The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  “I don’t think so, Atka. He is a tough man, a man of rock and iron. I wagered on him myself.”

  “He can’t beat you, though, sir. Can he?” asked the boy, his eyes widening as doubt touched him.

  Klay smiled. “All men can be beaten, Atka. You will just have to wait a few days and see.”

  Klay stood and smiled at the blushing young woman. “He is a fine boy,” said the champion. Taking her hand, he kissed it, then moved away, pausing to study the paintings on the far wall. Many were landscapes of the desert and the mountains; others depicted young women in various stages of undress. Some were of hunting scenes, while two, which caught Klay’s eye, were of wildflowers. At the far end of the gallery was a long stall behind which stood an elderly Chiatze. Klay made his way to the man and studied the artifacts laid out so neatly. They were mostly small statuettes surrounded by brooches, amulets, bracelets, bangles, and rings. Klay lifted a small ivory figurine, no more than four inches tall. It was of a beautiful woman in a flowing dress. There were flowers in her hair, and in her hand she held a snake, its tail coiled around her wrist.

  “This is very lovely,” he said.

  The small Chiatze nodded and smiled. “She is Shul-sen, the bride of Oshikai Demon-bane. The figurine is close to a thousand years old.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I am Chorin-Tsu, lord, the royal embalmer and a student of history. I found this piece during an archaeological survey near the site of the fabled Battle of Five Armies. I am certain that it is no less than nine centuries old.” Klay lifted the figurine close to his eyes. The woman’s face was oval, her eyes slanted; she seemed to be smiling.

  “She was Chiatze, this Shul-sen?” he asked.

  Chorin-Tsu spread his hands. “That depends, lord, on your perspective. She was, as I told you, the wife of Oshikai, and he is considered the father of the Nadir. It was he who led the rebel tribes from the lands of the Chiatze and fought his way to the lands now ruled by the Gothir. After his death the tribes roamed free, warring on one another, even as now. So if he was the first Nadir, then Shul-sen was … what? Nadir or Chiatze?”

  “Both,” said Klay. “And beautiful, too. What happened to her?”

  The Chiatze shrugged, and Klay saw sorrow in the dark, slanted eyes. “That depends on which version of historical events you happen to believe. For myself I think she was murdered soon after Oshikai’s death. All the records point to this, though some stories have her sailing to a mythic land beyond the sea. If you have romantic leanings, perhaps that is the story you should cling to.”

  “I tend to hold to the truth where I can,” said Klay. “But in this case I would like to believe she lived happily somewhere. I would guess we will never know.”

  Chorin-Tsu spread his hands once more. “As a student I like to think that one day the mists will be opened. Perhaps I might find some documentary evidence.”

  “If you do so, let me know. Meanwhile I shall purchase this figurine. Have it delivered to my house.”

  “You wish to know the price, lord?”

  “I am sure it will be a fair one.”

  “Indeed it will, sir.”

  Klay turned away, then swung back. “Tell me, Chorin-Tsu: How is it that the royal embalmer runs a stall of antiquities?”

  “Embalming, lord, is my profession. History is my passion. And as with all passions, they must be shared to be enjoyed. Your delight in the piece brings me great pleasure.”

  Klay moved on through the gallery arch and to the Hall of Cuisine. Two guards opened the door to the beautifully furnished dining room of the nobility. Klay had long since lost any sense of nervousness on entering such establishments, for despite the lowliness of his birth, his legend was now so great among the people that he was considered higher than most nobles. There were few diners present, but Klay spotted the Drenai ambassador, Majon, engaged in a heated discussion with a fop in a bejeweled blue tunic. The fop was tall and slim and very handsome, his hair light brown and held in place by a silver headband adorned with an opal. Klay approached them. Majon did not at first notice the fighter and continued to rail at his companion.

  “I do think this is unfair, Sieben. After all, you won—” At that moment he saw Klay, and instantly his face changed, a broad smile appearing. “My dear chap, so good to see you again. Please do join us. It would be such an honor. We were talking about you only moments ago. This is Sieben the Poet.”

