Nosta relished the fear that showed in the young man’s soft eyes. Stretching his scrawny frame, he struggled to his feet and walked away from the pool. All was moving as he had planned, yet Nosta felt uneasy. Could Talisman marshal the Nadir troops to withstand Larness? Could he find the Eyes of Alchazzar? Closing his eyes, Nosta let his spirit fly to the east, soaring over the mountains and dry valleys. Far below he saw the shrine, its curved white walls shining like a ring of ivory. Beyond it were the tents of the Nadir guardians. Where are you, Talisman? he wondered.
Concentrating on the face of the young man, he allowed his spirit to drift down, drawn by the pull of Talisman’s personality. Opening the eyes of his spirit, Nosta Khan saw the young Nadir warrior breasting the last rise before the valley. Behind him came the Chiatze woman Zhusai. Then a third rider came in sight, leading two ponies. Nosta was surprised. Floating above this stranger, he reached down, his spirit fingers touching the man’s neck. The rider shivered and drew his heavy coat more closely about his powerful frame.
Satisfied, Nosta drew back. In the one instant of contact he had witnessed the attempted attack on Talisman and the girl and Gorkai’s conversion to the cause of the Uniter. It was good; the boy had performed well. The gods of stone and water would be pleased.
Nosta flew on, hovering over the shrine. Once it had been a small supply fort, its walls boasting wooden parapets but no towers. Less than twenty feet high, they had been constructed to keep out marauding tribesmen, not two thousand trained soldiers. The west-facing gates were rotting on their hinges of bronze, while the west wall had crumbled at the center, leaving a pile of rubble below a V-shaped crack.
Fear touched Nosta Khan with fingers of dread.
Could they hold against Gothir guards?
And what of Druss? What role would the axman play? It was galling to see so much yet know so little. Was his purpose to stand, ax in hand, upon the walls? In that moment a fleeting vision flickered in his mind: a white-haired warrior standing on a colossal wall, his ax raised in defiance. As suddenly as it had come, it faded away.
Returning to his body, Nosta took a deep, shuddering breath. By the pool the poet was sleeping alongside the giant axman. Nosta sighed and walked away into the east.
Talisman sat on the highest wall, staring out over the Valley of Shul-sen’s Tears. The sun was bright, yet a light breeze was blowing, robbing the heat of its withering power. In the distance the mountains looked like banks of dark storm clouds hugging the horizon, and overhead two eagles were circling on the thermals. Talisman’s dark eyes scanned the valley. From this southern wall of Oshikai’s resting place he could see two camps. At the first a long horsehair standard bearing the skull and horns of a wild ox was planted before the largest tent. The thirty warriors of the Curved Horn tribe were sitting in the fading sunshine cooking their evening meals. Three hundred paces to the west was a second series of goathide tents; the standard of the Fleet Ponies was pitched there.
Out of sight on the northern side of the shrine were two more camps, of the Lone Wolves and the Sky Riders, each guarding a compass point near the resting place of the greatest Nadir warrior. The breeze died away, and Talisman strolled down the rickety wooden steps to the courtyard, making his way to a table near the well. From there he could see where the west wall had crumbled away at the center. Through the jagged hole he could just make out the distant tree line of the western hills.
This place is rotting away, he thought, just like the dreams of the man whose bones lie here. Talisman was fighting to control a cold, gnawing anger deep in his belly. They had arrived the previous night just in time to witness a sword duel between two Nadir warriors, that had ended in the sudden and bloody disemboweling of a young man from the Fleet Ponies tribe. The victor, a lean warrior wearing the white fur wrist ring of the Sky Riders, leapt upon the dying man, plunging his sword into his victim’s neck, seesawing the blade through the vertebrae, tearing the head from the shoulders. Blood-drenched, he had surged to his feet, screaming his triumph.
Talisman had heeled his pony on through the gates. Leaving Gorkai to tend the mounts, he had walked across the courtyard to stand before the shrine entrance.
