The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  The afternoon wore on, and finally the keep bell sounded. Premian joined the other students streaming toward the main hall to hear the results.

  Gargan and the senior tutors stood on the raised stage at the south end of the hall as the two hundred senior cadets filed in. This time Premian looked squarely at the general, who was now wearing the full armor of his rank, a gilded breastplate and the white cloak of a senior guards officer. Behind him, set on wooden stands, were scores of shining sabers. When the cadets had taken up their positions, Gargan moved to the front of the stage.

  His voice thundered out. “One hundred forty-six cadets have passed the final examination and will receive their sabers this day,” he said. “A further seventeen passed with credit. One cadet gained an honor pass. Thirty-six failed and leave this honored place bearing the shame earned by their slothful behavior. In the time-honored tradition, we will begin with the passes and progress to the honor cadet. As your disk number is called, move forward.”

  One by one the cadets moved forward and handed in their disks, receiving their sabers and bowing to their tutors before marching to the back of the hall and standing in a rank.

  The credit students followed. Premian was not among them, nor was Okai. Premian’s mouth was dry; he was standing close to the stage and staring up at Gargan.

  “Now,” said Gargan, “we come to the honor student, the cream of the academy and a man whose martial skills will help maintain the glory of Gothir.” Turning, he took the last saber from the stand. Its blade was shining silver steel, its hilt embellished with gold. “Step forward, number seventeen.”

  Okai marched from the ranks and up the short wooden steps as whispers began all around the hall. Premian focused on Gargan’s broad face; the man’s eyes widened, and Premian saw his jaw twitch. He stood silently, staring with undisguised hatred at the young Nadir.

  “There has been a mistake,” he said at last. “This cannot be! Fetch his paper!”

  There was silence in the hall as the chief prefect ran from the stage. Minutes passed, and no one moved or spoke. The chief prefect returned and handed the sheaf of papers to Gargan, who stood and studied them.

  Fanlon stepped forward. “There is no question as to the handwriting, Lord Gargan,” he said softly. “These are Okai’s papers. And I see that you marked them yourself. There can be no mistake.”

  Gargan blinked. Okai stepped forward, hand outstretched. Gargan stared at him, then looked down at the saber in his own trembling hands. Suddenly he thrust the saber at Fanlon. “You give it to him!” he hissed. And he strode from the stage.

  The elderly tutor smiled at Okai. “This was well merited, young man,” he said, his voice carrying to all in the hall. “For five years you have endured much, both in physical hardship and in emotional cruelty. For what it is worth—and I hope it is something—you have my respect and my admiration. I hope that when you go from here, you will carry with you some fond memories. Would you like to say a few words to your fellow cadets?”

  Okai nodded. Stepping forward, he stood and ran his gaze over the assembled cadets. “I have learned much here,” he said. “One day I will put that knowledge to good use.” Without another word he walked from the stage and out of the hall.

  Fanlon followed him from the stage and approached Premian. “I shall appeal on your behalf and have your papers reexamined.”

  “Thank you, sir. For everything. You were right about the disks. I saw that Jashin’s fingers were closed as he dipped his hand into the bag; he already had a disk ready for Okai.”

  “Jashin will be in serious trouble,” said Fanlon. “Lord Gargan is not a forgiving man.”

  Later that day Premian was summoned to Gargan’s study. The general was still in his armor, and his face was gray. “Sit down, boy,” he said. Premian obeyed. “I am going to ask you a question, and I put you on your honor to answer it with truth.”

  “Yes, sir,” Premian answered, with a sinking heart.

  “Is Okai a friend of yours?”

  “No, sir. We rarely speak; we have little in common. Why do you ask, sir?”

  For a long moment Gargan stared at him, then he sighed. “It does not matter. It broke my heart to see him take the saber. However, that is of no interest to you. I called you here to tell you there has been an error in the marking. You have gained a credit pass.”

  “Thank you, sir. How … did it happen?”

  “It was an honest mistake, and I hope you will accept my apologies for it.”

  “Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Premian left the study and returned to his room, where at midnight he was awakened by a tapping at the door. Rising, he lifted the latch. Okai stood there; the Nadir was fully dressed for travel. “You are leaving? But the prize giving is not until tomorrow.”

