“You’re dead meat, Drenai!” he heard one of them shout as the group edged forward.
Suddenly a voice boomed out. “Hold on, Druss, I’m coming.”
Druss glanced to his left to see Klay charging from the mouth of a nearby alley. As the giant Gothir hurtled into them the men, recognizing him, scattered and ran. Klay walked over to Druss. “Such an exciting life you lead, my friend,” he said with a broad grin.
Something bright flashed toward Druss’ face, and in that one terrifying moment he saw so many things: the moonlight shining on the dagger blade, the thrower with a look of triumph on his dirty face, and Klay’s hand snaking out with impossible speed, catching the hurled knife by the hilt to stop the blade mere inches from Druss’ eye.
“I told you, Druss, speed is everything,” said Klay.
Druss let out a long, deep breath. “I don’t know about that, laddie, but you saved my life, and I’ll not forget it.”
Klay chuckled. “Come on, my friend, I need to eat.” Throwing his arm around Druss’ shoulder, he turned toward the tavern. In that moment a black-feathered crossbow bolt slashed across the open ground to plunge into the back of the Gothir champion. Klay cried out and collapsed against Druss. The axman staggered under the weight, then saw the bolt low in the fighter’s back. Gently he lowered him to the ground. Scanning the shadows for signs of the attacker, he saw two men running away. One carried a crossbow, and Druss longed to give chase, but he could not leave the wounded Klay.
“Lie still. I’ll fetch a surgeon.”
“What’s happened to me, Druss? Why am I lying down?”
“You’ve been struck by a crossbow bolt. Lie still!”
“I cannot move my legs, Druss …”
The interrogation room was cold and damp, fetid water leaving a trail of slime on the greasy walls. Two bronze lanterns on one wall put out a flickering light but no heat. Seated at a crudely fashioned table on which he could see bloodstains both old and new, Chorin-Tsu waited patiently, gathering his thoughts. The little Chiatze said nothing to the guard, a burly soldier in a grubby leather tunic and torn breeches who stood with arms folded by the door. The man had a brutal face and cruel eyes. Chorin-Tsu did not stare at him but gazed about the room with clinical detachment. Yet his thoughts remained with the guard. I have known many good, ugly men, he thought, and even a few handsome, evil men. Yet one had only to look at this guard to recognize his brutality, as if his coarse and vile nature had somehow reached up from within and molded his features, swathing his eyes in pockets of fat set close together above a thick pockmarked nose and thick, slack lips.
A black rat scurried across the room, and the guard jumped, then kicked at it, missing wildly. The creature vanished into a hole by the far corner of the wall. “Bastard rats!” hissed the guard, embarrassed that he had allowed himself to be startled in front of the prisoner. “You obviously like ’em. Good! You’ll be living with them soon enough. Have ’em running all over you then, biting your skin, leaving their little fleas to suck your blood in the dark.”
Chorin-Tsu ignored him.
Garen-Tsen’s arrival was sudden, the door whispering open. In the lantern light the minister’s face glowed with a sickly yellow sheen, and his eyes seemed unnaturally bright. Chorin-Tsu offered no greeting. Nor, as should have been Chiatze custom in the presence of a minister, did he rise and bow. Instead he sat, his expression calm and impassive.
Dismissing the guard, the minister sat down opposite the little Chiatze embalmer. “My apologies for the inhospitable surroundings,” said Garen-Tsen, speaking in Chiatze. “It was necessary for your safety. You did wonderfully well with the queen. Her beauty has never been so radiant.”
“I thank you, Garen-Tsen,” Chorin-Tsu answered coolly. “But why am I here? You promised I would be freed.”
“As indeed you will be, countryman. But first let us talk. Tell me of your interest in Nadir legends.”
Chorin-Tsu stared at the slender minister, holding his gaze. It was all a game now, with only one ending. I am to die, he thought. Here, in this cold, miserable place. He wanted to scream his hatred at the monster before him, to rage and show defiance. The strength of feeling surprised him, going against all Chiatze teaching, but not a trace of his inner turmoil showed on his face as he sat very still, his expression serene. “All legends have a basis in fact, Garen-Tsen. I am a student of history, and it pleases me to study.”
