Two years in the dark followed, with weeping sores on his ankles where the chains bit, boils on his back and neck, and the kiss of the whip when his weary body failed to move at the speed the guards demanded. Men died around him, their spirits broken long before their bodies surrendered to the dark. But Kzun would not be broken. Every day he chipped at the tunnel walls with his pick of iron or a short-handled shovel, gathering up baskets of rock and hauling them back to the carts drawn by blind ponies. And every sleep time—for who could tell what was day and what was night?—he would fall to the ground on the order and rest his exhausted body on the rock of the ever-lengthening tunnel. Twice the tunnel at the face collapsed, killing miners. Kzun was half buried in the second fall but dug himself clear before the rescuers came.
Most of the slave workers around him were Gothir criminals, petty thieves and housebreakers. The Nadir contingent were known as “picked men.” In Kzun’s case that meant that a troop of Gothir soldiers had ridden into his village and arrested all the young men they could find. Seventeen had been taken. There were mines all over the mountains here, and Kzun had never seen his friends again.
Then, during a shift, a workman preparing support timbers broke the tip of his file. With a curse he strode back down the tunnel, seeking a replacement. Kzun picked up the tip; it was no longer than his thumb. Every sleep time for days and days he slowly filed away at the clasps of his ankle chain. There was always noise in the tunnels: the roaring of underground rivers, the snoring of sleepers whose lungs were caked with dirt and dust. Even so Kzun was careful. Finally, having worked evenly on both clasps, he got the first to give way. Feverishly Kzun filed the second. It, too, fell clear. Rising, he made his way back down the tunnel to where the tools were stored. It was quieter there, and a man wearing chains would have been heard by the guards in the small chamber by the shaft. But Kzun was wearing no chains. Selecting a short-handled pick, he hefted it clear of the other tools and padded silently to the guards’ chamber. There were two men inside; they were playing some kind of game involving bone dice. Taking a deep breath, Kzun leapt inside, swinging his pick into the back of the first man, the iron point driving through the rib cage and bursting from his chest. Releasing the weapon, Kzun drew the dying man’s knife and hurled himself across the table at the second guard. The man surged to his feet, scrabbling for his own knife, but he was too late.
Kzun’s weapon punched into his neck, down past the collarbone, and into his heart.
Swiftly Kzun stripped the man, then climbed into his clothes. The boots were too big, and he hurled them aside.
Moving to the shaft, he began to climb the iron rungs set into the stone. The sky was dark above him, and he saw the stars shining clear. A lump came to his throat then. Climbing more slowly, he reached the lip of the shaft and warily looked out. There was a cluster of buildings beyond, where they milled the ore, and a barracks for the guards. Scrambling clear, Kzun walked slowly across the open ground. The smell of horse came to him on the night breeze, and he followed it to a stable.
Stealing a fine horse, he rode from the settlement and out into the clean, sweet air of the mountains.
Returning to his village, he found that no one recognized him as the young man taken only two years before. He had lost his hair, and his skin and face had the pallor of the recently dead. The teeth on the right side of his mouth had rotted away, and his once-powerful body was now wolf-lean.
The Gothir had not come for him. They took no names of the Nadir “picked men” or had any record of which village they had raided to capture him.
Now Kzun heaved another slab of old stone into place and stepped back from the new wall. It was just under four feet high. A beautiful woman appeared alongside him, carrying a bucket of water in which was a copper ladle. She bowed deeply and offered him a short scarf of white linen. “It is for the head, lord,” she said formally.
“I thank you,” he replied, not smiling for fear of showing his ruined teeth. “Who are you?” he asked as he tied the scarf over his bald head.
“I am Zhusai, Talisman’s woman.”
“You are very beautiful, and he is most fortunate.”
She bowed again and offered him a ladle of water. He drank deeply, then passed the bucket to his waiting men. “Tell me, how is it that Talisman knows so much of the ways of the Gothir?”
“He was taken by them as a child,” answered Zhusai. “He was a hostage. He was trained at the Bodacas Academy, as were Quing-chin and Lin-tse.”
“A janizary. I see. I have heard of them.”
“He is a great man, lord.”
“Only a great man would deserve someone like you,” he said. “I thank you for the scarf.”
With a bow she moved away, and Kzun sighed. One of his men made a crude comment, and Kzun rounded on him. “Not one word more, Chisk, or I will rip your tongue from your mouth!”
“How do you read the other leaders?” asked Talisman.
Lin-tse let the question hang for a moment, marshaling his thoughts. “The weakest of them is Bartsai. He is old. He doesn’t want to die. Quing-chin is as I remember him, brave and thoughtful. I am grateful to Gargan. Had he not been marching here with his army, I would have been forced to kill Quing-chin. It would have scarred my soul. Kzun? The man has a demon within him. He is unhinged, Talisman, but I think he will stand tall.”
“And what of Lin-tse?”
“He is as you knew him. My people call me the man with two souls. I do not think it is true, but the years at Bodacas changed me. I now have to try to be Nadir. It is worse for Quing-chin. He killed my best fighter and refused to take his eyes. I would not have done that, Talisman, but I would have wished to. You understand?”
