Tugging on the reins, Quing-chin galloped his pony some two hundred paces to the north. The twenty-eight warriors of the Fleet Ponies had already gathered there, sitting their mounts in silence. Within moments the thirty Sky Riders rode out, forming a line opposite Quing-chin and his men.
The squat Sky Rider, long lance in hand, heeled his pony forward, then swung to the right and galloped some fifty yards before savagely hauling on the reins. Quing-chin rode his pony between the lines of the two tribes, then turned and raised his lance. The squat warrior leveled his lance and kicked his mount into a run, charging at Quing-chin. The Fleet Ponies’ leader remained motionless as his opponent closed the gap between them. Closer and closer came the Sky Rider, until at the last possible moment Quing-chin jerked the reins and barked out a command. His pony bunched its muscles and sprang to the right. In the same heartbeat Quing-chin lifted his lance over his pony’s head and rammed it to the left. The move was intended to spear the opposing rider through the side and belly, but the Sky Rider had dragged back on his reins more swiftly than Quing-chin had anticipated, and the lance slammed into the neck of his opponent’s pony, which stumbled and fell, dragging Quing-chin’s lance from his hand. The Sky Rider was thrown clear and spun in the air to land heavily on his back. Quing-chin leapt from his mount and ran forward, drawing his sword. The Sky Rider rolled to his feet, still groggy from the fall, but even so he drew his blade and blocked the first cut. Quing-chin closed in, his left foot lashing out into the Sky Rider’s unprotected knee. The Sky Rider jumped back and half fell. Quing-chin followed him, sending his sword in a vicious cut that ripped open the other man’s jerkin and sliced up across his left cheek, tearing the flesh and sending a spray of blood into the air. The Sky Rider screamed in pain and attacked. Quing-chin blocked a belly thrust, spun on his heel, and hammered his left elbow into the Sky Rider’s blood-covered face. The man was hurled from his feet, but he scrambled up as Quing-chin closed in; he was fast and sent a lightning thrust at Quing-chin’s face. The taller man swayed aside, the blade slicing his earlobe. His sword flashed out in a neck cut that was too low, the blade slicing into the Sky Rider’s left shoulder. The squat warrior stumbled forward but swung just in time to block a second blow aimed at his neck. The two warriors circled each other more warily, respect growing between them. Quing-chin had been surprised by the man’s speed, and the Sky Rider, blood pouring from the wounds to his shoulder and face, knew he was in desperate trouble.
Quing-chin darted forward to feint a cut to the throat. The Sky Rider’s sword swept across to block, but his speed betrayed him. The block was too fast. Quing-chin’s blade plunged into the man’s upper chest, but at the moment of impact the Sky Rider hurled himself backward so that Quing-chin’s sword penetrated no more than two inches before the blade was ripped clear. The Sky Rider fell, rolled, and staggered to his feet.
“You are very skilled,” he said. “I shall be proud to add your head to my tree.” His left arm was hanging uselessly, blood streaming over his hand and dripping to the ground. In that instant Quing-chin experienced a moment of regret. Shanqui had been an arrogant, boastful young man who had challenged this warrior and had died for it. And now, according to Nadir custom, Quing-chin would send this man’s soul to serve him for eternity. He sighed.
“I, too, feel pride,” he said. “You are a man among men. I salute you, Sky Rider.”
The Sky Rider nodded and then ran forward into the attack. Quing-chin swayed aside from the desperate thrust, slamming his blade into the man’s belly and up through the heart. The Sky Rider fell against him, his head falling to Quing-chin’s shoulder as his knees gave way. Quing-chin caught him as he fell and lowered him to the ground. With a shuddering sigh the Sky Rider died.
This was the moment. Kneeling beside the body, Quing-chin drew his knife. The two lines of riders waited, but Quing-chin rose. “I will not take this man’s eyes,” he said. “Let his friends bear him away for burial.”
Shi-da leapt from his pony and ran to him. “You must, Brother! Shanqui must have the eyes in his hand or he will have no servant in the netherworld!”
A Sky Rider nudged his pony forward, then dismounted alongside Quing-chin. “You fought well, Dalsh-chin,” he said.
