He had been just seventeen when he had taken part in the raid on the Wolfshead tribe, and it was Gorkai who had captured thirty of their ponies. Suddenly rich, he had learned to swagger. At the time it had seemed that the gods of stone and water had smiled upon him. Looking back, he saw that it was a gift laced with poison. Capturing two ponies would have helped him find a wife; ten would have gained him a place among the elite. But thirty was too many for a young man, and the more he had swaggered, the more he had become disliked. This was hard for a young man to understand. At the midsummer gathering he had made an offer for Li-shi, the daughter of Lon-tsen. Five ponies! No one had ever offered five ponies for a virgin.
And he had been rejected! The flush of remembered shame stained his cheeks even now. Before all he had been humiliated, for Lon-tsen had given his daughter to a warrior who had offered only one pony and seven blankets.
Angry beyond reason, Gorkai had nursed his humiliation, fanning it into a hatred so strong that when the plan came to him, he saw it as a blindingly brilliant scheme to restore his shattered pride. He had abducted Li-shi, raped her, then returned her to her father. “Now see who desires Gorkai’s leavings,” he had told the old man. Nadir custom was such that no other man would marry her. Nadir law decreed that her father would have to give her to Gorkai or kill her for bringing shame to her family.
They had come for him in the night and dragged him before the council. Once there, he had witnessed the execution of the girl, strangled by her own father, and had heard the words of banishment spoken by the Elders.
Despite all the killing since, he still remembered the girl’s death with genuine regret. Li-shi had not struggled at all but had turned her eyes upon Gorkai and watched him until the light fled from her and her jaw fell slack. Guilt remained with him, a stone in the heart.
“There they are,” whispered Baski.
Gorkai forced the memories away and narrowed his eyes. Still some distance away, the man was riding just ahead of the woman. This was the closest they had been. Gorkai narrowed his eyes and studied the man. A bow and a quiver were looped over his saddle horn, and a cavalry saber was scabbarded at his waist. The man drew rein some sixty paces from Gorkai. He was young, and that surprised Gorkai; judging by the skill he had shown so far, the Notas leader had expected him to be a seasoned warrior in his thirties.
The woman rode alongside the man, and Gorkai’s jaw dropped. She was exquisitely beautiful, raven-haired and slender. But what shook him was the resemblance to the girl he had once loved. Surely the gods were giving him a chance to find happiness at last. The sound of rasping steel broke the silence, and Gorkai swung an angry glance at Djung, who had drawn his sword.
Out on the steppes the rider swung his mount, cutting to the left. Together he and the woman galloped away.
“Idiot!” said Gorkai.
“There are three of us. Let’s ride them down,” urged Baski.
“No need. The only water within forty miles is at Kall’s Pool. We will find them.”
* * *
Talisman was sitting back from the fire when the three riders rode into the camp he had prepared some two hundred yards from Kall’s Pool. It was yet another rock tank, fed in part by deep wells below the strata. Slender trees grew by the poolside, and brightly colored flowers clung to life on the soft mud of the water’s edge. Zhusai had wanted to camp by the water, but Talisman had refused, and they had built their fire against a rock wall in sight of the water. The girl was asleep by the dying fire as the riders made their entrance, but Talisman was wide awake with his saber drawn and resting on the ground before him. By his side was his hunting bow, three arrows drawn from the quiver and plunged into the earth.
The riders paused, observing him as he observed them. In the center was a thickset warrior, his hair closely cropped, a widow’s peak extending like an arrowhead over his brow. To his right was a shorter, slimmer rider with burning eyes, and to his left was a fat-faced man wearing a fur-rimmed iron helm.
The riders waited, but Talisman made no move and did not speak. At last the lead rider dismounted. “A lonely place,” he said softly. Zhusai woke and sat up.
“All places are desolate to a lonely man,” said Talisman.
“What does that mean?” asked the warrior, beckoning his comrades to join him.
“Where in all the land of stone and water can a Notas feel welcome?”
“You are not very friendly,” said the man, taking a step forward. The other two moved sideways, hands on their sword hilts.