“Of course. But your studies have been focused in recent years, have they not? You have spent hundreds of hours in the Great Library, studying scrolls concerning Oshikai Demon-bane and the legend of the stone wolf. Why is that?”
“I am indeed gratified by your interest, though puzzled as to why a man of your status and responsibilities should concern himself with what is, after all, no more than a hobby,” countered Chorin-Tsu.
“The movements and interests of all foreign nationals are scrutinized. But my interest goes beyond such mundane matters. You are a scholar, and your work deserves a wider audience. I would be honored to hear your views on the stone wolf. But since time is pressing, perhaps it would be best if you merely outlined your findings concerning the Eyes of Alchazzar.”
Chorin-Tsu gave an almost imperceptible bow of his head. “Perhaps it would be better to postpone this conversation until we are both sitting in more comfortable apartments.”
The minister leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his long chin. When he spoke, his voice was cold. “Spiriting you away will be both costly and dangerous, countryman. How much is your life worth?”
Chorin-Tsu was surprised. The question was vulgar and considerably beneath any high-born Chiatze. “Far less than you would think but far more than I can afford,” he replied.
“I think you will find that the price is well within your reach, Master Embalmer. Two jewels, to be precise,” said Garen-Tsen. “The Eyes of Alchazzar. It is my belief that you have located their hiding place. Am I wrong?”
Chorin-Tsu remained silent. He had known for many years that death would be his only reward and had believed himself prepared for it. But now, in this cold, damp place, his heart began to beat in panic. He wanted to live! Looking up, he met the reptilian gaze of his countryman. Keeping his voice steady, he said, “Let us, for the sake of argument, assume that you are correct. In what way would sharing this information prove of benefit to this humble embalmer?”
“Benefit? You will be free. You have the sacred word of a Chiatze nobleman. Is that not enough?”
Chorin-Tsu took a deep breath and summoned the last of his courage. “The word of a Chiatze nobleman is indeed sacred. And in the presence of such a man I would not hesitate to surrender my knowledge. Perhaps you should send for him so that we may conclude our conversation.”
Garen-Tsen’s color deepened. “You have made the most unfortunate error, for now you will have to make the acquaintance of the royal torturer. Is this what you truly desire, Chorin-Tsu? He will make you speak; you will scream and babble, weep and beg. Why put yourself through such agony?”
Chorin-Tsu considered the question carefully. All his long life he had cherished Chiatze teaching, most especially the laws governing the subjugation of the self to the rigors of an iron etiquette. That alone was the foundation of Chiatze culture. Yet here he sat seeking an answer to a question no true Chiatze would dream of asking. It was obnoxious and invasive, indeed, the kind of question only a barbarian would utter. He looked deeply into Garen-Tsen’s eyes. The man was waiting for an answer. Chorin-Tsu sighed and for the first time in his life spoke like a barbarian.
“To thwart you, you lying dog,” he said.
The ride had been long and dry, the sun beating down on the open steppes, the strength-sapping heat leaving both riders and ponies near exhaustion. The rock pool was high in the hills, beneath an overhang of shale and slate. Few knew of its existence, and once Talisman had found the dried bones of a traveler who had died of thirst less than fifty feet from it. The pool was no m
ore than twenty feet long and only twelve feet wide. But it was very deep, and the water was winter-cold. After tending to the ponies and hobbling them, Talisman threw off his jerkin and tugged his shirt over his head. Dust and sand scraped against the skin of his arms and shoulders. Kicking off his boots, he loosened his belt, stepped out of his leggings, and walked naked to the pool’s edge. The sun beat down on his skin, and he could feel the heat of the rock beneath his feet. Taking a deep breath, he launched himself out over the sparkling water in an ungainly dive that sent up a glittering spray. He surfaced and swept his sleek black hair back from his face.
Zhusai sat, fully clothed, by the poolside. Her long, black hair was soaked with sweat, her face was streaked with dust, and her pale green silk tunic—a garment of bright, expensive beauty back in Gulgothir—was now travel-stained and dirt-streaked.
“Do you swim, Zhusai?” he asked her. She shook her head. “Would you like me to teach you?”
“That is most kind of you, Talisman. Perhaps on another occasion.”