  “I have heard your work performed,” said Klay, “and I have read with interest the saga of Druss the Legend.”

  The poet gave a wolfish smile. “You’ve read the work, and soon you’ll face the man. I have to tell you, sir, that I shall be wagering against you.”

  “Then you will forgive me for not wishing you luck,” said Klay, sitting down.

  “Did you watch today’s bout?” asked Majon.

  “I did indeed, Ambassador. Druss is an interesting fighter. It seems that pain spurs him to greater efforts. He is indomitable and very strong.”

  “He always wins,” said Sieben happily. “It’s a talent he has.”

  “Sieben is particularly pleased today,” Majon put in icily. “He has won sixty gold pieces.”

  “I won also,” said Klay.

  “You bet on Druss?” asked Sieben.

  “Yes. I had studied both men and did not feel the Lentrian had the heart to match your man. He also lacked speed in his left, which gave Druss the chance to roll with the punches. But you should advise him to change his attacking stance. He tends to duck his head and charge, which makes him an easy target for an uppercut.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him,” promised Sieben.

  “I have a training ground at my house. He is welcome to use it.”

  “That is a very kind offer,” put in Majon.

  “You seem very confident, sir,” said Sieben. “Does it not concern you that Druss has never lost?”

  “No more than it concerns me that I have never lost. Whatever else happens, one of us will surrender that perfect record. But the sun will still shine, and the earth will not topple. Now, my friends, shall we order some food?”

  * * *

  The air was fresh and clean, and a slight wind whispered across the fountain pool, cooling the air as Sieben and Druss climbed the steep path to the summit of the highest hill in the Grand Park. Above them the sky was the glorious blue of late summer, dotted with thick white clouds drifting slowly from the east. Shafts of sunlight in the distance, breaking clear of the clouds, suddenly illuminated a section of the eastern mountains, turning them to deep shadowed red and gold, glowing like jewels in torchlight. And just as swiftly the wandering clouds blocked the sun, the golden rocks returning to gray. Druss gazed longingly at the mountains, remembering the smell of the pine and the song of the stream in his own high homeland. The clouds drifted on, and the sun shone down on the far mountains once more. The sight was beautiful, but Druss knew there would be no pine forests there. To the east of Gulgothir were the Nadir steppes, an enormous stretch of desert, dry, harsh, and inhospitable.

  Sieben sat beside the fountain, trailing his hand in the water. “Now you can see why this is called the Hill of the Six Virgins,” he said. At the center of the pool was a statue of six women exquisitely carved from a single block of marble. They stood in a circle, each leaning forward and extending her arms as if in entreaty. Behind and above them was the figure of an old man holding a huge urn from which came the fountain, spilling out over the white statues and flowing down to the pool. “Several hundred years ago,” continued Sieben, “when a raiding army from the north surrounded Gulgothir, six virgins were sacrificed here to appease the gods of war. They were ritually drowned. After that the gods favored the defenders, and they beat off the attack.”

  Sieben smiled as he saw Druss’ pale blue eyes narrow. The warrior’s huge hand came up and idly tugged at his square-cut black beard, a sure sign of his growing irritation. “You don’t believe in appeasing the gods?” Sieben asked innocent
ly.

  “Not with the blood of the innocent.”

  “They went on to win, Druss. Therefore, the sacrifice was worthwhile, surely.”

  The axman shook his head. “If they believed the sacrifice would appease the gods, then they would have been inspired to fight harder. But a good speech could have done that.”

  “Suppose the gods did demand that sacrifice and therefore did help win the battle.”

  “Then it would have been better lost.”

  “Aha!” Sieben exclaimed triumphantly. “But if it had been lost, a far greater number of innocents would have been slain: women raped and murdered, babes slain in their cribs. How do you answer that?”

  “I don’t feel the need to. Most people can smell the difference between perfume and cow dung; there’s no need for a debate on it.”

  “Come on, old horse, you’re not stretching yourself. The answer is a simple one: the principles of good and evil are not based on mathematics. They are founded on the desire of individuals to do—or not to do—what is right and just, both in conscience and in law.”

