“Then we must, for I would like to hear that song myself.”
Lin-tse rose, and the two men gripped hands. Then Lin-tse bowed to Zhusai and left the room. Talisman slumped back into his seat.
“You are more tired than he,” Zhusai admonished him. “It is you who need to rest.”
Talisman gave a weary smile. “I am young and full of strength.”
Zhusai crossed the room and knelt beside him, her arms resting on his thighs. “I will not go with Nosta Khan,” she said. “I have thought long on this. I know it is the custom for a Nadir father to choose the husband for his daughter, but my father was not Nadir, and my grandfather had no right to pledge me. I tell you this, Talisman: if you make me leave, then I shall wait for news of you. If you die—”
“Do not say it! I forbid it!”
“You can forbid me nothing,” she told him quietly. “You are not my husband; you are my guardian. No more. Very well, I shall not say it. But you know what I will do.”
Angrily he grabbed her shoulders, lifting her. “Why are you torturing me in this way?” he shouted. “Can you not see that your safety would give me strength, give me hope?”
Relaxing in his arms, she sat down on his lap. “Hope? What hope for Zhusai with you dead, my love? What would the future hold? Marriage to an unnamed man with violet eyes? No, not for me. It will be you or no one.”
Leaning forward, she kissed him, and he felt the soft warmth of her tongue on his lips. His mind screamed at him to pull away from her, but arousal swept over him and he drew her close, returning the kiss with an ardor he had not known he possessed. His hand slid over her shoulder, feeling the softness of her white silk shirt and the flesh beneath. His palm followed the contours of her body, moving down over her left breast, the hardness of the nipple causing him to slow and stroke it between thumb and forefinger.
He did not hear the door open but felt the warm flow of air from outside. Drawing back, he swung his head to see Nuang Xuan. “This a bad time, hey?” said the old warrior with a wink.
“No,” answered Talisman, his voice thick. “Come in.” Zhusai rose, then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. He watched her walk from the room, following the sway of her slender hips.
Nuang Xuan sat down awkwardly on the wooden chair. “Better to sit Nadir fashion on the floor,” he said, “but I don’t want to be looking up at you.”
“What do you require of me, old one?”
“You wish me to guard the gate, but I desire to stand alongside Druss on the wall.”
“Why?”
Nuang sighed. “I think I will die here, Talisman. I do not object to this, for I have lived a long time. And I have killed many men. You doubt me?”
“Why would I doubt you?”
“Because it’s not true,” Nuang said with a wicked grin. “I have killed five men in my life: three in duels when I was young and two lancers when they attacked us. I told the axman I would kill a hundred on the walls. He said he would keep count for me.”
“Only a hundred?” queried Talisman.
Nuang smiled. “I have not been feeling well.”
“Tell me the real reason you wish to stand beside him,” said Talisman.
Nuang’s old eyes narrowed, and he took a deep breath. “I have seen him fight, and he is deadly. Many gajin will die around him. If I am there, men will see me fight. I cannot reach a hundred, but it will seem like it to those watching. Then, when they sing the songs of this defense, my name will live on. You understand?”
“Nuang and the Deathwalker,” said Talisman softly. “Yes, I understand.”
“Why do you call him that?”
“He and I walked the Void. It is a good name for him.”
“It is very fine. Nuang and the Deathwalker. I like this. Can it be so?”
“It can. I shall also watch you, old man, and keep count.”
“Ha! I am happy now, Talisman.” Nuang stood and rubbed his buttocks. “I don’t like these chairs.”
“The next time we talk, we will sit on the floor,” promised Talisman.
Nuang shook his head. “Not much talking left. The gajin will be here tomorrow. Is your woman staying here?”
“Yes.”
“As it should be,” said Nuang. “She is very beautiful, and sex with her will aid you in the times ahead. Bear in mind, however, that her hips are very small. The first birth for such women is always hard.”
“I will bear that in mind, old one.”
Nuang strode to the door. He stopped there for a moment, then looked back at Talisman. “You are very young. But if you live, you will be a great man. I know these things.”
Then he was gone.
Talisman moved to a second door at the back of the room and emerged into the hospital. Sieben was spreading blankets on the floor, and a young Nadir woman was sweeping the dust from the room.
“All ready here, General,” said Sieben brightly. “Plenty of thread and sharp needles. And bandages and the most disgusting-smelling herbs I’ve ever come across. I would think the threat of them alone will have wounded men rushing back to the walls.”
“Dried tree fungus,” said Talisman. “It prevents infection. Do you have any alcohol?”
“I do not have the skill to operate. There will be no need to get men drunk.”
“Use it for cleaning wounds and implements. This also helps prevent infection.”
“Maybe you should be the surgeon,” said Sieben. “You seem to know a lot more than I do.”
“We had lessons on military surgery at Bodacas. There were many books.”
As Talisman walked away, the Nadir woman approached him. Not conventionally pretty, she was devastatingly attractive. She moved in close. “You are young for a general,” she said, her breasts touching his chest. “Is it true what they say about you and the Chiatze woman?”
“What do they say?”
“They say that she is pledged to the Uniter and that you cannot have her.”
“Do they? And if it is true, how does that concern you?”
“I am not pledged to the Uniter. And no general should have to worry about both heads, above and below. It is said there is not enough blood in any man to fill both heads at the same time. Perhaps you should empty one so that the other may function.”
