The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  Her head was dragged back. His hand came up, and she felt the glittering spike push into her eyeball.

  With a cry of pain Zhusai woke to find Talisman sitting beside her bed. “How did I get here?” she asked.

  “I carried you. You began speaking in Chiatze. It is not a tongue with which I am familiar; it changed your voice incredibly.”

  “I had the dream again, Talisman. It was so real. A man … many men … took me to a dark chamber, and there they put out my eyes. It was horrible. They called me a witch and a whore. They had … I think … murdered my husband.”

  “Rest,” said Talisman. “You are distraught.”

  “I am distraught,” she agreed, “but … I have never experienced a dream like this one. The colors were so sharp, and …” Gently he stroked her head, and exhausted, she slept again. This time there were no dreams.

  When she awoke, she was alone, and bright sunlight filled the room. There was a jug of water and a basin on a table by the window. Rising from the narrow bed, she took off her clothes, filled the basin, added three drops of perfume from a tiny bottle, and washed her face and upper body. From her pack she took a long tunic of white silk; it was crumpled but clean. Once dressed, she washed the clothes she had been wearing the previous day and laid them over the windowsill to dry. Barefoot, she left the room, walked down the narrow wooden stairs, and emerged into the courtyard below.

  Talisman was sitting alone, eating a breakfast of bread and cheese. Gorkai was grooming the ponies on the other side of the courtyard. Zhusai sat beside Talisman, and he poured her a goblet of water. “Did you dream again?” he asked her.

  “No.” He is bone-tired, she thought, his eyes dull. “What will you do now?” she asked him.

  “I know … believe … the eyes are here, but I cannot think where else to look.”

  Five men came walking through the open gates. Zhusai’s heart sank as she recognized Nosta Khan, and she stood and moved back into the shadows. Talisman’s face was impassive as the men approached. The first of the men, a shaven-headed warrior with a gold earring, halted before him. “I am Kzun of the Lone Wolves,” he said, his voice deep and cold. His body was lean and hard, and Zhusai felt a flicker of fear as she gazed at him. His posture was challenging as he stood looming over Talisman. “Quing-chin of the Fleet Ponies claims you are a war leader to follow. You do not look like a war leader.”

  Talisman rose and stepped past Kzun, ignoring him. He walked to a tall, solemn-faced warrior. “It is good to see you, Lin-tse,” he said.

  “And you, Okai. The gods of stone and water have brought you here at this time.”

  A burly middle-aged man stepped forward. “I am Bartsai of the Curved Horn.” Dropping into a crouch, he extended his right arm with the palm upward. “Quing-chin of the Fleet Ponies speaks highly of you, and we are here to ask of you a service.”

  “Not yet we don’t,” snapped Kzun. “First let him prove himself.”

  “Why do you need a war leader?” asked Talisman, directing his question at Lin-tse.

  “Gargan is coming with an army. The Gothir seek to destroy the shrine.”

  “They have already attacked several Nadir camps,” added Quing-chin.

  Talisman walked away from the group and sat cross-legged on the ground. Three of the others followed and sat around him. Kzun hesitated, then joined them. Gorkai moved across the courtyard and stood, arms folded across his chest, behind Talisman.

  “How many men in the Gothir army?” Talisman asked.

  “Two thousand,” said Nosta Khan. “Lancers and foot soldiers.”

  “How long before they arrive?”

  “Two days. Perhaps three,” Bartsai answered.

  “And you intend to fight?”

  “Why else would we need a war leader?” asked Kzun.

  For the first time Talisman looked the man in the eye. “Let us be clear, Kzun of the Lone Wolves,” he said, no anger in his voice. “The shrine is ultimately indefensible. A sustained assault by two thousand men will take it eventually. There is no hope here of victory. At best we could hold for a few days, perhaps a week. Look around you. One wall has already crumbled, and the gates are useless. All the defenders would die.”

  “Exactly what I said,” put in Bartsai.

  “Then you advocate flight?” Kzun asked.

  “At this moment I am not advocating anything,” said Talisman. “I am stating the obvious. Do you intend to fight?”

  “Yes,” said Kzun. “This is the one place sacred to all Nadir. It cannot be surrendered without a fight.”

