The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  “Twelve, my lord,” answered Bren, cutting the bread and buttering three slices.

  “Which do you remember most fondly?”

  The old man paused in his preparations. “Gassima,” he said.

  Pouring the wine into a silver goblet, Bren added water and passed it to his general. Gargan sipped it. Gassima! The last civil war, almost twenty-five years in the past now. Out-numbered, Gargan had led a retreat across the marshes, then had swung his force and launched an attack that ought to have been suicidal. On his giant white stallion Skall he had thundered into the heart of the enemy camp and killed Barin in hand-to-hand combat. The war had been won on that day, the civil war ended. Gargan drained his wine and handed the goblet to Bren, who refilled it.

  “That was a horse, by Missael! Feared nothing. It would have charged into the fires of hell.”

  “A mighty steed,” agreed Bren.

  “Never known another like him. You know the stallion I ride now? He is of the blood of Skall, his great-grandson. But he does not have the same qualities. Skall was a prince of horses.” Gargan chuckled. “Mounted three mares on the day he died, at the ripe age of thirty-two. I have wept only twice in my life, Bren. The first was on the death of Skall.”

  “Yes, my lord. What shall I tell the captains?”

  “One hour from now. I have letters to read.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Leaving the meal on the table, Bren stepped back through the tent flap. Gargan stood and poured a third goblet of wine; this time he added no water. The mail riders had caught up with the vanguard of the army at dusk, and there were three letters for him. He opened the first, which bore the seal of Garen-Tsen. Gargan tried to focus on the spidery script. Lifting a lantern from its pole, he lowered it to the desk. His eyes were not what they once had been. Nothing is what it was, he thought.

  The letter told of the funeral of the queen, and how Garen-Tsen had smuggled the king from the city, having him taken to the winter palace at Siccus. The factions were beginning to speak openly in the Senate about “a need for change.” Garen-Tsen urged a speedy end to the campaign and a swift return to the capital.

  The second letter was from his wife. He scanned it: four pages containing little of interest, detailing small incidents from the household and the farms. A maidservant had broken an arm falling from a chair as she cleaned windows, a prize foal had been sold for a thousand Raq, and three slaves had fled the north farm but had been recaptured in a local brothel.

  The last letter was from his daughter, Mirkel. She had given birth to a baby boy, and she was calling him Argo. She hoped Gargan could see him soon.

  The old soldier’s eyes misted.

  Argo. Finding his mutilated body had been like a blow to the heart, and Gargan could still feel the pain of it. He had known all along that allowing Nadir filth to attend the academy would lead to disaster. But never had he remotely considered the possibility that it would lead to the death of his own son. And what a death to suffer!

  Anger and sorrow vied in him.

  The old emperor had been a wise man, ruling well in the main. But his later years had seen a rise in confusion, a softening of his attitudes. It was for this man that Gargan had fought at Gassima. I gave you that crown, he thought. I placed it on your head. And because of you my son is dead.

  Nadir janizaries! A foul and pernicious idea. Why was it that the old man could not see the stupidity of it? The Nadir were numberless and dreamed only of the day when a Uniter would draw them together into one unstoppable army. And yet the emperor had wished the sons of their chiefs to be trained in the ways of Gothir warfare. Gargan could still scarcely believe it.

  The day when Okai had been the prize student was a grim one to recall. What was worse was to know that the man who had walked up to the dais was the murderer of his son. He had had him close then; he could have reached out and torn away his throat.

  Gargan reached for the jug but hesitated. The captains would be there soon, and strong drink was no aid to planning.

  Rising from the table, he rubbed at his weary eyes and stepped outside the tent. Two guards came to attention. Gargan stared out over the campsite, pleased with the orderly placing of tents and the neatness of the five picket lines. The ground had been well cleared around the campfires, dug over and wetted down, so that no spark could land on the tinder-dry grass of the steppes.

  Gargan walked on, scanning the camp for signs of disorderliness or complacency. He found none except that one of the latrine trenches had been dug in an area where the prevailing wind would carry the stench back into the camp. He noted it in his mind. Two Nadir heads had been tied to a pole outside one tent. A group of lancers were sitting around a campfire close by. When Gargan strode up, the men leapt to their feet, saluting smartly.