But he did not enter; he could not enter. Talisman’s mouth was dry, his stomach knotted with fear. Out there in the bright moonlight his dreams were solid, his confidence unshakable. Once through that door, however, they could disappear like wood smoke.
Calm yourself! The shrine has been plundered before. The eyes will be hidden. Step inside and pay homage to the spirit of the hero.
Taking a deep breath, he moved forward and pushed open the ancient wooden door. The dust-covered room was no more than thirty feet long and twenty feet wide. Wooden pegs were hammered into the walls, but nothing hung from them now. Once Oshikai’s armor had been displayed there, his breastplate and helm, and Kolmisai, the single-bladed hand ax that had felled a hundred foes. There had been tapestries and mosaics detailing his life and his victories. Now there were only bare and empty walls. The shrine had been ransacked hundreds of years ago. They had, so Nosta Khan had informed him, even opened the coffin and torn off the fingers of the corpse to get the golden rings worn by Oshikai. The chamber was bleak, the stone coffin resting on a raised platform at the center. The coffin itself was unadorned except for a square of black iron set into the stone. Upon it, in raised letters, were the words
Oshikai Demon-bane—Lord of War
Talisman laid his hand on the cold stone of the coffin lid. “I live,” he said aloud, “to see your dreams return. We will be united again. We will be Nadir, and the world will tremble.”
“Why do the dreams of men always lead to war?” asked a voice. Talisman spun to see that sitting in the shadows was an old blind man wearing a gray robe and cowl. He was stick-thin and hairless. Taking hold of his staff, he levered himself to his feet and approached Talisman. “You know,” he said, “I have studied the life of Oshikai, sifting through the legends and the myths. He never wanted war. Always it was thrust upon him. That was when he became a terrible enemy. The dreams you speak of were mostly of finding a land of promise and plenty where his people could grow in peace. He was a great man.”
“Who are you?” asked Talisman.
“I am a priest of the Source.” As the man stepped into the beam of moonlight coming through the open western window, Talisman saw that he was Nadir. “I live here now, writing my histories.”
“How does a blind man write?”
“Only the eyes of my body are blind, Talisman. When I write, I use the eyes of my spirit.”
Talisman shivered as the man spoke his name. “You are a shaman?”
The priest shook his head. “I understand the way, though my own path is different. I cast no spells, Talisman, though I can heal warts and read the hearts of men. Sadly, I cannot alter them. I can walk the paths of the many futures but do not know which will come to pass. If I could, I would open this coffin and raise the man within. But I cannot.”
“How is it that you know my name?”
“Why should I not? You are the flaming arrow, the messenger.”
“You know why I am here,” said Talisman, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Of course. You are seeking the Eyes of Alchazzar, hidden here so many years ago.”
Talisman fingered the dagger at his belt and silently drew it. “You have found them?”
“I know they are here. But they were not left for me to find. I write history, Talisman; it is not for me to create it. May the Source give you wisdom.”
The old man turned away and walked to the sunlit doorway, where he stood for a moment, as if waiting. Then his voice sounded once more. “In at least three of the futures I have seen, you struck me down as I stood here, your dagger deep in my back. Why did you not do so in this one?”
“I considered it, old man.”
“Had you committed the deed, you would have been dragged from this chamber, your arms and legs tied with ropes attached to the sad
dles of four ponies. You would have been ripped apart, Talisman. That also happened.”
“Obviously it did not, for you still live.”
“It happened somewhere,” said the old man. Then he was gone.
Talisman followed him into the light, but he had vanished into one of the buildings. Seeing Gorkai drawing water from the well, he strolled across to him. “Where is Zhusai?”
“The woman sleeps,” said Gorkai. “It looks as if there will be another fight today. The head of the boy who was killed now sits atop a pole at the Sky Rider camp. His comrades are determined to punish this insult.”
“Stupidity,” said Talisman.
“It seems to be in our blood. Maybe the gods cursed us.”
Talisman nodded. “The curse came when the Eyes of Alchazzar were stolen. When they are returned to the stone wolf, we shall see a new day.”