“I understand,” said Talisman. “They took from us. But we also took from them. We will put it to good use here.”
“We will die here, my friend,” Lin-tse said softly. “But we will die well.”
“Brothers unto death,” said Talisman. “And perhaps beyond. Who knows?”
“Now, what orders do you have for me, General?”
Talisman looked into Lin-tse’s dark, brooding eyes. “It is important that we begin this venture with a victory, no matter how small. Gargan will come with the main van of the army. Ahead will be several companies of lancers. They will reach us first, and I want you and your Sky Riders to bloody them. Bartsai tells me there is a narrow pass twelve miles west. When the lancers reach it, attack them—not head on but with arrows. Then run back through the pass. You will have most of today and early tomorrow to prepare your surprises. Bring back spoils if you can.”
Lin-tse nodded. “You are thinking of Fecrem and the Long Retreat.”
“I am indeed. As I said, a victory is important. What is vital, however, is that you take no unnecessary risks. If there are more than three companies, do not engage them. Your thirty men are irreplaceable.”
Lin-tse rose. “I will do my utmost, General.”
“Of that I have no doubt. You have the coolest head, Lin-tse. That is why I chose you for this mission.”
Lin-tse’s expression did not change. Without a word he strode away. Gorkai stepped forward. “He is a hard man, that one,” he observed.
“A man of stone,” agreed Talisman. “Where is Zhusai?”
“She went into the shrine to pray.”
Talisman followed and found her standing by the stone sarcophagus. It was cool in the shadowed chamber, and he stood for a moment, watching her. She turned toward him and smiled. “It is so quiet here,” she said.
“I saw you give the scarf to Kzun. Why did you do it?”
“He is a dangerous man and one who might … question your orders.”
“A man gold could not buy, and you won him with a piece of linen. You are a surprising woman, Zhusai.”
“There is nothing I would not do for you, Talisman. You will forgive me for being forward, but time is precious, is it not?”
“It is,” he admitted, moving to her side. She took
his hand and held it to her breast.
“Have you been with a woman?” she asked him.
“No.”
“Then there is much for us both to discover.” Drawing her to him, he touched his lips to hers. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, and the taste of her mouth swamped his senses. He felt dizzy and weak and drew back from her. “I love you, my Talisman,” she whispered.
For just those fleeting seconds he had forgotten the perils that awaited them both. Now realization struck him like a fist. “Why now?” he asked, pulling away.
“Because that is all there is,” she said. Swinging to the sarcophagus, she ran her hand over the iron plate. “Oshikai Demon-bane, Lord of War,” she read. “He was beset by enemies when he wed Shul-sen. And they had so little time, Talisman. They were together only four years. But great was their love. Ours will be as great. I know it. I feel it, here in this place. And if we die, we shall walk hand in hand through the Void. I know this, too.”
“I do not want you to die,” he said. “I wish I had never brought you here. I wish it with all my heart.”
“And I am glad you did. You will win, Talisman. Your cause is just. The evil comes from the Gothir.”
“It is a touching sentiment, Zhusai, and one that I wish were true. Sadly, the good do not always conquer. I must go, for there is much to do.”
“When you have done all that you can and the night grows long, come to me, Talisman. Will you do that?”
“I will come to you,” he promised.
The sky was black with crows and vultures as Druss and Sieben came over a ridge and down into a shadow valley. Below them were some forty goathide tents. Bodies were strewn everywhere under a writhing mass of carrion birds. Elsewhere small desert dogs tugged at rotting flesh.
“Sweet heaven,” whispered Sieben, pulling back on the reins.
Druss touched his heels to the mare and rode down the hillside. Leading their extra ponies, Sieben followed him. Vultures too fat to fly spread their wings and waddled away from the horses. The stench of death caused the horses to shy away from the scene, but the riders forced them on. At first Sieben just stared ahead, trying not to look at the bodies. There were children there and women, some huddled together, others who had been slain as they ran. A brown dog edged into a flapping tent, then yelped and ran away. Druss dragged on the reins.
“Why are we stopping?” asked Sieben.
Druss dismounted, passing the mare’s reins to the poet. Ax in hand, he strode to the tent and, ducking down, moved inside. Sieben sat on his horse and forced himself to view the scene. It was not hard to see what had happened there. The killers had attacked late in the evening as the cook fires were under way. The Nadir had fled in all directions but had been cut down with ruthless efficiency. Several of the bodies had been mutilated: beheaded or dismembered.
Druss emerged from the tent and moved to the horses, lifting clear a water canteen. “There’s a woman inside,” he said. “She’s alive, but only just. She has a babe.”
Sieben dismounted and tethered the horses to a tent pole. The Gothir mounts were skittish and nervous of the dogs and vultures, but the Nadir ponies stood by calmly. Swiftly he hobbled the horses with lengths of rawhide, then joined Druss. Inside the tent lay a naked young woman, a terrible wound in her belly and side. Blood had drenched the brightly colored blankets on which she lay. Her eyes were open, but her mouth was hanging slack. Druss raised her head, holding the canteen to her lips; water dribbled over her chin, but she managed to swallow a little. Sieben gazed at the wound; it was deep, the blade having completely pierced her body. The babe, partly hidden beneath a pile of furs, was whimpering softly. Druss picked it up and held it to the woman’s swollen breast. It began to suck, weakly at first. The woman groaned and moved her arm around the child, drawing it in to her.