  Lin-tse spoke up. “You know the ways of the Gothir, Okai. You know how they will fight. Will you lead us?”

  Talisman rose. “Go back to your warriors. Tell them to assemble here in one hour; I will speak with them.” Leaving them sitting there, Talisman walked across the courtyard and climbed to the east-facing parapet. Bewildered, the leaders rose and left the shrine. Nosta Khan followed Talisman.

  Zhusai stood quietly by the wall as Gorkai approached her. “I don’t think we will live to see the day of the Uniter,” he said grimly.

  “And yet you will stay,” she said.

  “I am Wolfshead,” he told her proudly. “I will stay.”

  On the wall Nosta Khan came alongside Talisman. “I did not foresee this,” said the shaman.

  “It does not matter,” Talisman told him. “Win or lose, it will speed the day of reckoning.”

  “How so?”

  “Four tribes will fight together. It will show the way we must follow. If we succeed, then the Nadir will know the Gothir can be beaten. If we fail, then the sacrilege they commit upon this shrine will bind the tribes with chains of fire.”

  “Succeed? You said we would all die.”

  “We must be prepared for death. But there is a chance, Nosta. They have no water, so we must guard the wells, denying them access. Two thousand men will require 250 gallons of water a day, the horses three times that. If we deny them water for more than a few days, the horses will start to die, then the men.”

  “Surely they will have thought of that,” argued Nosta Khan.

  “I doubt it. They will expect to take the shrine within a day. And here there are three deep wells.”

  “Can you hold them with a hundred men and guard the wells and water holes outside?”

  “No, we need more warriors. But they will come.”

  “From where?” asked the shaman.

  “The Gothir will send them,” Talisman told him.

  8

  TALISMAN SAT ALONE on the parapet, cross-legged, arms outstretched, eyes closed, and face upward to the blazing sun. There were so many ambitions he had longed to achieve, the foremost of them being to ride into the city of Gulgothir beside the Uniter, to see the Gothir humbled, their high walls brought down and their army in ruins. Anger flooded him, and for a while he allowed the richness of the emotion to rage in his veins; then, slowly, he calmed himself. What he had told Nosta Khan was true. The battle for the shrine would unite the tribes as never before. Even if he were to die here, which was probable, the effect would be to speed the day of the Uniter.

  He had told the tribal leaders that victory was impossible. That also was true. Yet a general who fought with defeat in mind would surely lose. Slowing his breathing and calming his heart, Talisman floated above the sense of rage and frustration. Two armies were about to meet. He had to put aside thoughts of numbers and examine the essentials. He saw again Fanlon’s paneled study back at the Bodacas Academy and heard the old soldier’s voice whisper across the years. “The responsibility for a martial host lies in one man. He is its spirit. If an army is deprived of its morale, its general also will lose heart. Order and confusion, bravery and cowardice, are qualities dominated by the heart. Therefore, the expert at controlling his enemy frustrates him and then moves against him. Aggravation and harassment will rob the enemy of his heart, making him fearful, affecting his ability to plan.”

  Talisman pictured Gargan
, and once again anger flickered. He waited for it to pass. The Lord of Larness had failed against him once, when all the odds were in his favor. Can I make him do so again? wondered Talisman.

  The man was full of hate yet still a mighty general and a warrior of courage, and when calm he was not stupid. The secret was to steal his calm, allowing his hatred to swamp his intellect.

  Opening his eyes, Talisman rose and stared out to the west. From there he could see where the enemy would camp, at the foot of the dry hills, where there would be shade for their horses in the afternoon. Would they surround the shrine? No. They would have lancers patrol the area.

  Sitting on the wall, he gazed in at the buildings and walls of the shrine. There was the resting place of Oshikai with its flat roof, a two-story dwelling beside it with ten rooms, built for pilgrims. Beyond that there was the fallen ruin of an old tower. Three of the twenty-foot walls surrounding the buildings were still strong, but this west-facing barrier with its long v-shaped crack was the weak spot; this was where the main attack would come. Gargan would send archers to pin down the defenders and foot soldiers armed with trench tools to tear at the crack, opening it out. Then the sheer force of numbers would carry the Gothir inside.

  Talisman walked down the stone steps and along the base of the wall, halting below the damaged section. Given enough men and enough time, he could repair it or at worst reinforce it with rocks from the fallen tower.

