The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  “How comforting! I could do with honey. That is good for wounds, especially when mixed with wine; it prevents infection.”

  “No bees, po-et. No bees, no honey. But we have some dried lorassium leaves. Good for pain and for dreams. And some hakka roots to ward off the blue-skin demons.”

  “Blue-skin demons? What are they?”

  “Truly you know little of wounds. They are the invisible devils who creep in through the open flesh and turn it blue so it stinks and men die.”

  “Gangrene. I see. And what does one do with these hakka roots?”

  “We make poultice and lay it over the wound. It smells very bad. The demons avoid it.”

  “And what cures do you have, my lady, for trembling hands?” he asked her.

  She laughed and slid her hand over his belly and down. “I have big cure,” she said. Curling her left arm around his neck, she drew down his head and kissed him. He felt the warmth and sweetness of her tongue on his. Arousal swept through him.

  She pulled away. “Now look at your hands,” she said. They were no longer trembling. “Big cure, yes?”

  “I can offer no argument there,” he said. “Where can we go?”

  “Nowhere. I have much to do. Shi-sai will be in labor soon, and I have promised to help when the waters break. But if you have trembling hands in the night, you may come to me by the north wall.”

  Kissing him once more, she spun away from his embrace and walked from the room. Sieben took a last look at the hospital, then blew out the lantern and made his way to the compound. Some work was still being done in the moonlight, repairing the ramparts beside the crack in the west-facing wall. Elsewhere Nadir warriors were sitting around campfires. Druss was talking to Talisman and Bartsai on the ramparts above the gates.

  Sieben thought of joining them but realized he did not want to listen to more talk of battles and death. His mind flickered to Niobe. She was unlike any woman he had ever known. When first he had seen her, he had thought her mildly attractive, certainly no more than that. Up close, her laughing eyes had made him reappraise her. Even so, she would pale against the beauties who had shared his bed. Yet each time he made love to her, it seemed her beauty grew. It was uncanny. All his previous lovers were drab by comparison. As he was thinking, two Nadir warriors approached him. One of them spoke to him in Nadir.

  “Sorry, lads,” he said with a nervous smile. “I don’t understand the language.” The taller of the two, a ferocious-looking man with narrow, malevolent eyes, pointed to his companion and said, “This one have big pain.”

  “Big pain,” echoed Sieben.

  “You doctor. Fix it.”

  Sieben glanced down at the second warrior. The man’s face was gray, his eyes sunken, and his jaws clenched. “We go in,” muttered the first man, leading his friend into the new hospital. With a sinking heart Sieben followed them and, relighting the lantern, led them to the table. The small warrior tried to tug off his faded crimson shirt but groaned as he did so. The taller man dragged the garment clear, and in the flickering light Sieben saw a growth on the man’s spine the size of a small apple. The area all around it was red, swollen, and angry. “You cut,” said the taller man.

  Sieben indicated that the warrior should lie down on the table; then he reached out and with great care touched the swelling. The man stiffened but made no sound. The lump was rock-hard. “Fetch the lantern,” Sieben ordered the taller man. The warrior did so, and Sieben peered more closely at the growth. Then, taking the sharpest of the knives, he drew in a deep breath. He had no idea what the growth was. It looked like a giant boil, but for all he knew it might be a cancer. What was certain was that he had no choice of action, burdened as he was by the expectations of both men. Touching the point of the knife to the lump, he pressed down hard. Thick yellow pus exploded from the cut, and the skin peeled away as if from a section of rotten fruit. The warrior cried out, the sound strangled and inhuman. Laying aside the knife, Sieben gripped the lump and squeezed it. More pus—this time mixed with blood—oozed from the cut, covering his fingers. The wounded man sighed and relaxed on the table. Sieben moved to a water barrel and filled a wooden bowl, cleaning his hands and wrists. Then he returned to the warrior. Fresh blood was oozing from the three-inch cut and flowing down to the wood of the table. With a wet cloth Sieben cleaned the wound, then ordered the man to sit up while he applied a wedge of cloth to it, strapping it in place with a bandage around the man’s waist. The patient spoke in Nadir to his companion; then, without another word, both men walked from the building.