Talisman rose, leaving the saber by his feet, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. The moon was bright above the group. Zhusai made to rise, but Talisman spoke to her. “Remain where you are … Zhusai,” he said. “All will be well in a little while.”
“You seem very sure of that,” said the widow-peaked leader. “And yet you are in a strange land and not among friends.”
“The land is not strange to me,” Talisman told him. “It is Nadir land, ruled by the gods of stone and water. I am a Nadir, and this land is mine by right and by blood. You are the strangers here. Can you not feel your deaths in the air, in the breeze? Can you not feel the contempt that this land has for you? Notas! The name stinks like a three-day-dead pig.”
The leader reddened. “You think we chose the title, you arrogant bastard? You think we wanted to live this way?”
“Why are you talking to him?” snarled the fat-faced warrior. “Let’s be done with him!” The man’s sword snaked from its leather scabbard, and he ran forward.
Talisman’s right hand came up and back, the knife blade slashing through the air to hammer home into the man’s right eye, sinking in to the ivory hilt. The warrior ran on for two more paces, then pitched to his left, striking the ground face first. As the second warrior leapt forward, Zhusai’s knife thudded into the side of his neck. Blood bubbled into his windpipe. Choking, he let go of his sword and tore the knife clear, staring down at the slender blade in shock and disbelief. Sinking to his knees, he tried to speak, but blood burst from his mouth in a crimson spray. Talisman’s foot flipped the saber into the air, and he caught it expertly.
“Your dead friend asked you a question,” he told the stunned leader. “But I would like to hear the answer. Why are you talking to me?”
The man blinked and then suddenly sat down by the fire. “You are right,” he said. “I can feel the contempt. And I am alone. It was not always thus. I made a mistake born of pride and foolishness, and I have paid for it these last twenty years. There is no end in sight.”
“What tribe were you?” asked Talisman.
“Northern Gray.”
Talisman walked to the fire and sat opposite the man. “My name is Talisman, and I live to serve the Uniter. His day is almost upon us. If you wish to be Nadir again, then follow me.”
The man smiled and shook his head. “The Uniter? The hero with violet eyes? You believe he exists? And if he did, why would he take me?”
“He will take you—if you are with me.”
“You know where he is?”
“I know what will bring us to him. Will you follow me?”
“What tribe are you?”
“Wolfshead. As you will be.”
The man stared gloomily into the fire. “All my troubles began with the Wolfshead. Perhaps they will end there.” Glancing up, he met Talisman’s dark gaze. “I will follow you. What blood oath do you require?”
“None,” said Talisman. “As you have said it, so shall it be. What is your name?”
“Gorkai.”
“Then keep watch, Gorkai, for I am tired.”
So saying, Talisman laid down his saber, covered himself with a blanket, and slept.
Zhusai sat quietly as Talisman stretched himself out, his head resting on his forearm; his breathing deepened. Zhusai could scarcely believe he would do such a thing. Nervously she glanced at Gorkai, reading the confusion in the man’s expression. Moments before, this man and two others had ridden into the camp to kill them. Now
two were dead, and the third was sitting quietly by the fire. Gorkai rose, and Zhusai flinched. But the Nadir warrior merely walked to the first of the corpses, dragging it away from the camp; he repeated the action with the second body. Returning, he squatted before Zhusai and extended his hand. She glanced down to see that he was holding her ivory-handled throwing knife. Silently she took it. Gorkai stood and gathered firewood before settling down beside the fire. Zhusai felt no need of sleep, convinced that the moment she shut her eyes, this killer would cut Talisman’s throat, then abuse and murder her.
The night wore on, but Gorkai made no movement toward her or the sleeping Talisman. Instead he sat cross-legged, deep in thought. Talisman groaned in his sleep and spoke suddenly in the tongue of the Gothir. “Never!” he said.
Gorkai glanced at the woman, and their eyes met. Zhusai did not look away. Rising, Gorkai gestured to her to walk with him. He did not look back but strode to the ponies and sat on a rock. For a while Zhusai made no move to follow, then, knife in hand, she followed him.
