The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  “And the not so mighty,” said Druss, his fist thundering into the man’s face and catapulting him from his feet. Several of the athletes surged forward, but Druss glared at them, and they stopped in their tracks. Slowly they backed away, and Druss moved to the fallen Shonan. Both of the man’s front teeth had been smashed through his lips, and his jaw was hanging slack. Druss ripped the gold torque from his neck and tossed it to the old man. “This might pay a bill or two at the hospice,” he said.

  “It will that,” agreed the old man. The athletes were still standing close by. Druss pointed to the young man with long blond hair.

  “You, come here.” The man blinked nervously but then stepped forward.

  “When this piece of offal wakes, you tell him that Druss is going to find him again. You tell him that I expect Klay to be looked after. I expect him to be back in his own house, with his own servants, and with money enough to pay them. If this is not done, I will come back and kill him. And after that I will find you, and I will rip your pretty face from your skull. You understand me?” The young man nodded, and Druss swung to the others. “I have marked all you maggots in my mind. If I find that Klay wants for anything, I shall come looking for each of you. Make no mistake: if Klay suffers one more ounce of indignity, you will all die. I am Druss, and that is my promise.”

  Druss walked away from them, the old man alongside him. “My name is Carmol,” the servant said with a broad grin. “And it is a pleasure to meet you again!”

  Together they walked across the riot-torn city. Here and there bodies could be seen lying by the wayside, and the smell of burning buildings wafted to them on the wind.

  The hospice was sited in the center of the poorest quarter, its white walls out of place among the squalid buildings that surrounded it. The riots had begun near there but had moved on since. An elderly priest showed them to Klay’s room, which was small and clean with a single cot placed beneath the window. Klay was asleep when they entered, and the priest brought two chairs for the visitors. The fighter awoke as Druss sat beside the bed.

  “How are you feeling?” asked the Drenai.

  “I’ve known better days,” answered Klay, forcing a smile. His face was gray beneath his tan, his eyes sunken and blue-ringed.

  Druss took hold of the fighter’s hand. “A Nadir shaman told me of a place to the east where there are magical jewels to heal any wound. I leave tomorrow. If they exist, I shall find them and bring them to you. You understand?”

  “Yes,” said Klay, despair in his voice. “Magical jewels to heal me!”

  “Do not give up hope,” said Druss.

  “Hope is not on offer here, my friend. This is a hospice, and we come here to die. Throughout this building there are people waiting for death, some with cancers, others with lung rot, still more with wasting diseases for which there are no names. There are wives, husbands, children. If such jewels exist, there are other, more deserving cases than mine. But I thank you for your words.”

  “They are not just words, Klay. I am leaving tomorrow. Promise me you will fight for life until my return.”

  “I always fight, Druss. That’s my talent. The east, you say? That is Nadir heartland, filled with robbers and thieves and deadly killers. You wouldn’t want to meet them.”

  Druss chuckled. “Trust me, laddie. They wouldn’t want to meet me!”

  Garen-Tsen stared down at the body of the embalmer, his face twisted in death, frozen in midscream, eyes wide and staring. Blood had ceased to flow from the many wounds, and the broken fingers twitched no longer.

  “He was a tough one,” said the torturer.

  Garen-Tsen ignored the man. The information gleaned from the embalmer had been far from complete; he had held something back to the end. Garen-Tsen stared at the dead face. You knew exactly where they were, he thought. Through his years of study Chorin-Tsu had finally pieced together the route taken by the renegade shaman who originally had stolen the Eyes of Alchazzar. The man ultimately had been found hiding in the Mountains of the Moon, and he had been slain there. Of the eyes there was no sign. He could have hidden them anywhere, but a number of incidents suggested that they were concealed in or near the tomb of Oshikai Demon-bane. Miraculous healings were said to have taken place there: several blind men regained their sight, a cripple walked. In themselves those miracles meant nothing. Tombs of heroes or prophets always attracted such claims, and being Chiatze, Garen-Tsen well understood the nature of hysterical paralysis or blindness. Even so, it was the only indication of the whereabouts of the jewels. The problem remained, however, that the tomb had been surreptitiously searched on at least three occasions. No hidden jewels had been found.