The Fleet Ponies warrior turned at the sound of his childhood name and looked into the sorrowful eyes of the Sky Rider. Lin-tse had changed little in the two years since they had left the Bodacas Academy; he was broader in the shoulder, and his head had been shaved clean except for a short braid of dark hair at the crown. “It is good to see you again, Lin-tse,” he said. “It saddens me that it should be on such an occasion.”
“You talk like a Gothir,” said Lin-tse. “Tomorrow I will come to your camp. And when I have killed you, I will take your eyes and give them to my brother. You will serve him until the stars are ground to dust.”
Back at his own tent Quing-chin stripped off his bloodstained jerkin and knelt on the ground. In the two years since he had left the Bodacas Academy he had fought to reestablish his Nadir roots, aware that his own people felt he was somehow tainted by his years among the Gothir. He had denied it even to himself, but today he knew that it was true.
Outside he heard the riders returning with the head of Shanqui, but he remained in the tent, his thoughts somber. The rituals of the revenge duel differed from tribe to tribe, but the principles remained the same. If he had cut out the eyes of the Sky Rider and placed them in the dead hand of Shanqui, the spirit of the Sky Rider would have been bonded to Shanqui for eternity. The belief was that the Sky Rider would be blind in the Void unless Shanqui lent him the use of his eyes. This would ensure obedience. Now Quing-chin had broken the ritual. And to what purpose? Tomorrow he must fight again. If he won, another warrior would challenge him.
His friend Shi-da entered the tent and squatted down before him. “You fought bravely,” said Shi-da. “It was a good fight. But tomorrow you must take the eyes.”
“The eyes of Lin-tse,” whispered Quing-chin. “The eyes of one who was my friend? I cannot do this.”
“What is wrong with you, my brother? These are our enemies!”
Quing-chin rose. “I shall go to the shrine. I need to think.”
Leaving Shi-da, he ducked under the tent flap and stepped out into the sunshine. The body of Shanqui, wrapped in hide, had been left within yards of his tent. The right hand of the corpse had been left exposed, the fingers clawed and open. Striding to his dappled pony, Quing-chin mounted and rode to the white-walled shrine.
In what way did they poison my Nadir spirit? he wondered. Was it the books, the manuscripts, the paintings? Or perhaps the teachings concerning morality or the endless discussions of philosophy? How can I know?
The gates were open, and Quing-chin rode inside and dismounted. Leaving his pony in the shade, he strode toward the shrine.
“We shall make them suffer as Zhen-shi suffered,” said a voice. Quing-chin froze. Slowly he turned toward the speaker.
Talisman stepped from the shadows and approached the taller man. “It is good to see you again, my friend,” he said.
Quing-chin said nothing for a moment, then he gripped Talisman’s outstretched hand. “You gladden my heart, Okai. All is well with you?”
“Well enough. Come, share water and bread with me.”
The two men strolled back to the shade, where they sat beneath a wooden awning. Filling two clay cups with cool water from a stone jug, Talisman passed one to Quing-chin. “What happened in the fight this morning?” he asked. “There was so much dust, I could see nothing from the walls.”
“A Sky Rider died,” said Quing-chin.
“When will such madness end?” Talisman asked sadly. “When will our eyes be opened to the real enemy?”
“Not soon enough, Okai. Tomorrow I fight again.” He looked into Talisman’s eyes. “Against Lin-tse.”
Lin-tse sat on a rock sharpening his sword, his face impassive and his anger masked. Of all the men in the world, the last he wishe
d to kill was Dalsh-chin. Yet such was his fate, and a true man never whined when the gods of stone and water twisted the knife. The whetstone slid along the saber’s edge, and Lin-tse imagined the silver steel blade slicing through Dalsh-chin’s neck. He swore softly, then stood and stretched his back.
At the last there had been only four Nadir janizaries at the academy: himself, Dalsh-chin, the miserable Green Monkey boy Zhen-shi, and the strange one from the Wolfshead, Okai. Some of the others had fled; most had simply failed their examinations miserably, much to the delight of Gargan, Lord Larness. One had been hanged after killing an officer; another had committed suicide. The experiment—as Lord Larness had intended—had been a failure. Yet much to the Gothir general’s chagrin four Nadir youngsters had consistently passed the examinations. And one—Okai—excelled above all other students, including the general’s own son, Argo.
