers were braided into his hair, war feathers and honour feathers, and the single stiff tail feather of a turkey sticking up over his ear to announce his peaceful intent.

At his side marched Atu; the young warrior was his second in command, not that it was apparent from his gleeful, grinning appearance. He’d been away from his home and wife here in the Singing City for a year, and she’d been one of the first waiting beneath the ceremonial arch to welcome the Melody home in victory. Pilos smirked at the heat of her welcome for him – he knew what Atu would be doing within an hour of being dismissed.

Behind them in a long snake marched the Melody, slave warriors at the rear, dog warriors in the middle and the elite, full-blood Pechaqueh eagle warriors immediately behind the High Feather. The macaws, wearing their scarlet feathers, patrolled to either side of the long lines of captives – they were half-blood Pechaqueh, a step below elite, a step above the no-blood slaves and dogs. Scattered among them were the secretive, anonymous Whispers, more rumour than fact, more legend than living.

Every warrior wore a peace feather above one ear, and that covenant was sacred.