The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  Gorkai strode up to join him. On Talisman’s instructions, the former Notas had worked alongside Kzun’s men throughout the day. “What did you find out?” asked Talisman, keeping his voice low.

  “He is a strange one,” said Gorkai. “He never sleeps inside his tent; he takes his blankets out and spreads them under the stars. He has never taken a wife. And back in Curved Horn lands he lives alone, away from the tribe; he has no sword brothers.”

  “Why, then, was he placed in command of the tomb guards?” asked Talisman.

  “He is a ferocious fighter. Eleven duels he has fought—he has not been cut once. All his enemies are dead. His men hate him, but they respect him.”

  “What is your evaluation?”

  Gorkai shrugged and scratched at the widow’s peak on his brow. “I don’t like him, Talisman, but if I was faced with many enemies, I would want him by my side.” Talisman sat down on the rampart wall, and Gorkai looked at him closely. “You should sleep.”

  “Not yet. I have much to think on. Where is Nosta Khan?”

  “In the shrine. He casts spells there,” said Gorkai, “but he finds nothing. I heard him curse a while back.”

  Gorkai gazed along the wall. When first he had seen the shrine, he had thought it small, but now the walls—at sixty paces each—looked ridiculously long. “Can we hold this place?” he asked suddenly.

  “For a time,” said Talisman. “Much depends on how many ladders the enemy has. If they are well equipped, they will sweep over us.”

  “A thousand curses on all of them,” hissed Gorkai.

  Talisman grinned. “They will not have enough ladders. They would not have expected a siege. And there are no trees to hack down here to make them. We have close to two hundred men now, fifty per wall if they try to attack on all sides. We will hold them, Gorkai—at least for some days.”

  “And then what?”

  “We live or die,” Talisman answered with a weary shrug.

  Far away to the southwest the sky began to glow a dull, flickering red. “What is that?” asked Gorkai.

  “With luck it is the enemy camp burning,” said Talisman grimly. “It will not slow them overmuch, but it will rob them of their complacency.”

  “I hope many die.”

  “Why do you stay?” asked Talisman.

  Gorkai looked puzzled. “What do you mean? Where else would I be? I am Wolfshead now, Talisman. You are my leader.”

  “I may have led you to a path of no returning, Gorkai.”

  “All paths lead to death, Talisman. But here I am at one with the gods of stone and water. I am Nadir again, and that has meaning.”

  “Indeed it does. And I tell you this, my friend: it will have more meaning in the years to come. When the Uniter leads his armies, the world will tremble at the sound of the name ‘Nadir.’ ”

  “That is a pleasant thought to take to my bed,” said Gorkai with a smile.

  Just then both men saw the figure of Zhusai emerge from the sleeping quarters. She was dressed only in a shift of white linen, and she walked slowly, dreamily, toward the gates. Talisman ran down the steps, closely followed by Gorkai, and they caught up with her on the open steppes. Gently Talisman took her by the arm. Her eyes were wide open and unblinking. “Where is my lord?” she asked.

  “Zhusai? What is wrong?” whispered Talisman.

  “I am lost,” she said. “Why is my spirit chained in the dark place?” A tear formed and fell to her cheek. Talisman took her in his arms and kissed her brow.

  “Who speaks?” said Gorkai, taking Zhusai’s hand.

  “Do you know my lord?” she asked him.

  “Who are you?” asked Gorkai. Talisman released his hold and turned toward the warrior. Gorkai gestured him to silence and stepped before the woman. “Tell me your name,” he said.

  “I am Shul-sen, the wife of Oshikai. Can you help me?”

  Gorkai took her hand and kissed it. “What help do you require, my lady?”

  “Where is my lord?”

  “He is …” Gorkai fell silent and looked to Talisman.

  “He is not here,” said Talisman. “Do you recall how you came here?”