Talisman swam to the poolside and levered himself to the rock beside her. Kneeling, she leaned over the edge, cupping her hands to the water and dabbing her fingers to her brow and cheeks. In the two days they had been together Zhusai had not initiated a conversation. If Talisman spoke, she would respond with typical Chiatze politeness and courtesy. Replacing her wide straw hat on her head, she sat in the stifling heat without complaint, her eyes averted from him.
“It is not difficult to swim,” he said. “There is no danger, Zhusai, for I shall be in the pool with you, supporting you. Also, it is wondrously cool.”
Bowing her head, she closed her eyes. “I thank you, Lord Talisman. You are indeed a considerate companion. The sun is very hot. Perhaps you should dress now or your skin will burn.”
“No, I think I will swim again,” he told her, jumping into the pool. His understanding of the Chiatze people was limited to their methods of warfare, which were apparently ritualistic. According to Gothir reports, many campaigns were conducted and won without bloodshed, armies maneuvering across battlefields until one side or the other conceded the advantage. It helped not at all with his understanding of Zhusai. Rolling to his back, Talisman floated on the cool surface. Her good manners, he realized, were becoming hard to tolerate. He smiled and swam to the pool’s edge, hooking his arm to the warm stone.
“Do you trust me?” he asked her.
“Of course. You are the guardian of my honor.”
Talisman was surprised. “I can guard your life, Zhusai, to the best of my ability. But no one but you can guard your honor. It is something no man—or woman—can take. Honor can only be surrendered.”
“As you say, so must it be, lord,” she said meekly.
“No, no! Do not agree for the sake of courtesy, Zhusai.” Her eyes met his, and for a long moment she did not speak. When she did, her voice was strangely different, still lilting and soft yet with an underlying confidence that touched a chord in Talisman.
“I fear my translation of your title was not sufficiently exact. The honor you speak of is essentially a male concept, born in blood and battle. A man’s word, a man’s patriotism, a man’s courage. Indeed, this form of honor can only be surrendered. Perhaps ‘guardian of my virtue’ would suffice. And though we could enter a fine philosophical debate on the meaning of the word ‘virtue,’ I use it in the sense that a male would apply to a woman, most especially a Nadir male. I understand that among your people a raped woman is put to death, while the rapist is merely banished.” She fell silent and averted her eyes once more. It was the longest speech he had heard from her.
“You are angry,” he said.
She bowed and shook her head. “I am merely hot, my lord. I fear it has made me indiscreet.”
Levering himself from the pool, he walked to the hobbled ponies and pulled a clean shirt and leggings from his saddle pack. Once dressed, he returned to the seated woman. “We will be resting here today and tonight.” Pointing to the southern section of the pool, he told her, “There is a shelf there, and the water is no more than four feet deep. You may bathe there. So that you may have privacy, I shall walk back down the trail and gather wood for tonight’s fire.”
“Thank you, lord,” she said, bowing her head.
Pulling on his boots, Talisman looped an empty canvas bag over his shoulder. Slowly he walked back up the trail, stopping short of the crest and scanning the steppes below. There was no sign of other riders. Above the crest the heat was searing and intense. Talisman walked slowly down the hillside, pausing to gather sticks, which he dropped into the bag. Desert trees and bushes grew there, their roots deep in the dry earth, their arid existence maintained by the few days of heavy rain in what passed for winter there. Fuel was plentiful, and soon his bag was crammed full. He was just starting back up the slope when he heard Zhusai cry out. Throwing the bag to one side, Talisman sprinted up the trail and over the crest. Zhusai, her arms thrashing wildly, had slipped from the shelf, and her head sank below the surface.