  “I have my saber,” said Okai. “I came to thank you. I had thought Gothir honor was all sham. I was wrong.”

  “You have suffered here, Okai, but you emerged triumphant, and I admire you for it. Where will you go now?”

  “Back to my tribe.”

  Premian held out his hand, and Okai shook it. As the Nadir turned away, Premian spoke. “Do you mind if I ask a question?”

  “Not at all.”

  “When we were at the burial of your friend Zhen-shi, you opened the coffin and pressed a small package into his hand. There was blood on it. I have often wondered what it was. Is it part of some Nadir ritual?”

  “Yes,” said Okai. “It gave him a servant in the next life.”

  With that Okai walked away.

  Three days later, after continuing complaints of a bad smell coming from behind a wall in the new section of the north tower, laborers dug out several blocks of stone. Behind them they found a rotting body from which the eyes had been cut out.

  7

  NUANG XUAN WAS a wily old fox, and he would never have brought his people into Chop-back territory if fortune had not ceased to smile upon him. Shading his eyes, he scanned the surrounding land, pausing at the pinnacles of rock to the west. His nephew Meng rode alongside him. “Are they the Towers of the Damned?” he asked, keeping his voice low to avoid invoking the spirits who dwelled there.

  “They are indeed,” Nuang told the boy, “but we will not be going close enough for the demons to strike us.” The boy reined his pony around, galloping back to the little convoy. Nuang’s gaze followed him. Fourteen warriors, fifty-two women, and thirty-one children; it was not a great force with which to enter such lands. But then, who could have supposed that a Gothir cavalry force would be so close to the Mountains of the Moon? When Nuang had led the raid on the Gothir farmers of the marches, seeking to seize horses and goats, he had done so in the knowledge that no soldiers had been stationed there for five years. He had been lucky to escape with fourteen men when the lancers had charged. More than twenty of his warriors had been hacked down in that first charge, among them two of his sons and three nephews. With the cursed gajin following his trail, he had had no choice but to lead the remnants of his people into this cursed place.

  Nuang kicked his pony into a run and rode to the high ground, squinting against the morning sun and studying the back trail. There was no sign of the lancers. Perhaps they, too, feared the Chop-backs. Yet why had they been so close to the marches? No Gothir force ever entered the eastern flatlands except in time of war. Were they at war with someone? The Wolfshead, perhaps, or the Green Monkeys? No, surely he would have heard from passing merchants and traders.

  It was a mystery, and Nuang disliked mysteries. Once more he glanced at his small company—too small now to build his clan into a full tribe. I will have to lead them back to the north, he thought. He hawked and spit. How they would laugh when Nuang begged for readmittance to the tribal grounds. Nuang No-luck, they would call him.

  Meng and two of the other young men galloped their ponies up the rise. Meng arrived first. “Riders,” he said, pointing to the west. “Gajin, two of them. Can we kill them, Uncle?” The boy was excite
d, his dark eyes gleaming.

  Nuang swung his gaze to where Meng had pointed. At that distance, through the heat haze, he could barely make out the riders, and just for a moment he envied the eyes of the young. “No, we will not attack yet. They may be scouts from a larger force. Let them approach.”

  Heeling his pony, he rode down to the flatlands, his fourteen warriors alongside him, fanning out in a skirmish line. Summoning Meng, he said, “What do you see, boy?”

  “Still only two, Uncle. Gajin. One has a beard and wears a round black helm and a black jerkin with silver armor on the shoulders; the other is yellow-haired and carries no sword. He has knife sheaths on his chest. Ah!”

  “What?”

  “The black-bearded one carries a great ax with two shining blades. They ride Gothir horses but are leading four saddled ponies.”

  “I can see that myself now,” Nuang said testily. “Go to the rear.”

  “I want my part in the kill, Uncle!”

  “You are not yet twelve, and you will obey me or feel my whip across your buttocks!”

  “I’m almost thirteen,” contradicted Meng, but reluctantly he dragged on his reins and backed his pony to the rear of the group.