  “Bury them,” said Gargan. “They are attracting flies and mosquitoes.”

  “Yes, sir!” they chorused.

  Gargan returned to his tent. Sitting down at the table, he took quill and ink and wrote a short letter to Mirkel, congratulating her and stating his hope and his intention to be with her soon. “Take good care of little Argo,” he wrote. “Do not rely on wet nurses. A child draws much from his mother’s milk, taking in not only nourishment but also spirit and courage. One should never allow a babe of noble birth to suckle at a common breast. It dissipates character.”

  Traveling carefully, using dry gullies and low terrain, Quing-chin and his nine riders avoided the Gothir patrols. As darkness fell, they were hidden to the south of the Gothir encampment. His friend Shi-da crept alongside him as he knelt behind a screen of dry bushes, scanning the camp.

  The night breeze was picking up, blowing from the southeast. Shi-da tapped Quing-chin’s shoulder. “It is done, my brother.”

  Quing-chin settled back on his haunches. The breeze was picking up. “Good.”

  “When?” asked Shi-da, eagerness showing on his young face.

  “Not yet. We wait until they settle for the night.”

  “Tell me of Talisman,” said Shi-da, settling down alongside him. “Why is he the chosen one? He is not as strong as you.”

  “Strength of body counts for nothing in a general,” said Quing-chin. “He has a mighty heart and a mind sharper than a dagger.”

  “You also have a great heart, my brother.”

  Quing-chin smiled. The boy’s hero worship was a source of both irritation and delight. “I am the hawk; he is the eagle. I am the wolf; he is the tiger. One day Talisman will be a war leader among the Nadir. He will lead armies, little brother. He has a mind for …” He hesitated. There was no Nadir word for “logistics.” “A mind for planning,” he said at last. “When an army marches, it must be supplied. It needs food and water, and just as important, it needs information. It takes a rare man to be able to plan for all eventualities. Talisman is such a man.”

  “He was at the academy with you?”

  “Yes. And at the last he was the honor student, beating all others.”

  “He fought them all?”

  “In a way.” Behind them a pony whinnied, and Quing-chin glanced back to where the others were hidden. “Get back to them,” he said, “and tell Ling that if he does not control his pony better than that, I shall send him back in disgrace.”

  As the boy eased himself back from the gully’s crest, Quing-chin settled down to wait. Fanlon had often said that a captain’s greatest gift was patience: knowing when to strike and having the nerve to wait for the right moment.

  As the air cooled, the wind would increase. So would the moisture as a result of the change in temperature. All these factors combined to make good timing essential. Quing-chin looked out at the enemy camp and felt his anger rise. They were not in a defensive formation, as was required when in enemy territory. There was no outer perimeter of fortifications. They had constructed the encampment according to the regulations for a peacetime maneuver: five picket lines, each with two hundred horses, the tents set out in squares by regiment. How arrogant they were, these g
ajin. How well they understood Nadir mentality.

  Three Gothir scouts came riding from the east. Quing-chin ducked down below the crest until they had passed. They were talking and laughing as they rode. Tomorrow there would be no laughter; they would be biting on a leather strap as the whip lashed their backs.

  Quing-chin carefully made his way down the slope to where his men were waiting. Tinder and brush had been packed into a net of twine and tied to a long rope. “Now is the time,” he said.

  Shi-da stepped forward. “May I ride the fire?” he asked.

  “No.” The boy’s disappointment was intense, but Quing-chin walked past him, stopping before a short, bowlegged warrior. “You have the glory, Nien,” he said. “Remember, ride south for at least a quarter of a mile before releasing the rope. Not too fast, then double back along the line.”

  “It will be done,” said the man. Swiftly they mounted and rode to the top of the gully. Quing-chin and two others leapt from their saddles and, using tinderboxes, lit the tinder bundle tied behind Nien’s pony. Flames licked up, then roared into life.

  Nien kicked his horse and set off at a slow trot across the dry grass of the steppes. Fire flickered behind him, and dark oily smoke spiraled up. The wind fanned the blaze, and soon a roaring wall of flames swept toward the Gothir camp.