  “I was blind,” she said, “but now I can see and hear and speak.” Slowly she looked around. “I think I know this valley,” she said, “but I do not remember the buildings here. I tried to leave the dark place, but there are demons there. My spells have no effect. The power is gone, and I cannot leave.”

  “And yet you have,” said Gorkai. “You are here.”

  “I do not understand,” she said. “Am I dreaming? Someone called me, and I awoke here. These clothes are not mine. And where is my lon-tsia? Where are my rings?”

  Suddenly she jerked as if struck. “No!” she cried. “It is drawing me back. Help me! I cannot abide the dark place!” Wildly she reached out, grabbing Talisman’s arm, then she went limp and fell against him. Her eyelids fluttered, and she looked up at Talisman. “What is happening, Talisman?” she asked.

  “What do you remember?”

  “I was dreaming. You remember? The woman in the cave? She was walking hand in hand with a man. Then the sun died away, and walls of black rock formed around us … her. All light faded until the darkness was absolute. The man was gone. I … she … tried to find a door in the rock, but there was none. And there were moans and snarls coming from close by. That is all I can remember. Am I going mad, Talisman?”

  “I do not think so, my lady,” Gorkai said softly. “Tell me, have you ever seen visions?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever heard voices though there was no one near?”

  “No. What are you saying?”

  “I believe the spirit of Shul-sen is somehow drawn to you. I don’t know why. But I do know you are not insane. I have seen spirits and spoken with them. It was the same with my father. What we have just experienced here was no dream walking. Your voice was different, as was your manner. You agree, Talisman?”

  “This is beyond my understanding,” admitted the Nadir leader. “What must we do?”

  “I do not know what we can do,” said Gorkai. “You told me that Oshikai is searching for his wife, and now we know that Shul-sen is also seeking him. But their world is not ours, Talisman. We cannot bring them together.”

  The moon vanished behind a bank of clouds, plunging the steppes into darkness. A man cried out in the distance. Talisman saw a light hastily struck, and a lantern flickered to life outside the tent of Kzun.

  9

  THE BLIND NADIR priest Enshima sat silently on the edge of the rocks overlooking the steppes below. Behind him, at the hidden spring, some two dozen refugees—mostly older women and young children—sat forlornly in the shade. He had seen the distant fire in the night and felt the passing of souls into the Void. The priest’s pale blue robes were dust-stained, and his feet were sore and bleeding from walking on the sharp volcanic rock that blighted this area of the mountains.

  Silently Enshima offered up a prayer of thanks for the ragged band of Curved Horns who had reached the spring two days before. They had been part of a larger group attacked by Gothir lancers but had managed to flee to higher ground where the heavily armed horsemen could not follow. Now they were safe for the moment. Hungry, bereaved, desolated but safe. Enshima thanked the Source for their lives.

  Releasing the chains of his spirit, Enshima soared high above the mountains, gazing down on the vast emptiness of the steppes. Twelve miles to the northwest he could see the tiny battlements of the shrine, but he did not fly there. Instead he scanned the land for the two riders he knew would soon be approaching the spring.

  He saw them riding out of a gully some two miles from the rocks in which his body sat. The axman was leading two horses while the poet, Sieben, rode at the rear, carrying the babe wrapped in its red blanket. Floating closer to the lead rider, he looked closely at the man. Riding a swaybacked mare, he was dressed in a jerkin of black leather with shining silver shoulder guards and was carrying a huge
double-headed ax.

  The route they were taking would lead them past the hidden spring. Enshima floated closer to the poet. Reaching out with his spirit hand, he touched the rider’s shoulder.

  “Hey, Druss,” said Sieben. “You think there might be water in those rocks?”

  “We don’t need it,” said the axman. “According to Nuang, the shrine should be no more than around ten miles from here.”

  “That may be true, old horse, but the child’s blanket is beginning to stink. And I would appreciate the opportunity to wash some of my clothes before we make our grand entrance.”