Lin-tse scabbarded his sword and walked out onto the steppes. His thoughts turned to Zhen-shi, with his frightened eyes and his nervous smile. Tormented and abused, he had fawned around the Gothir cadets, especially Argo, serving him like a slave. “Grinning Monkey,” Argo had called him, and Lin-tse had despised the youth for his cowardice. Zhen-shi carried few scars, but then, he was everything the Gothir boys had been taught to expect of a barbarian: subservient and inferior to the civilized races.
Yet he had made a mistake, and it had cost him his life. In the end-of-year examinations he had outscored all but Okai. Lin-tse still remembered the look on Zhen-shi’s face when the results were announced. At first his delight was obvious, but then, as he gazed at Argo and the others, the full horror of his plight dawned on him. Grinning Monkey had beaten them all. No longer did they see him as an object of scorn or derision. Now he had become a figure of hate. Little Zhen-shi had withered under their malevolent gazes.
That night Zhen-shi had plunged from the roof, his body crushed to pulp on the snow-covered cobbles below.
It was winter, the night harsh and cold, ice forming on the insides of the glass windows. Yet Zhen-shi had been dressed only in a loincloth. Hearing the scream as he fell, Lin-tse had looked out of the window and saw his scrawny body leaking blood onto the snow. He and Okai had run out with scores of other boys and had stood over the corpse. The body bore the red weals of a lash on the back, buttocks, and thighs. The wrists were also bleeding.
“He was tied,” said Lin-tse. Okai did not answer; he was staring up at the gable from which Zhen-shi had fallen. The rooms on that top level were reserved for the senior cadets from noble families. But the nearest window was that of Argo. Lin-tse followed Okai’s gaze. The blond-haired son of Gargan was leaning on his windowsill and gazing down with mild interest on the scene below.
“Did you see what happened, Argo?” someone shouted.
“The little monkey tried to climb the roof. I think he was drunk.” Then he leaned back and slammed shut his window.
Okai turned to Lin-tse, and the two boys walked back to their room. Dalsh-chin was waiting for them. Once inside, they squatted on the floor and spoke Nadir in low voices.
“Argo sent for Zhen-shi,” whispered Dalsh-chin, “three hours ago.”
“He was tied and beaten,” said Okai. “He could not stand pain and therefore must have also been gagged. Otherwise we would have heard the screams. There will be an inquiry.”
“It will find,” said Lin-tse, “that Grinning Monkey, having consumed too much alcohol in celebration of his success, fell from the roof. A salutary lesson that barbarians have no tolerance for strong drink.”
“That is true, my friend,” said Okai. “But we will make them suffer as Zhen-shi suffered.”
“A pleasing thought,” said Lin-tse. “And how will this miracle be accomplished?”
Okai sat silently for a moment. Lin-tse would never forget what followed. Okai’s voice dropped even lower: “The rebuilding work on the north tower is not yet complete. The laborers will not return for three days. It is deserted. Tomorrow night we will wait until everyone is asleep, then we will go there and prepare the way for vengeance.”
Gargan, Lord of Larness, removed his helm and drew in a deep breath of hot desert air. The sun was beating down, shimmering heat haze forming over the steppes. Twisting in the saddle, he glanced back along the column. A thousand lancers, eight hundred infantry guardsmen, and two hundred archers were moving slowly in line, dust rising in a cloud around them. Gargan tugged on the reins and cantered back along the column, past the water wagons and supply carts. Two of his officers joined him, and together they rode to the crest of a low hill, where Gargan drew rein and scanned the surrounding landscape.
“We will make camp by that ridge,” said Gargan, pointing to a rocky outcrop some miles to the east. “There is a series of rock pools there.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Marlham, a grizzled, white-bearded career officer coming close to the age for mandatory retirement.
“Put out a screen of scouts,” Gargan ordered. “Any Nadir seen should be killed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gargan swung to the second officer, a handsome young man with clear blue eyes. “You, Premian, will take four companies and scout the marshes. No prisoners. All Nadir are to be treated as hostiles. Understand?”