“You believe this?”
“A man must believe in something, Gorkai. Otherwise we are merely shifting grains of sand, blown by the wind. The Nadir number in the hundreds of thousands, perhaps in the millions, yet we live in squalor. All around us there is wealth, controlled by nations whose armies do not exceed twenty thousand men. Even here the four tribes guarding the shrine cannot live in peace. Their purpose is identical—the shrine they protect is of a man who is a hero to all Nadir—yet they stare at each other with undisguised hatred. I believe that will change. We will change it.”
“Just you and I?” Gorkai asked softly.
“Why not?”
“I have still seen no man with violet eyes,” said Gorkai.
“You will. I swear it.”
When Druss awoke, Nosta Khan had gone. It was approaching dusk, and Sieben was sitting by the poolside, his naked feet resting in the cool water. Druss yawned and stretched. Rising, he stripped off his jerkin, boots, and leggings and leapt into the pool, where the water was welcomingly cool. Refreshed, he climbed out and sat beside the poet. “When did the little man leave?” he asked.
“Soon after you fell asleep,” Sieben told him, his voice flat.
Druss looked into his friend’s face and saw the lines of tension there. “You are concerned about the two thousand warriors heading for the shrine?”
Sieben bit back an angry retort. “ ‘Concerned’ does not quite cover it, old horse. I see it doesn’t surprise you, though.”
Druss shook his head. “He told me he was repaying a debt because I helped his young friend. That is not the Nadir way. No, he wanted me at the shrine because he knew there would be a battle.”
“Oh, I see, and the mighty Druss the Legend will turn the tide, I suppose.”
Druss chuckled. “Perhaps he will, poet. Perhaps he will not. Whatever the answer, the only way I’ll find the jewels is if I go there.”
“And what if there are no magical jewels? Suppose he lied about that also?”
“Then Klay will die, and I will have done my best.”
“It is all so simple for you, isn’t it?” stormed Sieben. “Black and white, light and dark, pure and evil? Two thousand warriors are going to ransack that shrine. You won’t stop them. And why should you even try? What is it about Klay that has touched you so? Other men have suffered grievous wounds before now. You have seen comrades cut down beside you for years.”
Druss stood and dressed, then wandered to the horses and unhooked a sack of grain from the saddle pommel. From his pack he took two feed bags and looped them over the ears of the mounts. Sieben joined him. “They say a grain-fed horse will outrun anything fed on grass,” said Druss. “You are a horseman. Is that true?”
“Come on, Druss, answer my question, damn you! Why Klay?”
“He reminds me of a man I never knew,” answered Druss.
“Never knew! What does that mean?”
“It means that I must try to find the jewels, and I don’t give a damn about two thousand Gothir whoresons or the entire Nadir nation. Leave it there, poet!”
The clatter of hooves sounded on the trail, and both men swung toward the source of the noise. Six Nadir warriors riding in single file approached the pool. They were dressed in goatskin tunics and wore fur-rimmed helms. Each carried a bow and two short swords. “What do we do?” whispered Sieben.
“Nothing. Water holes are sacred places, and no Nadir will fight a battle at one. They’ll merely water their horses, then leave.”
“Then what?”
“Then they’ll try to kill us. But that is a problem for another time. Relax, poet. You wanted adventure. Now you’ll have it.”
Druss strolled back to the shade and sat down beside the fearsome ax. The Nadir affected to ignore him, but Sieben could see them cast furtive glances in his direction. Finally the leader—a middle-aged stocky warrior with a thin, wispy beard—came and sat opposite him.
“You are far from home,” he said, speaking haltingly in the southern tongue.
“Yet I am at ease,” replied Druss.
“The dove is rarely at ease in the home of the hawk.”
“I am not a dove, laddie. And you are no hawk.”
The man rose. “I think we will meet again, roundeye.” He strolled back to his companions, vaulted to the saddle, and led the riders on toward the east.
Sieben sat down beside Druss. “Oh, well done, old horse. Always best to appease an enemy who outnumbers you three to one.”