  Druss chuckled. “Aye, poet, it would not be seemly for you to arrive looking any less than your glorious best.” Tugging the reins to the left, Druss angled toward the dark volcanic rocks.

  Sieben rode alongside him. “How will you find those healing jewels?” he asked.

  The axman pondered the question. “I expect they are in the coffin,” he said. “That would be usual, would it not?”

  “It is an old shrine. I would think it would have been pillaged by now.”

  Druss was silent for a moment, then he shrugged. “Well, the old shaman said they were there. I’ll ask him about it when I see him.”

  Sieben gave a wry grin. “I wish I had your faith in human nature, Druss, my friend.”

  The mare’s head came up, nostrils quivering, and she quickened her pace. “There is water, right enough,” said Sieben. “The horses can smell it.”

  They climbed the narrow, twisting trail, and as they reached the crest, two ancient Nadir warriors stepped out ahead of them. Both were carrying swords. A small priest in robes of faded blue appeared, and he spoke to the old men, who grudgingly backed away. Druss rode on, dismounting by the spring and casting a wary eye over the group of Nadir sitting close by.

  The priest approached him. “You are welcome at our camp, axman,” he said. The man’s eyes were blind, their pupils of smoky opal. Laying Snaga against a rock, Druss took the baby from Sieben and waited as the poet swung down.

  “This child needs milk,” said Druss. The priest called out a name, and a young woman came forward, moving hesitantly. Taking the child from Druss, she walked back to the group.

  “They are survivors from a Gothir raid,” said the priest. “I am Enshima, a priest of the Source.”

  “Druss,” said the axman. “And this is Sieben. We are traveling—”

  “To the Shrine of Oshikai,” said Enshima. “I know. Come, sit with me for a while.” He walked away to a cluster of rocks by the spring. Druss followed him, while Sieben watered the horses and refilled their canteens.

  “A great battle will be fought at the shrine,” said Enshima. “You know this.”

  Druss sat down beside him. “I know. It does not interest me.”

  “Ah, but it does, for your own quest is linked to it. You will not find the jewels before the battle begins, Druss.”

  The axman knelt by the spring and drank. The water was cool and refreshing, but it left a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. Looking up at the blind man, he said, “You are a seer?”

  “For what it is worth,” agreed Enshima.

  “Then can you tell me what this damned war is about? I see no sense in it.”

  Enshima gave a rueful smile. “That question presupposes that there is sense to any war.”

  “I am not a philosopher, priest, so spare me your ruminations.”

  “No, Druss, you are not a philosopher,” said Enshima amiably, “but you are an idealist. What is this war about? As with all wars, it is about greed and fear: greed in that the Gothir are rich and desire to stay that way and fear in that they see the Nadir as a future threat to their wealth and position. When has a war been fought over anything else?”

  “These jewels exist, then,” said Druss, changing the subject.

  “Oh, they exist. The Eyes of Alchazzar were crafted several hundred years ago. They are like amethysts, each as big as an egg and each imbued with the awesome power of this savage land.”

  “Why will I not find them before the battle?” asked Druss as Sieben came up and sat alongside him.

  “Such is not your destiny.”

  “I have a friend in need of them,” said Druss. “I would appreciate your help in this matter.”

  Enshima smiled. “It gives me no pleasure to withhold help from you, axman. But what you would ask of me I shall not give you. Tomorrow I will lead these people deep into the mountains in the hope—vain though it may be—that I can keep them alive. You will journey to the shrine, and there you will fight. For that is what you do best.”

  “You have any bright words of comfort for me, old man?” asked Sieben.

  The old man smiled and, reaching out, patted Sieben’s arm. “I was set a problem, and you helped solve it, for which I give you my thanks. What you did back in the death chamber was a pure and good act for which I hope the Source blesses you. Show me the lon-tsia.” Sieben fished into his pocket and produced the heavy silver medallion. The old man held it up before his face and closed his wood-smoke eyes. “The male head is that of Oshikai Demon-bane, the female that of his wife, Shul-sen. The script is Chiatze. A literal translation would be ‘Oshka–Shul-sen—together.’ But it really means ‘spirit-entwined.’ Their love was very great.”