  Sieben sat down. “Not at all, it was my pleasure,” he said not loudly enough to be heard by the departing warriors.

  Once more extinguishing the lantern, he left the building by a side door and found himself standing close to the main entrance to the shrine. With Niobe otherwise occupied and with nothing else to do, Sieben pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  Something about the place had been nagging at him from his subconscious, but he could not bring it to the surface. His eyes were drawn to the blackened iron plate on the stone coffin. The symbols on it were Chiatze, part alphabet, part hieroglyph, and Talisman had told him what they said:

  Oshikai Demon-bane—Lord of War

  Kneeling before it, Sieben scanned the symbols. They were deeply engraved into the iron, and they told him nothing. Irritated that he could not solve the problem, he left the shrine and climbed to the ramparts of the north wall, where he sat on the parapet in the moonlight, gazing out over the distant mountains. His thoughts turned once more to Niobe and her beauty, and he listened awhile in vain for the birth sounds of the newborn. Be patient, he told himself. Fishing the lon-tsia from his pocket, he looked at the profile of the woman embossed there. She, too, was beautiful. Turning the coin over, he looked down at the image of Oshikai. “You’re causing a lot of trouble for someone who’s been dead for ten centuries,” he said.

  Then it hit him …

  Rising, he climbed down the steps and returned to the shrine, squatting down before the iron plate. Checking Oshikai’s name against the embossing of the lon-tsia, he saw that the name on the plate boasted two extra and identical symbols. Peering more closely, he saw that the engraving of each was deeper than that of the other symbols.

  “What have you found?” asked Talisman from the doorway. The slender Nadir leader moved forward and knelt beside the poet.

  “Is this the original plate?” Sieben asked. “Was it made by Oshikai’s followers?”

  “I would imagine so,” said Talisman. “Why?”

  “What are these symbols?”

  “The Nadir letter ‘i.’ ”

  “But the Chiatze had no such letter,” said Sieben. “Therefore, the nameplate is not original or has been altered.”

  “I don’t understand your point,” said Talisman.

  Sieben sat back. “I don’t like mysteries,” he said. “If this is original, there would be no ‘i’s.’ If it is not, why is it in the Chiatze tongue? Why not fully Nadir?”

  Moving forward on his knees, Sieben laid his hands on the plate, pressing a finger into each of the engraved symbols. Something gave way under his pressure; there was a dull clunk from within, and the nameplate fell clear. Behind it was a shallow niche cut into the coffin, and within that lay a small pouch of hide. Talisman pushed Sieben aside and grabbed the pouch. As he pulled it open, the hide split and the contents fell to the dusty floor. There were two knucklebones stained with black symbols, a small coil of braided hair, and a piece of folded parchment.

  Talisman looked disappointed. “I thought you had found the Eyes of Alchazzar,” he said.

  Sieben lifted the parchment and tried to open it, but it broke into pieces under his fingers. “What are these objects?” he asked.

  “A shaman’s medicine bag. The knucklebones are used in spells of prophecy; the hair is that of the shaman’s greatest enemy. The parchment? I do not know.”

  “Why would it be placed here?”

 
“I don’t know,” snapped Talisman. Reaching down, Sieben picked up the knucklebones.

  The world spun. He cried out but was dragged down into the dark …

  Shocked by his sudden collapse, Talisman knelt over the still figure of the blond Drenai and placed his index finger on the pulse point of the neck. The heart was beating, but incredibly slowly. Roughly he shook Sieben’s shoulders, but there was no response. Rising, he ran from the shrine. Gorkai was sitting on the ground, sharpening his sword with a whetstone. “Fetch Nosta Khan and the Drenai axman,” commanded Talisman, then returned to where Sieben lay.

  Druss arrived first. “What happened?” he asked, kneeling beside his friend.

  “We were talking, and he collapsed. Is he subject to fits?”

  “No.” Druss swore softly. “His heart is barely beating.” Talisman glanced at the axman and noted the fear on his broad, bearded face. Nosta Khan arrived, and Talisman saw his gimlet eyes fasten to the sagging nameplate on the coffin.

  “The eyes?” he asked.

  “No,” said Talisman, and told him what they had found.