“What can we do?” asked Sieben. Druss’ cold eyes met his. The axman said nothing. When Sieben reached up to stroke the woman’s face, her dead eyes stared at him. The babe continued to feed.
“This one they kept for rape,” said Druss. “What a pack of mongrels!”
“May they rot in seven hells,” said Sieben. The babe ceased to suck, and Druss lifted it to his broad shoulder, supporting its head and gently rubbing its back. Sieben’s eyes were drawn to the woman’s swollen nipple. Milk and blood were seeping from it.
“Why, Druss?” he asked.
“Why what?”
“Why did they do it? What was the purpose?”
“I am not the man to ask, poet. I have seen the sack of cities and watched good men become evil as they were fired by rage and lust and fear. I don’t know why they do it. The soldiers who did this will go home to their wives and families and be good husbands and fathers. It is a mystery to me.”
Wrapping the naked babe in a blanket, he carried him out into the sunlight. Sieben followed him. “Will they write it as a victory, do you think?” asked Sieben. “Will they sing songs about this raid?”
“Let’s hope there are some women with milk in their breasts at the shrine,” said Druss. Sieben freed the horses and held the babe until Druss had mounted. Passing the child to the axman, he stepped into the saddle of the gelding.
“He fed on milk and blood,” said Sieben. “He drank from the dead.”
“But he lives,” said Druss. “He breathes.”
The two rode on. Druss lifted the blanket over the top of the infant’s head, shielding him from the bright sun. The child was asleep. Druss could smell the newness of life upon him, the creamy scent of milk-fed breath. He thought of Rowena and her longing for such a child to hold at her breast.
“I will be a farmer,” he said suddenly. “When I get home, I shall stay there. No more wars. No more vultures.”
“You believe that, my friend?” asked Sieben.
Druss felt the sinking of his heart. “No,” he said.
They rode on across the burning steppes for another hour, then transferred the saddles to the two Nadir ponies. The baby awoke and cried for a while. Druss tried to calm him, then Sieben took him. “How old is he, do you think?” the poet asked.
“Perhaps a month. Two—I don’t know.”
Sieben swore, and Druss laughed. “Anointed you, too, has he?”
“During my short, eventful life I have learned many things, Druss, old horse,” he said, holding the babe at arm’s length. “But I never thought I would have to worry about urine stains on silk. Will it rot the fabric, do you think?”
“We can only hope not.”
“How does one stop them from crying?”
“Tell him one of your stories, poet. They always put me to sleep.”
Sieben cradled the babe close and began to sing a gentle song about Princess Ulastay and her desire to wear stars in her hair. He had a good voice, strong and melodic. The Nadir child rested its head against his chest and was soon asleep. Toward dusk they saw a dust cloud ahead, and Druss led them off the trail and into a small gully. Two companies of lancers rode by above them, heading west, their armor bright, the helms gleaming red in the fading sunshine. Sieben’s heart was hammering fast. The babe murmured in his arms, but the sound did not carry above the drumming of hoofbeats.
Once they had passed, Druss headed northeast.
With the dying of the sun the air grew cooler, and Sieben felt the warmth of the child in his arms. “I think he has a fever,” he told Druss.
“All babies are hot,” said Druss.
“Really? I wonder why.”
“They just are. By heavens, poet, do you have to question everything?”
“I have a curious mind.”
“Then set it to work on how we are going to feed the child when he wakes. He looks a lusty infant to me, and his cries are likely to travel far. And we are unlikely to meet friends out here.”
“That’s it, Druss. Always try to finish on a comforting note.”
Gargan, Lord of Larness, waited patiently as his manservant Bren unbuckled the heavy breastplate and re
moved it. The flesh around his middle had spread since last he had worn it, and the freedom of release caused him to sigh with pleasure. He had ordered new armor the previous month, but it had not been ready when Garen-Tsen had told him of the jewels and the need for speed.
Bren unfastened the thigh plates and greaves, and Gargan sat down on a canvas chair and stretched out his legs. The nation was sliding into the pit, he thought bitterly. The emperor’s madness was growing daily, and the two factions were hovering in the shadows. Civil war loomed. Madness!
And we are all caught up in it, he realized. Magical jewels, indeed! The only magic that counted was contained in the swords of the Royal Guards, the shining points of the royal lances.
What was needed now was an outside threat to pull the Gothir nation together. A war with the tribes would focus the minds of the people wonderfully. It would buy time. The emperor had to go. The question was when, and how, and who would replace him? Until that day Gargan would have to give the factions something else to think about.
Bren left the tent, returning with a tray of wine, butter, cheese, and bread. “The captains wish to know when you will see them, my lord,” he said. Gargan looked up at him. The man was getting old, worn out.
“How many campaigns have you served with me?” asked Gargan.
The Legend of the Deathwalker Page 21