  “Dispose of it,” Garen-Tsen ordered the torturer, and the man nodded. The university paid five gold coins for every fresh corpse, though this one was in such a wretched state that he probably would receive only three.

  The Chiatze minister lifted the hem of his long velvet robe and walked from the chamber. Am I clutching at leaves in the wind? he wondered. Can I send troops to Shul-sen’s valley with any surety of success?

  Back in his own rooms he emptied his mind of the problem and pored over the reports of the day. A secret meeting at the home of Senator Borvan, an overheard criticism of the God-King in a tavern on Eel Street, a scuffle at the home of the fighter Klay. The name Druss caught his eye, and he remembered the awesome Drenai fighter. He read on, skimming through the reports and making notes. Druss’ name figured once more; he had visited Klay in the hospice that morning. Garen-Tsen blinked as he read the small script. “The subject made reference to healing jewels, which he would fetch for the fighter …” Picking up a small silver bell, Garen-Tsen rang it twice. A servant entered and bowed.

  An hour later the informant was standing nervously before Garen-Tsen’s desk. “Tell me all that you heard. Every word. Leave nothing out,” ordered Garen-Tsen. The man did so. Dismissing him, the Chiatze walked to the window, staring out over the towers and rooftops. A Nadir shaman had told Druss about the jewels, and he was heading east. The Valley of Shulsen’s Tears was in the east. Chorin-Tsu’s daughter was riding east with the Nadir warrior Talisman.

  He rang the bell once more.

  “Go to Lord Larness,” he told the servant, “and say that I must meet with him today. Also have a warrant drawn up for the arrest of the Drenai fighter Druss.”

  “Yes, lord. What accusation should be logged against him?”

  “Assault on a Gothir citizen, leading to the man’s death.”

  The servant looked puzzled. “But lord, Shonan is not dead; he merely lost some teeth.” Garen-Tsen’s hooded eyes fastened to the man’s face, and the servant reddened. “I will see to it, lord. Forgive me.”

  The haggle had reached the crucial point, and Sieben the Poet steeled himself for the kill. The horse dealer had moved from politeness, to polite disinterest, to irritation, and now he was displaying an impressively feigned anger. “This probably just looks like a horse to you,” said the dealer, patting the beast’s steel-dust flanks, “but to me Ganael is a member of my family. We love this horse. His sire was a champion, and his dam had the speed of the east wind. He is brave and loyal. And you insult me by offering the price normally paid for a swaybacked nag?”

  Sieben adopted a serious expression and held to the man’s gray-eyed gaze. “I do not disagree with your description of this … gelding. And were it five years younger, I might be tempted to part with a little more silver. But the horse is worth no more than I have offered.”

  “Then our business is concluded,” snapped the dealer. “There are many noblemen in Gulgothir who would pay twice what I am asking of you. And I offer you this special price only because I like you and feel that Ganael likes you, too.”

  Sieben glanced up at the steel dust and looked into the gelding’s eye. “He has a mean look,” he said.

  “Spirited,” the dealer said swiftly. “Like me, he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. But he is fearless and strong. You are ridin
g into the steppes. By heaven, man, you will need a horse with the power to outrun those Nadir hill ponies.”

  “Thirty pieces is too much. Ganael may be strong, but he is also verging on the old.”

  “Nonsense. He is no more than nine—” As the dealer spoke, Sieben raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Well, perhaps nearer ten or eleven. Even so, he has years of service left in him. His legs are strong, and there is no weakness in the hoof. And I’ll reshoe him for the steppes. How does that sound?”

  “It would sound very fine at twenty-two pieces of silver.”

  “Gods, man, have you come here merely to insult me? Did you wake this morning and think, I’ll spend the day bringing an honest Gothir businessman to the threshold of heart failure? Twenty-seven.”

  “Twenty-five, and you can throw in the old mare in the farthest stall and two saddles.”