Talisman ran to the pool’s edge and dived after her. Below the surface he opened his eyes to see that Zhusai, still struggling, was sinking some twenty feet below him. Bubbles of air were streaming from her mouth. Talisman dived toward her, his fingers hooked into her hair, and twisting in the water, he kicked out for the surface. At first he did not rise, and panic touched him. She was too heavy. If he hung on to her, they would both drown. Looking around, he saw the shelf from which she had slipped; it was no more than ten feet to his left. The surface must be close, he thought. Zhusai was a dead weight now, and Talisman’s breath was failing. But he hung on—and kicked out with renewed force. His head splashed clear of the water. Taking a great lungful of air, he dragged Zhusai to the shelf and heaved her body onto it. She rolled in the shallow water, facedown. Talisman scrambled alongside her and with his feet on solid rock lifted her to his shoulder and climbed from the pool. Laying her down on her stomach, he straddled her and pushed down against her back. Water bubbled from her mouth as again and again he applied pressure. Suddenly she coughed, then vomited. Talisman stood, then ran to her pony and unfastened her blanket. Zhusai was sitting up as he returned. Swiftly he wrapped the blanket around her.
“I was dying,” she said.
“Yes. But now you are alive once more.”
For a moment she was silent, then she looked up at him. “I would like to learn to swim,” she told him.
Talisman smiled. “Then I shall teach you, but not today.”
The sun was setting, and already it was cooler. Talisman rose and fetched the bag of wood. When he returned, Zhusai had dressed in a blue tunic and leggings and was washing the dust from their travel-stained clothes. In a wide niche in the rock wall Talisman lit a fire above the ashes of a previous blaze. Zhusai joined him, and together they sat for some time in comfortable silence.
“Are you a student of history, like your grandfather?” he asked her.
“I have assisted him since I was eight years old, and many times since I have traveled with him to the sacred sites.”
“You have been to Oshikai’s shrine?”
“Yes, twice. It was once a temple. My grandfather believes it is by far the oldest building in all the Gothir lands. Oshikai is said to have been carried there after the Battle of the Vale. His wife was with him when he died; thereafter they named it the Valley of Shul-sen’s Tears. Some visitors claim you can still hear her weeping if you sit close to the shrine on cold winter nights. Did you hear her weeping, Lord Talisman?”
“I have never been there,” admitted the warrior.
“Forgive me, lord,” she said swiftly, bowing and closing her eyes. “I fear my words, which were intended lightly, have caused offense.”
“Not at all, Zhusai. Now tell me of the shrine. Describe it for me.”
She glanced up. “It is three years since last I was there. I was fourteen, and my grandfather gave me my woman name, Zhusai.”
“What was your child
name?”
“Voni. It means ‘Chittering Rat’ in the Chiatze tongue.”
Talisman chuckled. “It has a … similar … meaning in Nadir.”
“In Nadir it means ‘Windy Goat,’ she said, tilting her head and giving a smile so dazzling that it struck him between the eyes with the power of a fist. He blinked and took a deep breath. Before that smile her beauty had seemed cold and distant, leaving Talisman untroubled by their journeying together. But now? He felt curiously short of breath. When he had saved her from drowning, he had not been unduly affected by her nakedness. Now, however, the memory of her golden skin shone in his mind, the curve of her hips and belly, the large dark nipples on her small breasts. He realized that Zhusai was speaking to him. “Are you well, lord?”
“Yes,” he replied more tersely than he had intended. Rising, he walked away from the bemused girl, moving up the trail to sit on a rock close to the crest. Her smile shone in his mind, and his body ached for her. It was as if a spell had been cast. Nervously he glanced back down to the fire, where Zhusai was sitting quietly. She is not a witch, he thought; no, far from it. She was simply the most beautiful woman Talisman had ever known.
And he was honor bound to take her to another man.
Chorin-Tsu had spoken of sacrifice.
Talisman knew now what it meant …
Zhusai sat quietly by the small fire, a multicolored blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Talisman slept nearby, his breathing deep and steady. When one of the ponies moved in its sleep, its hoof scraping on stone, Talisman stirred but did not wake. She gazed down on his face in the moonlight. He was not a handsome man or an ugly one. Yet you are attractive, thought Zhusai, remembering the gentle touch as he had laid the blanket around her shoulders and the concern in his eyes as she had recovered from the terrifying experience in the water. During her seven years in the company of her grandfather, Zhusai had met many Nadir tribesmen. Some she had liked; others she had loathed. But all were frightening, for there was a ferocity lurking close to the surface of the Nadir personality, a terrible hunger for blood and violence. Talisman was different. He had strength and a power not often found in one so young. But she sensed that he had no love of cruelty, no lust for bloodletting.
The Legend of the Deathwalker Page 9