  “Why would anyone want to torture her so?” asked Sieben.

  “I cannot answer that, young man. The ways of evil men are lost to me; I have no understanding of such barbarity. Great magic was used to cage Shul-sen’s spirit.”

  “Did I free her?”

  “I do not know. A Nadir warrior told me that the spirit of Oshikai has been searching for her through the endless dark valleys of the Void. Perhaps now he has found her. I hope so. But as I said, the spells were very great.”

  Enshima returned the lon-tsia to Sieben. “This, too, has had a spell cast on it,” he said.

  “Not a curse, I hope,” said the poet, holding the medallion gingerly.

  “No, not a curse. I think it was a hide-spell. It would have masked it from the eyes of men. It is quite safe to carry, Sieben.”

  “Good. Tell me—you said the man was Oshikai, yet the name upon it is Oshka. Is that a short form?”

  “There is no ‘i’ in the Chiatze alphabet. It is written as a small curved stroke above the preceding letter.”

  Sieben pocketed the medallion, and Enshima rose. “May the Source guard you both,” he said.

  Druss started toward his mare. “We leave you the two ponies,” he said.

  “That is most kind.”

  Sieben paused beside the old man. “How many defenders at the shrine?”

  “I expect there will be fewer than two hundred when the Gothir arrive.”

  “And the jewels are there?”

  “Indeed they are.”

  Sieben swore, then smiled sheepishly. “I was rather hoping they weren’t. I am not at my best in battles.”

  “No civilized man is,” said the priest.

  “So why are the jewels hidden there?” asked Sieben.

  Enshima shrugged. “They were crafted several hundred years ago and set in the head of a stone wolf. A shaman stole them. Obviously he wanted the power for himself. He was hunted and hid the jewels, then he tried to escape over the mountains. But he was caught, tortured, and killed near where you found the bones of Shul-sen. He did not reveal the hiding place of the eyes.”

  “The story makes no sense,” said Sieben. “If the jewels were imbued with great power, why did he leave them behind? Surely he could have used their power against his pursuers?”

  “Do the deeds of men always, as you say, make sense?” countered the priest.

  “After a fashion,” argued Sieben. “What kind of power did the eyes possess?”

  “That is difficult to say. Much would depend on the skill of the man using them. They could heal all wounds and breach any spell. They were said to have powers of regeneration and replication.”

  “Could their power have hidden
him from his pursuers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why did he not use it?”

  “I am afraid, young man, that that will remain a mystery.”

  “I hate mysteries,” said Sieben. “You said ‘regeneration.’ They could raise the dead?”

  “I mean regeneration of tissue, as in deep wounds or diseases. It was said that an old warrior became young again after being healed by them. But I think that is a fanciful tale.”

  Druss pushed himself to his feet. “Time to move on, poet,” he said.

  A young Nadir woman approached them, carrying the baby. Silently she offered it to Sieben. The poet stepped back. “No, no, my dear,” he said. “Fond as we are of the little tyke, I think he is better off here, with his own people.”

  Talisman walked along the narrow wooden ramparts of the north wall, testing the strength of the structure and examining the ancient beams that held them in place. They seemed solid. The parapets were crenellated, allowing archers to shoot through the gaps. But each Nadir warrior carried only about twenty arrows, and they would be exhausted by the end of the first charge. The enemy would be loosing shafts, and they could be gathered. Even so, it would not be a battle won by archery. Gazing around, he saw Kzun directing building operations below the broken wall. A solid fighting platform had been constructed there. The Lone Wolves leader was still sporting the white scarf Zhusai had given him. Kzun saw him watching but did not wave. Quing-chin was working with a team on the gates, smearing animal fat on the hinges, trying to free them. How long since they have been closed? Talisman wondered. Ten years? A hundred?