  “You fool!” hissed Nosta Khan. “I should have been summoned.”

  “It was just a medicine pouch. There were no jewels,” Talisman responded, feeling his anger rise.

  “It is the medicine pouch of a shaman,” snapped Nosta Khan. “A spell has been placed on it.”

  “I touched it also, and nothing has happened to me,” argued Talisman.

  The little shaman knelt beside Sieben, prying open the fingers of his right hand. The knucklebones lay there, but now they were white and pure, the black symbols having been transferred to the skin of Sieben’s palm. “But the bag split,” said Nosta Khan, “and it was not you who lifted the seeing bones.”

  The axman rose, towering over Nosta Khan. “I do not care who is at fault,” he said, his voice dangerously even, his pale eyes glittering. “What I want is for you to bring him back. Now!”

  Sensing danger, Nosta Khan felt a moment of panic as he looked into the axman’s cold eyes. Placing his hand over his heart, he whispered two words of power. Druss stiffened and groaned. The spell was an old one and shackled the victim in chains of fiery pain. Any attempt on Druss’ part to move would bring colossal agony and a subsequent loss of consciousness. Now, thought Nosta Khan triumphantly, let this Drenai gajin feel the power of the Nadir! The shaman was about to speak when Druss gave a low, guttural growl. His eyes blazed, and his hand snaked out, huge fingers grabbing Nosta Khan by the throat and lifting him into the air. The little man kicked out helplessly. As if through a sea of pain, Druss spoke: “Lift the … spell, little man … or … I’ll snap … your neck!” Talisman drew his knife and jumped to the shaman’s defense. “One more move and he dies,” warned the axman. Nosta Khan gave a strangled gasp and managed to speak three words in a tongue neither Druss nor Talisman recognized. Druss’ pain vanished. Dropping the shaman, he stabbed a finger into the little man’s chest. “You ever do anything like that again, you ugly dwarf, and I’ll kill you!”

  Talisman could see the shock and terror on Nosta Khan’s face. “We are all friends here,” he said softly, sheathing his knife and stepping between Nosta Khan and the menacing figure of Druss. “Let us think of what is to be done.”

  Nosta Khan rubbed his bruised throat. He was astonished and could barely gather his thoughts. The spell had worked; he knew this. It was not possible that a mortal man could overcome such agony. Aware that both men were waiting for him to speak, he forced himself to concentrate and lifted the white knucklebones, holding them tightly in his fist. “His soul has been drawn out,” he said, his voice croaking. “The medicine pouch belonged to Shaoshad the renegade. He was the shaman who stole the eyes, may his soul be forever accursed and burn in ten thousand fires!”

  “Why would he hide it here?” asked Talisman. “What purpose did it serve?”

  “I do not know. But let us see if we can reverse his spell.” Taking Sieben’s limp hand in his own, he began to chant.

  Sieben fell for an eternity, spinning and turning, then awoke with a start. He was lying beside a fire set at the center of a circle of standing stones. An old man was sitting by the small blaze. Naked but with a bulging bag hanging from one thin shoulder, he had two long wispy beards growing from both sides of his chin and reaching his scrawny chest; his hair was shaved on the left side of his head and gathered into a tight braid on the right.

  “Welcome,” said the old man. Sieben sat up and was about to speak when he noticed with horror that the speaker had been mutilated. His hands had been cut off, and blood was seeping from the stumps.

  “Sweet heavens, you must be in great pain,” he said.

  “Always,” agreed the man with a smile. “But when something never passes, remaining constant, it becomes bearable.” Shrugging his shoulders, he let the bag fall, then reached into it with his mangled, bleeding arms. From the bag he produced a hand, which he held carefully between the stumps. Gripping it with his knees, he held his mutilated right arm to the severed wrist. The limb jerked, and the hand attached itself to the wrist. The fingers flexed. “Ah, that is good,” said the man, reaching into the bag and producing a left hand, which he held in place over his left wrist. This, too, joined, and he clapped the hands together. Then he removed his eyes and dropped them into the bag.

  “Why are you doing this to yourself?” asked Sieben.