“Yes, Lord Gargan.” The boy had not yet learned how to keep his feelings from showing in his expression.
“I had you transferred to this force,” said Gargan. “Do you know why?”
“No, Lord Gargan.”
“Because you are soft, boy,” snapped the general. “I saw it at the academy. The steel in you—if steel there is—has not been tempered. Well, it will be during this campaign. I mean to soak the steppes in Nadir blood.” Spurring his stallion, Gargan galloped down the hillside.
“Watch yourself, my boy,” said Marlham. “The man hates you.”
“He is an animal,” said Premian. “Vicious and malevolent.”
“All of that,” Marlham agreed. “He always was a hard man, but when his son disappeared … well, it did something to him. He’s never been the same since. You were there at the time, weren’t you?”
“Aye. It was a bad business,” said Premian. “There was to be an inquiry into the death of a cadet who fell from Argo’s window. On the night before the inquiry Argo vanished. We searched everywhere; his clothes were gone, as was a canvas shoulder pack. We thought at first that he had feared being implicated in the boy’s death. But that was ridiculous, for Gargan would have protected him.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Something dark,” said Premian. With a flick of the reins he moved away, returning to the rear of the column and signaling his junior officers to join him. Swiftly he told them their new orders. The news was greeted with relief by the two hundred men under his command, for it would mean no more swallowing the dust of the column.
While the men were being issued with supplies, Premian found himself thinking back to his last days at the academy that summer two years earlier. Only Okai remained of the original Nadir contingent, his two comrades having been sent home after failing the toughest of the prefinal examinations. Their failure had concerned Premian, for he had worked with them and knew that their mastery of the subjects was no less proficient than his own. And he had passed with a credit. Only Okai remained, a student so brilliant that there was no way he could fail. Even he, however, had barely scraped by with a pass.
Premian had voiced his concerns to the oldest and best of the tutors, a former officer named Fanlon. Late at night, in the old man’s study, he told Fanlon he believed the youths had been unfairly dismissed.
“We speak much of honor,” said Fanlon sorrowfully, “but in reality it is in short supply. It always was. I was not allowed to take part in the judging of their papers; Lord Larness and two of his cronies marked them. But I fear you are correct, Premian. Both Dalsh-chin and Lin-tse were more than capable students.”
“Okai was allowed to pass. Why?” asked Premian.
“He is excep
tional, that one. But he will not be allowed to graduate; they will find a way to mark him down.”
“Is there no way we can help him?”
“Tell me first, Premian, why you would wish to. You are not friends.”
“My father taught me to loathe injustice,” answered Premian. “Is that not enough?”
“Indeed it is. Very well, then. I shall help you.”
On the day of the finals, upon entering the examination room, each cadet was handed a small numbered disk taken from a black velvet sack held by the chief prefect, a tall, spindly youth named Jashin. Each disk was wrapped in paper to keep the number from being seen by the prefect. It was a ritual intended to ensure that no preferential treatment could be given to any student during the examinations; each cadet would merely write the number of the disk at the top of his paper. At the close of the examination the gathered papers would be taken to the judges, who would mark them immediately.
Premian stood in line behind Okai and noticed that Jashin’s fist was already clenched as he delved into the bag before handing the Nadir boy his disk. Premian followed Okai into the examination room, where desks had been set out in rows.
The examination lasted three hours and involved first establishing a logistical formula and a strategy for supplying an invading army of twenty thousand men conducting a campaign across the Ventrian Sea and second constructing a letter of advice to the commanding officer of the expedition, outlining the hazards he must expect to face during his invasion of Ventria.
Premian felt exhausted by the close but was fairly certain he had performed well. The questions were based on a real campaign of two centuries earlier led by the legendary Gothir general Bodacas, after whom the academy had been named. Happily, Premian had studied the campaign fairly recently.
As the cadets trooped out, Premian saw General Gargan enter the room along with the other judges. Premian avoided eye contact and sought out Fanlon. The elderly tutor poured the cadet a goblet of watered wine, and the two of them sat for a while in silence by the upper window overlooking the bay.
The Legend of the Deathwalker Page 16