  “Might I inquire, sir, the purpose of this mission?” asked Premian as he and the other ten senior officers gathered in Gargan’s tent.

  “You may,” said the general. “Our intelligence reports show that a Nadir uprising is planned, and it is our duty to see that it does not happen. Reports have been gathered and compiled showing that the Curved Horn tribe has been mustering for a major raid on the lands around Gulgothir. We shall crush this tribe; it will send a message to other Nadir chieftains. First, however, we shall march to the Shrine of Oshikai and dismantle it stone by stone. The bones of their hero will be crushed to powder and scattered on the steppes.”

  The veteran Marlham spoke up. “But surely, sir, the shrine is a holy place to all the tribes. Will this not be seen by all the leaders as a provocation?”

  “Indeed it will,” snarled Gargan. “Let them know once and for all that they are a slave race. Would that I could bring an army of forty thousand into the steppes. By Shemak, I would slay them all!”

  Premian was tempted to speak again, but Gargan had been drinking and his face was flushed, his temper short. He was leaning on the desk, the muscles of his arms sharp and powerful in the lantern light, his eyes gleaming. “Does any man here have a problem with this mission?”

  The other officers shook their heads. Gargan straightened and moved around the desk, looming over the shorter Premian. “How about you? As I recall, you have a soft spot for these scum.”

  “I am a soldier, sir. It is my duty to carry out all orders given to me by a superior officer.”

  “But you don’t agree with them, do you?” sneered Gargan, pushing his bearded face so close to Premian’s that the officer could smell the sour taste of wine on the other man’s breath.

  “It is not my place to disagree with policy, sir.”

  “Not my place,” mimicked Gargan. “No, sir, it is not your place. Do you know how many tribesmen there are?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, sir. Neither do I, boy. Nor does any man. But they are numberless. Can you imagine what would happen if they joined together under one leader? They would sweep over us like a tide.” He blinked and returned to his table, sitting heavily on the canvas chair, which groaned under the sudden weight. “Like a tide,” he mumbled. Sucking in a great breath, he fought to overcome the wine in his system. “They must be humbled. Crushed. Demoralized.”

  A commotion began outside, and Premian heard men shouting. With the other officers he left the tent. A wall of flame was lighting the night sky, and smoke was swirling around the camp. Horses began whinnying in fear. Premian swung his gaze around the camp. The fire would sweep right over it. “The water wagons!” he yelled. “Harness the wagons!” Premian began to run across the camp to where the twenty wagons had been drawn up in a square. Each carried sixteen barrels. A man ran by him in panic, and Premian grabbed his shoulder.

  “Fetch horses for the wagons,” he said, his voice ringing with authority.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the soldier, saluting. He moved away.

  Premian saw a group of soldiers trying to gather their belongings from a communal tent. “Leave them,” he shouted. “If the wagons go up, we’ll all die. You three get to the picket line. Fetch horses. The rest of you start dragging these wagons into line for harness.”

  The flames were licking at the edge of the camp now. Hundreds of men were trying to beat out the fires with blankets and cloaks, but Premian saw that it was pointless. Soldiers came running back, leading frightened horses. A tent caught fire. The first of the wagons was harnessed, and a soldier climbed to the driving board and lashed out with the reins. The four horses leaned into the harnesses, and the wagon lurched forward.

  A second wagon followed, then a third. More men came to help. Premian ran to the nearest picket line. “Cut the rest of the horses loose,” he told a soldier standing by. “We’ll round them up tomorrow!”

  “Yes, sir,” responded the man, slashing his knife through the picket rope. Premian grabbed the reins of the nearest horse and vaulted to its bare back. The beast was panicked and reared, but Premian was an expert horseman. Leaning forward, he patted the horse’s long neck.

  “Courage, my beauty,” he said. Riding back to the wagons, he saw that another six had been harnessed and were moving east, away from the line of fire. More tents were ablaze now, and smoke and cinders filled the air. To the left a man screamed as his clothes caught fire. Several soldiers threw him to the ground, covering him with blankets to smother the flames. The heat was intense now, and it was hard to breathe. Flames were licking at the last of the wagons, but two more were harnessed.

  “That’s it!” Premian yelled at the struggling soldiers. “Save yourselves!”