  “It is a compulsion engendered by sorcery,” said the stranger amiably. “They were not content merely to kill me. Oh, no! Now I can have my hands or my eyes but never both at the same time. If I try—and I have—then the pain becomes unbearable. I have great admiration for the way the spell was cast. I did not think it would last this long. I managed to counter the curse on my ears and tongue. I see you found my medicine pouch.”

  The fire flickered down, but the old man gestured with his hands, and the flames sprang to new life. Sieben found himself staring at the man’s empty eye sockets. “Have you tried using just one hand and one eye?” he asked.

  “Is there something about me that suggests I am an idiot? Of course I have. It works … but the pain is too awesome to describe.”

  “I have to tell you that this is the worst dream I’ve ever had,” said Sieben.

  “No dream. You are here.” Sieben was about to question him when a low, inhuman growl came from beyond the stones. The old man’s hand came up, and blue forked lightning flashed from it, exploding between the stones with a loud crack. Then there was silence. “I need my hands, you see, to survive here. But I cannot go anywhere without my eyes. It is a sweetly vile punishment. I wish I had thought of it myself.”

  “What was that … thing?” asked Sieben, craning around to peer between the stones. There was nothing to be seen. All was darkness, deep and final.

  “Difficult to know. But it did not mean us any good. I am Shaoshad.”

  “Sieben. Sieben the Poet.”

  “A poet? It is long since I savored the delicious sounds of exquisite wordplay. But I fear you will not be with me long, so perhaps another time … Tell me how you found my pouch.”

  “The use of the Nadir letter ‘i,’ ” Sieben told him.

  “Yes. It was a joke, you see. I knew no Nadir would see it. Not given to jokes, the Nadir. They were searching for the Eyes of Alchazzar. Eyes and ‘i’s.’ Good, isn’t it?”

  “Most amusing,” agreed Sieben. “I take it you are not Nadir?”

  “In part. Part Chiatze, part Sechuin, part Nadir. I want you to do something for me. I cannot offer you anything, of course.”

  “What do you require?”

  “My medicine pouch. I want you to take the hair and burn it. The knucklebones must be dropped into water. The parchment is to be shredded and scattered to the air, the pouch itself buried in the earth. Can you remember that?”

  “Hair burned, knuckles drowned, paper scattered, pouch buried,” said Sieben. “What will that do?”

  “I believe the release of my elemen
tal power will end this cursed spell and give me back my hands and my eyes. Speaking of which …” He lifted the eyes from the bag and slid them back in their sockets. Holding his arms over the bag, he released his hands, which fell from the wrists. Immediately blood began to flow. “You are a handsome fellow, and you have an honest face. I think I can trust you.”

  “You are the man who stole the Eyes of Alchazzar,” said Sieben.

  “Indeed I am. A rare mistake it was. Still, the man who never made a mistake never made anything, eh?”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I had a vision—false as it has so far turned out. I thought I could bring the Uniter to my people five centuries early. Arrogance was always my downfall. I thought to use the eyes to raise Oshikai from the dead, to regenerate his body and summon his soul. Well, I did summon his soul.”

  “What happened?”

  “You will scarcely credit it. I still have difficulty believing it myself.”

  “I think I know,” said Sieben. “He wouldn’t accept life without Shul-sen.”

  “Exactly. You are a bright fellow. Can you guess what happened next?”

  “You set off to find her body; that’s why you were caught so close to her resting place. What I don’t understand is why you did not use the power of the jewels.”

  “Ah, but I did. That is why I was caught and killed.”

  “Tell me,” whispered Sieben, fascinated …

  He groaned and opened his eyes. Nosta Khan was leaning over him, and Sieben swore. Druss grabbed his arm, hauling him to his feet. “By heavens, poet, you gave us a scare. How are you feeling?”

  “Miffed!” said Sieben. “A moment longer and he would have told me where he hid the jewels.”

  “You spoke to Shaoshad?” said Nosta Khan.

  “Yes. He told me why he took them.”

  “Describe him.”

  “A man with a curious beard who has detachable hands and eyes.”

  “Aha!” Nosta Khan shouted happily. “The spell holds, then. Does he suffer?”

  “Yes, but he is taking it rather well. Can you send me back to him?”