“There was no point. He knows what he must do. As do I. You wait here with the horses; get them saddled and ready.”
“Where are you going?”
“East a little way. I want to see what sort of trap they will set.”
“Is this wise, Druss? There are six of them.”
Druss grinned. “You think it would make it fairer if I left my ax behind?” With that he gathered up Snaga and set off up and over the rocks. Sieben watched him go, then settled down to wait. Darkness came swiftly in the mountains, and he wished he had thought to gather deadwood back along the trail. A fire would be a welcome friend in this desolate place. The moon was bright, however, and Sieben wrapped himself in his blanket and sat deep in the shadows of the rock wall. Never again, he thought. From now on I’ll welcome boredom with open arms and a mighty hug!
What was it Druss had said about Klay? He reminds me of a man I never knew? Suddenly it came clear to Sieben. Druss was speaking of Michanek, the man who had loved and wed Rowena back in Ventria. Like Druss, Michanek had been a mighty warrior and a champion among the rebels opposed to Prince Gorben. And Rowena, robbed of her memory, had grown to love him, had even attempted suicide when she had learned of his death. Druss had been there as Michanek faced the elite of Gorben’s Immortals. Alone he had killed many, until at last even Michanek’s prodigious strength had failed him, sapped from his body in the gushing of blood from a score of wounds. As he died, he asked Druss to look after Rowena.
Once, when visiting Druss and his lady at their farm in the mountains, Sieben had walked with Rowena across the high meadow. He had asked her then about Michanek, and she had smiled fondly. “He was like Druss in many ways but he was also gentle and kind. I did love him, Sieben, and I know Druss finds that hard to bear. But they took my memory from me. I did not know who I was and remembered nothing of Druss. All I knew was that this huge man loved me and cared for me. And it still saddens me to know that Druss had a part in his death.”
“He didn’t know Michanek,” Sieben had said. “All he had dreamed of through those long years was finding you and bringing you home.”
“I know.”
“Given the choice between the two men, who would you have chosen?” Sieben had asked suddenly.
“That is a question I never ask myself,” she had told him. “I merely know that I was fortunate to be loved by, and to love, both of them.”
Sieben had wanted to ask more, but she had touched a finger to his lips. “Enough, poet! Let us go back to the house.”
A cold wind blew around the rock pool now, and Sieben wrapped his cloak more tightly about him. There was no s
ound except for the wind whistling through the rocks, and Sieben felt terribly alone. Time passed with a mind-numbing lack of speed, and the poet dozed several times, always waking with a start, terrified that hidden Nadir assassins were creeping up on him.
Just before the dawn, with the sky brightening, he heard the sound of hooves on stone. Scrambling to his feet, he drew one of his knives, dropped it, gathered it, and stood waiting. Druss came into sight leading four Nadir ponies, and Sieben walked out to meet him. There was blood on Druss’ jerkin and leggings. “Are you hurt?” asked Sieben.
“No, poet. The way is now clear, and we have four ponies to trade.”
“Two of the Nadir got away?”
Druss shook his head. “Not the Nadir, but two of the ponies broke loose and ran off.”
“You killed all six?”
“Five. One fell from the cliff as I was chasing him. Now, let us be moving on.”
6
JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT Talisman entered the tomb of Oshikai Demon-bane. While Gorkai stood guard outside the door, the Nadir warrior crept inside and placed four small pouches on the ground before the coffin. From the first he poured a small amount of red powder; then, with his index finger, he formed it into a circle no bigger than his palm. Faint moonlight shining through the open window made his task more easy. From the second pouch he took three long dried leaves, which he rolled into a ball and placed in his mouth, under his tongue. The taste was bitter, and he almost gagged. Taking a tinder-box from the pocket of his goatskin tunic, he struck a flame and held it to the red powder, which flared instantly with a crimson light. Smoke billowed up. Talisman breathed it in, then swallowed the ball of leaves.
The Legend of the Deathwalker Page 14