  The dealer swung around. “The mare? Throw in? Are you trying to bankrupt me? That mare is of the finest pedigree. She—”

  “Is a member of the family,” Sieben put in with a wry smile. “I can see she is strong, but more importantly, she is old and steady. My friend is no rider, and I think she will suit him. You will have no buyers for her, save for prison meat or glue. The price for those mounts is one half-silver.”

  The dealer’s thin face relaxed, and he pulled at his pointed beard. “I do happen to have two old saddles—beautiful workmanship, equipped with bags and canteens. But I couldn’t let them go for less than a full silver each. Twenty-seven and we will grip hands upon it. It is too hot to haggle further.”

  “Done,” agreed Sieben. “But I want both horses reshod and brought to me in three hours.” From his pouch he took two silver pieces and passed them to the man. “Full payment will be upon receipt,” he said.

  After giving the dealer the address, Sieben strolled out into the marketplace beyond. It was nearly deserted, mute testimony to the riots that had taken place there the previous night. A young whore approached him, stepping from the doorway of a smoke-blackened building. “Do you seek delight, lord?” she asked him. Sieben gazed down; her face was young and pretty, but her eyes were world-weary and empty.

  “How much?”

  “For a nobleman like you, lord, a mere quarter-silver. Unless you need a bed, and that will be a half.”

  “And for this you will delight me?”

  “I will give you hours of pleasure,” she promised.

  Sieben took her hand and saw that her fingers were clean, as was the cheap dress she wore. “Show me,” he said.

  Two hours later he wandered back into the house of lodging. Majon was sitting by the far window, composing a speech he was to make at the royal funeral the next day. He glanced up as Sieben entered and laid aside his quill. “We must talk,” he said, beckoning Sieben to join him.

  The poet was tired and already regretting his decision to join Druss on his journey. He sat on a padded couch and poured himself a goblet of watered wine. “Let us make this swift, Ambassador, for I need an hour’s sleep before I ride.”

  “Yes, the ride. This is not seemly, poet. The queen’s funeral is tomorrow, and Druss is an honored guest. To ride out now is an insult of the worst kind. Especially following the riots, which began over Druss, after all. Could you not wait for a few days at least?”

  Sieben shook his head. “I am afraid we are dealing here with something you don’t understand, Ambassador. Druss sees this as a debt of honor.”

  “Do not seek to insult me, poet. I well understand the notion. But Druss did not ask for this man’s help and therefore is in no way responsible for his injury. He owes him nothing.”

  “Amazing,” said Sieben. “You prove my point exactly. I talk of honor and you speak of transactions. Listen to me. A man was crippled trying to help Druss. Now he is dying, and we cannot wait any longer. The surgeon told Druss that Klay has perhaps a month to live. Therefore, we are leaving now, as soon as the horses are delivered.”

  “But it is all nonsense!” roared Majon. “Magical jewels hidden in a Nadir valley! What sane man would even consider such … such a fanciful tale? I have been researching the area you plan to visit. There are many tribes raiding in those parts. No convoys pass through there unless heavily guarded. There is one particular group of raiders known as Chop-backs. How do you like the sound of that? You know how they got their name? They smash the lower spines of their prisoners and leave them out on the steppes for the wolves to devour.”

  Sieben drained his wine and hoped his face had not shown the terror he felt. “You have made your point, Ambassador.”

  “Why is he really doing this?”

  “I have already told you. Druss owes the man a debt, and he would walk through fire to repay it.”

  As Sieben rose, Majon also stood. “Why are you going with him? He is not the brightest of men, and I can … just … understand his simplistic view of the world. But you? You have wit and rare intelligence. Can you not see the futility of this venture?”

  “Yes,” admitted Sieben. “And it saddens me that I can, for it merely highlights the terrible flaws of what you call intelligence.”

  Back in his room Sieben bathed and then stretched himself out on his bed. The delights the whore had promised had proved to be ephemeral and illusory. Just like all the delights of life Sieben had ever sampled. Lust followed by a gentle sorrow for all that had been missed. The ultimate experience, like the myth of the ultimate woman, was always ahead.

  Why are you going with him?