  Men and time. The gods of stone and water had robbed him of both.

  Through the gates rode Kzun and his Lone Wolves. Talisman stripped off his shirt, dropping it to the dust, then once more climbed the steps to the parapet. Quing-chin followed with the Fleet Ponies contingent, then came Lin-tse and his Sky Riders. The last to arrive was Bartsai of the Curved Horn. The Nadir warriors sat on their ponies in silence, their eyes on Talisman on the wall above them.

  “I am Talisman,” he said. “My tribe is Wolfshead, my blood Nadir. These lands are ruled by the Curved Horn. Let the leader Bartsai join me upon this wall.” Bartsai lifted his leg over the pommel of his saddle and jumped to the ground; he walked up the steps to stand beside Talisman. Drawing his knife, Talisman drew the blade across the palm of his left hand. Blood welled from the wound. Holding out his arm, he watched as the red drops fell to the ground below. “This is my blood, which I give to the Curved Horn,” he said. “My blood and my promise to fight unto death for the bones of Oshikai Demon-bane.” For a moment longer he stood in silence; then he called the other leaders forward. When they had joined him, he gazed down on the waiting riders. “At this place far back on the river of time Oshikai fought the Battle of the Five Armies. He won, and he died. In the days to come the Nadir will speak of our struggle as the Battle of the Five Tribes. They will speak of it with pride in their hearts. For we are warriors and the sons of men. We are Nadir. We fear nothing.” His voice rose. “And who are these men who ride against us? Who do they think they are? They slaughter our women and our children. They pillage our holy places.” Suddenly he pointed at a rider of the Curved Horn. “You!” he shouted. “Have you ever killed a Gothir warrior?” The man shook his head. “You will. You will slash your sword into his throat, and his blood will pour out onto the land. You will hear his death scream and see the light fade from his eyes. So will you. And you! And you! Every man here will get the chance to pay them back for their insults and their atrocities. My blood—Nadir blood—stains the earth here. I shall not leave this place until the Gothir are crushed or withdraw. Any man who cannot make the same oath should leave now.” Not one of the riders moved.

  Lin-tse stepped up alongside Talisman. With a curved dagger he cut his left hand, then raised it high. One by one the other leaders joined them. Kzun turned to Talisman, stretching out his bloody hand, and Talisman gripped it. “Brothers in blood!” declared Kzun. “Brothers unto death!”

  Talisman strode to the edge of the parapet. Drawing his saber, he looked down on the riders. “Brothers unto death!” he shouted. Swords hissed into the air.

  “Brothers unto death!” they roared.

  The blind priest sat in his quarters, listening as the roar went up. The dreams of men, he thought, revolve always around war. Battle and death, glory and pain. Young men lust for it, old men talk of it fondly. A great sadness settled on him, and he slowly moved around the room, gathering his papers.

  Once he, too, had been a warrior, riding the steppes on raids, and he remembered well the heady excitement of battle. A small part of him wished he could remain with these young men and smite the enemy. But it was a very small part.

  There was only one real enemy in all the world, he knew: hatred. All evil was born of that vile emotion. Immortal, eternal, it swept through the hearts of men of every generation. When Oshikai and his armies had reached these lands hundreds of years before, they had found a peaceful people living in the lush southlands. After Oshikai’s death they had subjugated them, raiding their villages and taking their women, sowing the seeds of hatred. The seeds had grown, and the southerners had fought back, becoming more organized. At the same time the Nadir had splintered into many tribes. The southerners became the Gothir, and their remembrances of past iniquities made them hate the Nadir, visiting upon them the terror of the killing raids.

  When will it end? he wondered.

  Slowly he packed his manuscripts, quills, and ink into a canvas shoulder bag. There was not room for all of them, and the others he hid in a box below the floorboards. Hoisting the pack to his back, he walked from the room and out into a sunlit morning he could not see.

  The riders had returned to their camps, and he heard footsteps approaching. “You are leaving?” asked Talisman.

  “I am leaving. There is a cave a few miles to the south. I often go there when I wish to meditate.”

  “You have seen the future, old man. Can we beat them?”

  “Some enemies can never be overcome,” said the priest, and without another word he walked away.