“Tell me of him,” said Gorkai.
“I know very little.”
“I have watched you both. You do not touch; there is no intimacy.”
“He is not my husband,” she said coldly.
“Where is he from? Who is he?”
“He is Talisman of the Wolfshead.”
“Talisman is not a Nadir name. I have given him my life, for he touched upon my dreams and my needs. But I need to know.”
“Believe me, Gorkai, you know almost as much as I. But he is strong, and he dreams great dreams.”
“Where do we travel?”
“To the Valley of Shul-sen’s Tears and the tomb of Oshikai.”
“Ah,” said Gorkai, “a pilgrimage, then. So be it.” He rose and took a deep breath. “I, too, have dreams, though I had all but forgotten them.” He hesitated, then spoke again. “Do not fear me, Zhusai. I will never harm you.” Gorkai walked back to the fire and sat.
Zhusai returned to her blanket.
The dawn sun was hidden by a thick bank of cloud. Zhusai awoke with a start. She had been determined not to sleep but at some point in the night had drifted into dreams. Talisman was up and talking to Gorkai. Zhusai opened their pack and rekindled the fire, preparing a breakfast of salted oats and dried meat. The two men ate in silence, then Gorkai gathered the wooden platters and cleaned them in the pool. It was the work of a woman or a servant, and Zhusai knew it was Gorkai’s way of establishing his place with them. Zhusai placed the platters within the canvas pack and tied it behind her saddle. Gorkai helped her mount, then handed her the reins of the other two ponies.
Talisman led the way out onto the steppes, Gorkai riding beside him. “How many Notas raid in this area?” Talisman asked.
“Thirty,” answered Gorkai. “We … they call themselves Chop-backs.”
“So I have heard. Have you been to Oshikai’s tomb?”
“Three times.”
“Tell me of it.”
“It is a simply carved sarcophagus set in a building of white stone. Once it was a Gothir fort; now it is a holy place.”
“Who will be guarding it now?”
Gorkai shrugged. “Hard to say. There are always warriors from at least four tribes camped close by. A blind priest sends messages to each, telling them when they may take up their duties. He also tells them when to return to their own lands, and at such times other tribes send warriors. It is a great honor to be chosen to guard the resting place of Oshikai. The last time I was there the Green Monkey tribe patrolled the tomb. Waiting were the Northern Grays, the Stone Tigers, and the Fleet Ponies.”
“How many in each group?”
“No more than forty.”
The clouds began to break, and the burning sun shone clear. Zhusai lifted a wide-brimmed straw hat from the pommel of her saddle and tied it into place. The shifting dust dried her throat, but she resisted the urge to drink.
And the trio rode on through the long day.
5
THE RIOTS LASTED three days, beginning in the poorest section and spreading fast. Troops were called in from surrounding areas, cavalry charging into the rioters. The death toll rose, and by the end of the third day some four hundred people were reported killed and hundreds more injured.
The games were suspended during the troubles, the athletes advised to remain in their quarters, the surrounding area patrolled by soldiers. As darkness fell, Druss stared gloomily from the upstairs window, watching the flames leap from the burning buildings of the western quarter.
“Madness,” he said as Sieben moved alongside him.
“Majon was telling me they caught the crossbowman and hacked him to pieces.”
“And yet the killing still goes on. Why, Sieben?”
“You said it yourself: madness. Madness and greed. Almost everyone had money on Klay, and they feel betrayed. Three of the gambling houses have been burned to the ground.” Outside a troop of cavalry cantered along the wide avenue, heading for the riot area.
“What is the news of Klay?” asked Druss.
“There is no word, but Majon told me he has many friends among the physicians. And Klay is a rich man, Druss; he can afford the best.”
“I would have died,” Druss said softly. “A knife was flashing toward my eye. In that moment I could do nothing. His hand moved like lightning, poet. I have never seen anything like it. He plucked the blade from the air.” Druss shook his head. “I still do not believe it. Yet moments later a coward’s bolt had smashed him to the ground. He’ll not walk again, Sieben.”