  Sieben loathed danger and trembled at the thought of approaching fear. But Druss, for all his faults, lived life to the full, relishing every breath. Sieben had never been more alive than when he had accompanied Druss on his search for the kidnapped Rowena, in the storm when the Thunderchild had been hurled and tossed like a piece of driftwood, and in the battles and wars when death had seemed but a heartbeat distant.

  They had returned in triumph to Drenan, and there Sieben had composed his epic poem Druss the Legend. It was now the most widely performed saga in all the Drenai lands and had been translated into a dozen languages. The fame had brought riches, the riches had bought women, and Sieben had fallen back with astonishing speed into a life of idle luxury. He sighed and rose from the bed. Servants had laid out his clothes: leggings of pale blue wool and soft thigh-length riding boots of creamy beige. His puff-sleeved shirt was of blue silk, the wrists slashed to reveal gray silk inserts decorated with mother-of-pearl. A royal blue cape completed the ensemble, fastened at the neck with a delicate braided chain of gold. Once dressed, he stood before the full-length mirror and looped his baldric over his shoulder. From it hung four black sheaths, each housing an ivory-hilted throwing knife.

  Why are you going with him? It would be fine if he could say, “Because he is my friend.” Sieben hoped there was at least a semblance of truth in that. The reality, however, was altogether different. “I need to feel alive,” he said aloud.

  “I have purchased two mounts,” said Sieben, “a fine thoroughbred for myself and a cart horse for you. Since you ride with all the grace of a sack of carrots, I thought it would be fitting.”

  Druss ignored the jibe. “Where did you get the pretty knives?” he asked, pointing at the ornate leather baldric slung carelessly over Sieben’s shoulder.

  “Pretty? These are splendidly balanced weapons of death.” Sieben slid one from its sheath. The blade was diamond-shaped and razor-sharp. “I practiced with them before I bought them. I hit a moth at ten paces.”

  “That could come in handy,” grunted Druss. “Nadir moths can be ferocious, I’m told.”

  “Ah, yes,” muttered Sieben, “the old jokes are the best. But I should have seen that one staggering over the horizon.”

  Druss carefully packed his saddlebags with supplies of dried meat, fruit, salt, and sugar. Fastening the straps, he dragged a blanket from the bed and rolled it tightly before tying it to the saddlebags.

  “Majon is not best pleased that we are leaving,” said Sieben. “Th
e queen’s interment is tomorrow, and he fears the king will take our departure at this juncture as an insult to his dearly departed.”

  “Have you packed yet?” asked Druss, swinging the saddlebag to his shoulder.

  “I have a servant doing it,” said Sieben, “even as we speak. I hate these bags; they crumple the silk. No shirt or tunic ever looks right when produced from one of these grotesqueries.”

  Druss shook his head in exasperation. “You’re bringing silk shirts into the steppes? You think there will be many admirers of fashion among the Nadir?”

  Sieben chuckled. “When they see me, they’ll think I’m a god!”

  Striding to the far wall, Druss gathered up his ax, Snaga. Sieben stared at the awesome weapon with its glittering butterfly blades of shining silver steel and its black haft fashioned with silver runes. “I detest that thing,” he said with feeling.

  Leaving the bedroom, Druss walked out into the main lounge and through to the entrance hall. The ambassador Majon was talking to three soldiers of the Royal Guard, tall men in silver breastplates and black cloaks. “Ah, Druss,” he said smoothly. “These gentlemen would like you to accompany them to the Palace of Inquisition. There’s obviously been a mistake, but there are questions they would like to ask you.”

  “About what?”

  Majon cleared his throat and nervously swept a hand over his neatly groomed silver hair. “Apparently there was an altercation at the house of the fighter Klay, and someone named Shonan died as a result.”

  Druss laid Snaga on the floor and dropped the saddlebags from his shoulder. “Died? From a punch to the mouth? Pah! I don’t believe it. He was alive when I left him.”

  “You will come with us,” said a guard, stepping forward.

  “Best that you agree, Druss,” said Majon soothingly. “I am sure we can—”

  “Enough talk, Drenai,” said the guard. “This man is wanted for murder, and we’re taking him.” From his belt the guard produced a set of manacles, and Druss’ eyes narrowed.