  Nuang Xuan waited, his gnarled hand resting on his ivory-hilted saber. Slowly the two riders closed the distance until Nuang could see their features clearly. The fair-haired gajin was very pale, his manner betraying his nervousness and fear, with his hands gripping the reins tightly and his body stiff in the saddle. Nuang flicked his gaze to the axman. No fear could be seen in that one. Still, one man and a coward against fourteen? Surely Nuang’s luck had changed. The riders drew rein just ahead of the group, and Nuang took a deep breath, ready to order his men to the attack. As he did so, he looked at the axman and found himself staring into the coldest eyes he had ever seen, the color of winter storm clouds, gray and unyielding. A nagging doubt struck him, and he thought of his remaining sons and nephews, many of whom already carried wounds, as their bloody bandages bore witness. The tension grew. Nuang licked his lips and prepared once more to give the signal. The axman gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head; then he spoke, his voice deep and, if anything, colder than his stare.

  “Think carefully about your decision, old one. It seems that luck has not favored you recently,” he said. “Your women outnumber your men by—what?—three to one. And the riders with you look bloodied and weary.”

  “Perhaps our fortune has changed,” Nuang heard himself say.

  “Perhaps it has,” agreed the rider. “I am in a mood for trade. I have four Nadir ponies and a few swords and bows.”

  “You have a fine ax. Is that also for trade?”

  The man smiled; it was not a comforting sight. “No, this is Snaga, which in the old tongue means ‘the Sender,’ the blade of no return. Any man who wishes to test her name need only ask.”

  Nuang felt the men around him stirring. They were young and, despite their recent losses, eager for battle. Suddenly he felt the full weight of his sixty-one years. Swinging his horse, he ordered his men to prepare a night camp close to the towers of rock and sent out riders to watch for signs of any enemy force. He was obeyed instantly. Turning back to the axman, he forced a smile. “You are welcome in our camp. Tonight we will talk of trade.”

  Later, as dusk fell, he sat at a small fire with the axman and his companion. “Would it not be safer within the rocks?” asked the black-bearded warrior.

  “Safer from men,” Nuang told him. “They are the Towers of the Damned, and demons are said to stalk the passes. An ancient sorcerer is entombed there, his devils with him. At least that is how the stories tell it. Now, what do you desire in exchange for those scrawny ponies?”

  “Food for the journey and a guide to take us to the next water and then on to the Shrine of Oshikai Demon-bane.”

  Nuang was surprised, but his expression remained neutral. What would gajin seek at the shrine? “That is a difficult journey and perilous. These are the lands of the Chop-backs. Two men and a guide would be … tempting … prey.”

  “They have already been tempted,” the axman told him. “That is why we have ponies and weapons to trade.”

  Bored by the continued bartering, Sieben stood and wandered away from the fire. The Nadir clan had pitched its tents in a rough circle and had erected wind screens between them. The women were cooking over small fires, the men sitting in three small groups sharing jugs of lyrrd, a liquor fermented from rancid goat’s milk. Despite the fires and the screens, the night was cold. Sieben moved to the horses and unstrapped his blanket, tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. When he had first seen the Nadir riders, he had assumed that death would be swift despite the awesome power of Druss. Now, however, reaction had set in and he felt an almost overwhelming sense of fatigue. A young Nadir woman rose from a cooking fire and brought him a wooden bowl of braised meat. She was tall and slim, her lips full and tempting. Sieben forgot his weariness instantly as he thanked her and smiled. She moved away without a word, and Sieben’s eyes lingered on her swaying hips. The meat was hot and heavily spiced, the flavor new to him, and he ate with relish, returning the bowl to where the woman sat with four others. He squatted down among them. “A meal fit for a prince,” he told her. “I thank you, my lady.”

  “I am not your lady,” she said, her voice flat and disinterested.

  Sieben flashed his best smile. “Indeed no, which is my loss, I am sure. It is merely an expression we … gajin use. What I am trying to say is: Thank you for your kindness and for the quality of your cooking.”

  “You have thanked me three times, and dog is not difficult to prepare,” she told him, “as long as it has been hung until the worms appear in the eye sockets.”