  “Words, words, words! They mean nothing!” snapped Druss. “The desire of individuals is what causes most evils. And as for conscience and law, what happens if a man has no conscience and the law promotes ritual sacrifice? Does that make it good? Now stop trying to draw me into another of your meaningless debates.”

  “We poets live for such ‘meaningless’ debates,” said Sieben, battling to hold back his anger. “We tend to like to stretch our intelligence, to develop our minds. It helps make us more aware of the needs of our fellows. You are in a sour mood today, Druss. I would have thought you would have been delirious at the thought of another fight to come, another man to bash your fists against. The championship, no less. The cheers of the crowd, the adoration of your fellow countrymen. Ah, the blood and the bruises and the endless parades and banquets in your honor!”

  Druss swore, and his face darkened. “You know I despise all that.”

  Sieben shook his head. “Part of you might, Druss. The best part loathes the public clamor, yet how is it that your every action always leads to more? You were invited here as a guest, an inspirational mascot, if you like. And what do you do? You break the jaw of the Drenai champion, then take his place.”

  “It was not my intention to cripple the man. Had I known his chin was made of porcelain, I would have struck him in the belly.”

  “I am sure you would like to believe that, old horse. Just as I am sure I do not. Answer me this: How do you feel as the crowd roars your name?”

  “I have had enough of this, poet. What do you want from me?”

  Sieben took a deep, calming breath. “Words are all we have to describe how we feel, what we need from one another. Without them, how would we teach the young or express our hopes for future generations to read? You view the world so simplistically, Druss, as if everything were either ice or fire. That in itself matters not a jot. But like all men with closed minds and small dreams you seek to mock what you can never comprehend. Civilizations are built with words, Druss. They are destroyed by axes. What does that tell you, axman?”

  “Nothing I did not already know. Now, are we even yet?”

  Sieben’s anger fell away, and he smiled. “I like you, Druss, I always have. But you have the most uncanny power to irritate me.”

  Druss nodded, his face solemn. “I am not a thinker,” he said, “nor am I stupid. I am a man like so many others. I could have been a farmer, or a carpenter, even a laborer. Never a teacher, though, or a cleric. Intellectual men make me nervous. Like that Majon.” He shook his head. “I have met a great number of ambassadors, and they all seem identical: easy, insincere smiles and gimlet eyes that don’t miss a thing. What do they believe in? Do they have a sense of honor? Of patriotism? Or do they laugh at us common men as they line their purses with our gold? I don’t know much, poet, but I do know that men like Majon—aye, and you—can make all I believe in seem as insubstantial as summer snow. And make me look foolish into the bargain. Oh, I can understand how good and evil can come down to numbers. Like those women in the fountain. A besieging army could say, ‘Kill six women and we’ll spare the city.’ Well, there’s only one right answer to that. But I couldn’t tell you why I know it is right.”

  “But I can,” said Sieben. “And it is something, in part at least, that I learned from you. The greatest evil we can perpetrate is to make someone else do evil. The besieging army you speak of is actually saying: ‘Unless you commit a small evil act, we will commit a great one.’ The heroic response would naturally be to refuse. But diplomats and politicians are pragmatists, Druss. They live without any genuine understanding of honor. Am I right?”

  Druss smiled and clapped Sieben’s shoulder. “Aye, poet, you are. But I know that without turning a hair you could argue the opposite. So let us call an end to this.”

  “Agreed! We will call it even.”

  Druss switched his gaze to the south. Below them lay the center of Old Gulgothir, a tightly packed and apparently haphazard jumble of buildings, homes, shops, and workplaces intersected by scores of narrow alleyways and roads. The old Keep Palace sat at the center like a squat gray spider. Once the residence of kings, the palace was now used as a warehouse and granary. Druss locked to the west and the new Palace of the God-King, a colossal structure of white stone, its columns adorned with gold leaf, its statues—mostly of the king himself—crowned with silver and gold. Ornate gardens surrounded the palace, and even from there Druss could see the splendor of the royal blooms and the flowering trees. “Have you seen the God-King yet?” asked the warrior.