  The men mounted the last of the horses and galloped from the burning camp. Premian turned to see other soldiers running for their lives. Several stumbled and fell and were engulfed in flames. He swung his horse and saw Gargan walking through the smoke. The general looked bewildered and lost. “Bren!” he was shouting. “Bren!”

  Premian tried to steer his horse to the general, but the beast would not move toward the flames. Dragging off his shirt, Premian leaned forward, looping it over the horse’s eyes and tying it loosely in place. Heeling the now-blind stallion forward, he rode to Gargan.

  “Sir! Mount behind me!”

  “I can’t leave Bren. Where is he?”

  “He may already be clear, sir. If we stay any longer, we’ll be cut off!”

  Gargan swore, then reached up to take Premian’s outstretched hand. With the practiced ease of a skilled horseman, he swung up behind. The young officer kicked the stallion into a gallop across the burning steppes, swerving around the walls of flame that swept toward the northwest. The heat was searing, and Premian could hardly see through the smoke as the horse thundered on, its flanks scorched.

  At last they outran the fire, and Premian dragged the exhausted stallion to a stop. Leaping from its back, he turned and watched the camp burn.

  Gargan slid down beside him. “You did well, boy,” he said, placing his huge hand on Premian’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, sir. I think we saved most of the water wagons.”

  The stallion’s flanks were charred and blistered, and the great beast stood shivering. Premian led him to the east, where the main body of soldiers had gathered.

  Slowly, as the fire died away in the distance, men began making their way back to the camp, searching through the wreckage. By dawn all the bodies had been recovered. Twenty-six men and twelve horses had died in the flames. All the tents had been destroyed, but most of the supplies had survived; the fire had passed too quickly to burn through all the sacks of flour, sal
t, oats, and dried meat. Of the nine water wagons left behind, six had caught fire and were now useless, though most of the barrels containing the precious water had been saved. Only three had split their caulks.

  As the early-morning sun rose above the blackened earth of the campsite, Gargan surveyed the wreckage. “The fire was set in the south,” he told Premian. “Find the names of the night sentries in that section. Thirty lashes per man.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Less destruction than we might have expected,” said the general.

  “Yes, sir. Though more than a thousand arrows were lost and around eighty lances. I’m sorry about your manservant. We found his body behind the tent.”

  “Bren was a good man. Served me well. I took him out of the line when the rheumatism ruined his sword arm. Good man! They’ll pay for his death with a hundred of their own.”

  “We’ve also lost six water wagons, sir. With your permission, I will adjust the daily ration to allow for the loss and suspend the order that every lancer must be clean-shaven daily.”

  Gargan nodded. “We’ll not get all the horses back,” he said. “Some of the younger ones will run clear back to Gulgothir.”

  “I fear you are correct, sir,” said Premian.

  “Ah, well. Some of our lancers will have to be transferred to the infantry; it’ll make them value their mounts more in the future.” Gargan hawked and spit. “Send four companies through the pass. I want reports on any Nadir movements. And prisoners. Last night’s attack was well executed; it reminds me of Adrius and the winter campaign, when he slowed the enemy army with fire.”

  Premian was silent for a moment, but he saw that Gargan was staring at him, awaiting a response. “Okai was Wolfshead, sir. Not Curved Horn. In fact, I don’t believe we had any Curved Horn janizaries.”

  “You don’t know your Nadir customs, Premian. Four tribes guard the shrine. Perhaps he is with them. I hope so. I would give my left arm to have him in my power.”

  The moon was high above the Valley of Shul-sen’s Tears, and Talisman, weary to the bone, took a last walk to the battlements, stepping carefully over sleeping Nadir warriors. His eyes were gritty and tired, his body aching with unaccustomed fatigue as he slowly climbed the rampart steps. The new wooden platform creaked under his feet. In the absence of nails the planks had been tied into place, but it was solid enough, and the next day it would be more stable yet as Bartsai and his men continued to work on it. The fighting platform constructed by Kzun and his Lone Wolves was nearing completion. Kzun had worked well, tirelessly, but the man worried Talisman. Often during the day he would walk from the shrine compound and stand out on the steppes. And now he was sleeping not with his men but outside, back at the former Lone Wolves camp.