  “Delightful,” he said. “A tip I shall long remember.”

  “And it mustn’t be too old,” she continued. “Young dogs are better.”

  “Of course,” he said, half rising.

  Suddenly she cocked her head, and her eyes met his. “My man was killed,” she said, “by Gothir lancers. Now my blankets are cold, and there is no one to stir my blood on a bitter night.”

  Sieben sat down again more swiftly than he had intended. “That is a tragedy,” he said softly, looking deep into her almond-shaped eyes. “A beautiful woman should never suffer the solitude of a cold blanket.”

  “My man was a great fighter; he killed three lancers. But he rutted like a dog in heat. Fast. Then he would sleep. You are not a fighter. What are you?”

  “I am a scholar,” he said, leaning in to her. “I study many things: history, poetry, art. But most of all I study women. They fascinate me.” Lifting his hand, he stroked his fingers through her long dark hair, pushing it back from her forehead. “I love the smell of a woman’s hair, the touch of skin on skin, the softness of lips on lips. And I am not fast.”

  The woman smiled and said something in Nadir to her friends. All the women laughed. “I am Niobe,” she told him. “Let us see if you rut as well as you talk.”

  Sieben smiled. “I’ve always appreciated directness. But is this allowed? I mean, what of the …” He gestured toward the men at the campfires.

  “You come with me,” she said, rising smoothly. “I wish to see if what they say about gajin is true.” Reaching out, she took his hand and led him to a night-dark tent.

  Back at the leader’s fire, Nuang chuckled. “Your friend has chosen to mount the tiger. Niobe has fire enough to melt any man’s iron.”

  “I think he will survive,” said Druss.

  “You want a woman to warm your blankets?”

  “No. I have a woman back home. What happened to your people? It looks as if you’ve been mauled.”

  Nuang spit into the fire. “Gothir lancers attacked us; they came from nowhere on their huge horses. Twenty men I lost. You spoke with great truth when you said fortune has not favored me. I must have done something to displease the gods of stone and water. But it does no good to whine about it. Who are you? You are no Go
thir. Where are you from?”

  “The lands of the Drenai, the far blue mountains to the south.”

  “You are far from home, Drenai. Why do you seek the shrine?”

  “A Nadir shaman told me I might find something there to help a dying friend.”

  “You take a great risk to help this friend; these are not hospitable lands. I considered killing you myself, and I am among the more peaceable of my people.”

  “I am not an easy man to kill.”

  “I knew that when I looked into your eyes, Drenai. You have seen many battles, eh? Behind you there are many graves. Once, a long time ago, another Drenai came among my people. He, too, was a fighter; they called him Old-Hard-to-Kill, and he fought a battle against the Gothir. Years later he came to live among us. I was told these stories when I was a child; they are the only stories I have heard of Drenai. His name was Angel.”

  “I have heard the name,” said Druss. “What more do you know of him?”

  “Only that he was wed to the daughter of Ox-skull and they had two sons. One was tall and handsome and did not look like Angel, but the other was a powerful warrior. He married a Nadir maiden, and they left the tribe to journey south. That is all I know.”

  Two women came and knelt beside them, offering bowls of meat to the men. A short series of keening cries came from the tent of Niobe, and the women laughed. Druss reddened and ate his meal in silence. The women moved away. “Your friend will be a tired man come the dawn,” said Nuang.

  Druss lay quietly looking up at the stars. He rarely found sleep difficult, but this night he was restless. Sitting up, he threw back his blanket. The camp was silent, the fires having faded to glowing ash. Nuang had offered him the shelter of his own tent, but Druss had refused, preferring to sleep in the open.

  Gathering his ax and helm and silver-skinned gauntlets, he stood and stretched. The night was cold, and a chilly breeze whispered under the windbreaks stretching between the tents. Druss was uneasy. Pushing his helm into place and pulling on his gauntlets, he silently strode through the camp, easing himself past a stretched canvas windbreak and out onto the open steppes. A sentry was sitting by a creosote bush, a goatskin cloak drawn about him. As Druss approached him, he saw it was the slender boy Meng, whom Nuang had introduced as his youngest nephew. The youth looked up but said nothing.