  “I was close to the royal balcony while you were toying with the Lentrian. But all I saw was the backs of his guards. It is said he has his hair dyed with real gold.”

  “What do you mean ‘toying’? The man was tough, and I can still feel the weight of his blows.”

  Sieben chuckled. “Then wait until you meet the Gothir champion, Druss. In combat the man is not human; it is said he has a punch like a thunderbolt. The odds are nine to one against you.”

  “Then maybe I’ll lose,” grunted Druss, “but don’t wager on it!”

  “Oh, I won’t be wagering a copper coin this time. I’ve met Klay. He is unique, Druss. In all the time I have known you, I never met another man I thought could best you in combat. Until now.”

  “Pah!” snorted Druss. “I wish I had a gold Raq for every time someone has told me another man was stronger, or faster, or better, or more deadly. And where are they now?”

  “Well, old horse,” Sieben answered coolly, “they are mostly dead, slain by you in your endless quest to do what is good and pure and right.”

  Druss’ eyes narrowed. “I thought you said we were even.”

  Sieben spread his hands. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist it.”

  The Nadir warrior known as Talisman ducked into the alleyway and loped along it. The shouts of his pursuers were muted now, but he knew he had not lost them … not yet. Emerging into an open square, Talisman paused. There were many doors there; he counted six on each side of the square. “This way! This way!” he heard someone shout. The moonlight shone brightly on the north and west walls as he ran to the south of the square and pressed his back against a recessed doorway. There, in his long, black hooded cloak, he was all but invisible in the shadows. Talisman took a deep breath, fighting for calm. Absently his hand strayed toward his hip, where his long hunting knife should have been. Silently he cursed. No Nadir warrior was allowed to carry weapons inside any Gothir city. He hated this place of stone and cobbles with its seething masses and the resultant stench of humanity. Talisman longed for the open expanse of the Nadir steppes: awesome mountains beneath a naked burning sky, endless plains and valleys where a man could ride for a year and never see another soul. On the steppes a man was alive. Not so here in this rat’s nest of a city, its foul, polluted air carrying the bowel stink of human excretion thrown from windows to lie rotting in the alleyways, al
ongside other garbage and waste.

  A rat scuttled over his foot, but Talisman did not move. The enemy was close. Enemy? These scum from the poorest quarter of Gulgothir could hardly be considered worthy of the title. They were merely filling time in their worthless existence by hunting a Nadir tribesman through their vermin-infested streets, enjoying a transient moment of entertainment to brighten their poverty-stricken lives. He cursed again. Nosta Khan had warned him about the gangs, telling him which areas to avoid, though Talisman had barely listened. But then, he had never visited a city as large as Gulgothir and had no idea how easily a man could become lost within its warrens.

  The sound of running feet came to him, and his hands clenched into fists. If they found him there, they would kill him.

  “Did you see where he went?” came a guttural voice.

  “Nah! What about down there?”

  “You three take the alley; we’ll cut through Tavern Walk and meet you in the square.”

  Drawing his hood around his face, leaving only his dark eyes showing, Talisman waited. The first of the three men ran past his hiding place, then the second. But the third glanced in his direction—and spotted him. Talisman leapt forward. The man lunged with a knife, but Talisman sidestepped and hammered his fist into the attacker’s face. The man stumbled back as Talisman darted to the left and sprinted into another alleyway.

  “He’s here! He’s here!” shouted the attacker.

  Ahead was a wall around eight feet high. Talisman jumped, curling his fingers over the top and scrambling up. Beyond was a moonlit garden. Dropping to the grass, he ran to a second wall and scaled that also. On the other side was a narrow road; landing lightly, he loped along it, his anger mounting. It shamed him to run from these soft, round-eyed southerners.

  He came to an intersection and cut to the north. There was no sound of pursuit, but he did not relax. He had no idea where he was; all these foul buildings looked the same. Nosta Khan had told him to seek out the home of Chorin-Tsu, the embalmer, which was on the Street of Weavers in the northwest quarter of the city. But where am I now? thought the tribesman.