  Talisman watched him go. Zhusai came to him and wrapped a linen bandage around his wounded hand. “You spoke well,” she said admiringly. Reaching out, he stroked his hand through her dark hair.

  “You must leave this place.”

  “No, I shall stay.”

  Talisman gazed on her beauty then, the simple white tunic of silk shining in the sunlight, the sheen of her long black hair. “I wish,” he said, “that you could have been mine.”

  “I am yours,” she told him. “Now and always.”

  “It cannot be. You are pledged to the Uniter. To the man with violet eyes.”

  She shrugged. “So says Nosta Khan. But today you united five tribes, and that is enough for me. I stay.” Stepping in to him, she took his hand and kissed the palm.

  Quing-chin approached them. “You wished to see me, Talisman?”

  Zhusai drew away, but Talisman caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. Then he turned and beckoned Quing-chin to follow him. “We must slow their advance,” he said, leading the warrior to the breakfast table.

  “How so?”

  “If they are still two days from us, they will make one more night camp. Take ten men and scout the area. Then, when they are camped, scatter as many Gothir horses as you can.”

  “With ten men?”

  “More would be a hindrance,” said Talisman. “You must follow the example of Adrius. You remember your studies with Fanlon?”

  “I remember,” Quing-chin said with a wry smile. “But I didn’t believe it then.”

  “Make it true now, my friend, for we need the time.”

  Quing-chin rose. “I live to obey, my general,” he said, speaking in Gothir and giving the lancers’ salute. Talisman grinned.

  “Go now. And do not die on me. I need you.”

  “That is advice I shall keep close to my heart,” the warrior promised.

  Next Talisman summoned Bartsai. The Curved Horn leader sat down and poured himself a cup of water. “Tell me of all the water holes within a day’s ride o
f here,” he said.

  “There are three. Two are small seeps. Only one would supply an army.”

  “That is good. Describe it to me.”

  “It is twelve miles to the east and high in the mountains. It is very deep and cold and is full even in the driest seasons.”

  “How easy is it to approach?”

  Bartsai shrugged. “As I said, it is high. There is only one path to it, snaking up through the passes.”

  “Could wagons reach it?”

  “Yes, though the trail would have to be cleared of large rocks.”

  “How would you defend it?”

  “Why would I defend it?” countered Bartsai. “The enemy is coming here!”

  “They will need water, Bartsai. It must be denied them.”

  Bartsai grinned, showing broken teeth. “That is so, Talisman. With fifty men I could hold the trail against any army.”

  “Fifty cannot be spared. Pick twenty—the finest you have.”

  “I will lead them myself,” said Bartsai.

  “No, you are needed here. As the Gothir approach, other Curved Horn riders will come to the shrine, and they will look to you for leadership.”

  Bartsai nodded. “This is true. Seven came in last night, and I have men scouting for others.” The older man sighed. “I have lived for almost fifty years, Talisman. And I have dreamed of fighting the Gothir. But not like this—a handful of men in a rotting shrine.”

  “This is only the beginning, Bartsai. I promise you that.”

  Kzun heaved another rock into place and stepped back, wiping sweat from his face with a grimy hand. For three hours he and his men had been moving stone blocks from the ruined tower and packing them against the west wall, just below the crack, creating a platform that Talisman had ordered to be twenty feet long, ten feet wide, and five feet tall. It was backbreaking work, and some of his men had complained. But Kzun had silenced them; he would suffer no whining before the other tribesmen.

  He glanced to where Talisman was deep in conversation with the long-faced Sky Rider Lin-tse. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He hated the work, for it reminded him of the two years he had spent in the Gothir gold mines to the north. He shivered at the memory, remembering the day when he had been dragged in ankle chains to the mouth of the shaft and ordered to climb down. They had not removed the chains, and twice Kzun’s feet had slipped and he had hung in darkness. Eventually he had arrived at the foot of the shaft, where two guards carrying torches had been waiting. One had smashed a fist into Kzun’s face, propelling him into the wall. “That’s to remind you, dung monkey, to obey every order you hear. Instantly!” The fifteen-year-old Kzun had struggled to his feet and looked up into the man’s bearded, ugly face. He saw the second blow coming but could not avoid it. It split his lips and broke his nose. “And that is to tell you that you never look a guard in the eye. Now get up and follow.”