“You can’t say that, old horse. You are no surgeon.”
“I know his spine was smashed. I have seen that injury a score of times. There’s no coming back from it. Not without …” He fell silent.
“Without what?”
Druss moved away from the window. “A Nadir shaman came to me just before the fight. He told me of magical gems to heal any wound.”
“Did he also try to sell you a map to a legendary diamond mine?” Sieben asked with a smile.
“I’m going out,” said Druss. “I need to see Klay.”
“Out? Into that chaos? Come on, Druss; wait till morning.”
Druss shook his head.
“Then take a weapon,” Sieben urged. “The rioters are still looking for blood.”
“Then they had better stay away from me,” snarled Druss, “or I’ll spill enough of it to drown them all!”
The grounds were deserted, and the gates were open. Druss paused and stared at the broken statue lying on the lawn. It looked as if the legs had been shattered by hammers. The neck was sheared away, the head lying on the grass, its stone eyes staring unseeing at the black-bearded warrior standing in the gateway.
Druss gazed around. The flower beds had been uprooted, the lawn churned into mud around the statue. He strode to the front door, which was open. No servants greeted him as he moved through to the training area. There was no sound. The sand circles were empty of fighters, the fountains silent. An old man came in sight, carrying a bucket of water; he was the servant who had looked after the beggar boy. “Where is everyone?” asked Druss.
“Gone. All gone.”
“What of Klay?”
“They moved him to a hospice in the southern quarter. The scum-sucking bastards!”
Druss wandered back into the main building. Couches and chairs had been smashed, the curtains ripped down from the windows. A portrait of Klay had been slashed through, and the place smelled of stale urine. Druss shook his head in puzzlement. “Why would the rioters do this? I thought they loved the man.”
The old man set down the bucket, righted a chair, and slumped down. “Oh, aye, they loved him, until his back broke. Then they hated him. People had wagered their life savings on him. They heard that he was involved in a drunken brawl and that all bets were dead. Their money gone, they turned on him. Turned on him like animals! After all he’d won for them, done for them. You know,” he said, glancing up,
his ancient face flushed with anger, “the hospice they carried him to was built from money donated by Klay. Many of the people who came here and screamed abuse had been helped by him in the past. No gratitude. But the worst of them was Shonan.”
“Klay’s trainer?”
“Pah!” spit the old man. “Trainer, handler, owner? Call him what you will, but I call him a blood-sucking parasite. Klay’s gone now, and so is his wealth. Shonan even says that this house belongs to him. Klay, it seems, had nothing. Can you believe that? The bastard didn’t even pay for the carriage that took Klay to the hospice. He will die there penniless.” The old man laughed bitterly. “One moment he was the hero of the Gothir, loved by all, flattered by all. Now he is poor, alone, and friendless. By the gods, it makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“He has you,” said Druss. “And he has me.”
“You? You’re the Drenai fighter; you hardly knew him.”
“I know him, and that is enough. Can you take me to him?”
“Aye, and gladly. I’m finished here now. I’ll gather my gear and meet you at the front of the house.”
Druss strolled through to the front lawn. A group of about a dozen athletes was coming through the gate, and the sound of laughter pricked Druss’ anger. At the center of the group was a bald-headed man wearing a gold torque studded with gems. They stopped by the statue, and Druss heard a young man say, “By Shemak, that monstrosity cost over three thousand Raq. Now it is just rubble.”
“What’s past is past,” said the man with the gold torque.
“So what will you do now, Shonan?” asked another.
The man shrugged. “Find another fighter. It will be hard, mind, for Klay was gifted. No doubt about that.”
The old man moved alongside Druss. “Doesn’t their grief move you to tears? Klay supported them all. See the young blond one? Klay paid off his gambling debts no more than a week ago. Just over a thousand Raq. And this is the way they thank him!”
“Aye, they’re a shoddy bunch,” said Druss. Striding across the lawn, he approached Shonan.
The man grinned at Druss. “How fall the mighty,” he said, pointing to the statue.
The Legend of the Deathwalker Page 11