Talisman laughed aloud. “You are one of Nuang’s women … Niobe?”
“Yes. Niobe,” she said, pleased that he remembered her name.
“Well, Niobe, I thank you for your offer. It is a great compliment, and it has lifted my spirits.”
“Is that a no or a yes?” she asked, bemused.
Talisman smiled, then swung away and walked out into the sunlight. As Niobe turned back to Sieben, the poet chuckled.
“By heavens, but you are a brazen hussy. What happened to the warrior you had your pretty eye on?”
“He has two wives and one pony,” she said. “And bad teeth.”
“Well, don’t despair. There are almost two hundred others to choose from.”
She looked at him, then cocked her head. “There is no one here. Come, lie with me.”
“There are men, my darling, who would feel hurt and humiliated to be second choice to a man with one pony and bad teeth. I, on the other hand, have no qualms about accepting such a graceless offer. But then, the men of my family have always had a weakness for attractive women.”
“Do all the men in your family talk so much?” she asked, untying the cord belt and letting fall her skirt.
“Talking is the second best talent we have.”
“What is the first?” she asked him.
“Sarcasm as well as beauty, sweet one? Ah, but you are an enchanting creature.” Stripping off his clothes, Sieben spread a blanket on the floor and drew her down upon it.
“You will have to be quick,” she said.
“Speed in matters of the loins is a talent that seems to have escaped me. Thankfully,” he added.
* * *
Kzun felt a roaring sense of exultation as he watc
hed the two wagons burning. Leaping over the boulders, he ran down to where a Gothir wagon driver, shot through the neck, was trying to crawl away. Plunging his dagger between the man’s shoulders, Kzun twisted it savagely; the man cried out, then began to choke on his own blood. When Kzun rose up and let out a bloodcurdling cry, the Curved Horn warriors rose from their hiding places and ran down to join him. The wind shifted, acrid smoke burning Kzun’s eyes. Swiftly he loped around the blazing wagons and surveyed the scene. There had been seven wagons in all and a troop of fifteen lancers. Twelve of the lancers were dead: eight peppered with arrows, four slain in fierce hand-to-hand fighting. Kzun himself had killed two of them. Then the Gothir had turned the remaining wagons and fled. Kzun had longed to ride after them, but his orders were to remain at the pool, denying it to the enemy.
The Curved Horn men had fought well. Only one had a serious wound. “Gather their weapons and armor!” shouted Kzun, “then move back into the rocks.”
A young man sporting a lancer’s white-plumed helm approached him. “Now we go, hey?” he said.
“Go where?” countered Kzun.
“Where?” responded the man, mystified. “Away before they come back.”
Kzun walked away from him, back up the boulder-strewn slope to the pool. Kneeling there, he washed the blood from his naked upper body. Then, removing the white scarf from his head, he dipped it into the water before retying it over his bald dome. The warriors gathered behind him.
Kzun stood and turned to face them. Scanning their faces, he saw the fear there. They had killed Gothir soldiers. Now more would come—many more. “You want to run?” he asked them.
A slender warrior with graying hair stepped forward. “We cannot fight an army, Kzun. We burned their wagons, hey? They will come back. Maybe a hundred. Maybe two. We cannot fight them.”
“Then run,” said Kzun contemptuously. “I would expect no more from Curved Horn cowards. But I am of the Lone Wolves, and we do not run. I was told to hold this pool, to defend it with my life. This I shall do. While I live, not one gajin will taste of the water.”
“We are not cowards!” shouted the man, reddening. An angry murmur rose up among the warriors around him. “But what is the point of dying here?”
“What is the point of dying anywhere?” countered Kzun. “Two hundred men wait at the Shrine of Oshikai, ready to defend his bones. Your own brothers are among them. You think they will run?”
“What would you have us do?” asked another warrior.
“I don’t care what you do!” stormed Kzun. “All I know is that I will stand and fight.”
The gray-haired warrior called his comrades to him, and they walked away to the far side of the pool, squatting in a rough circle to discuss their options. Kzun ignored them. A low groan came from his left, and he saw the wounded Curved Horn warrior sitting with his back against the red rock, his blood-covered hands clenched over a deep belly wound. Kzun lifted a lancer helmet and dipped it into the pool, then carried it to the dying man. Squatting down, he held the helmet to the warrior’s lips. He drank two swallows, then coughed and cried out in pain. Kzun sat down beside him. “You fought well,” he said. The young man had hurled himself upon a lancer, dragging the soldier from his horse. In the fight that had followed the lancer had drawn a dagger and rammed it in the Nadir’s belly. Kzun had rushed to his aid and slain the lancer.
The sun rose above the red cliffs, shining down on the young man’s face, and Kzun saw then that he was no more than fifteen years old.
“I dropped my sword,” said the warrior. “Now I am going to die.”
“You died defending your land. The gods of stone and water will welcome you.”
“We are not cowards,” said the dying boy. “But we … spend so much of our lives … running from the gajin.”
“I know.”
“I am frightened of the Void. If … I wait … will you walk with me into the dark?”
Kzun shivered. “I have been in the dark, boy. I know what fear is. Yes, you wait for me. I shall walk with you.” The youngster gave a tired smile, then his head fell back. Kzun closed the boy’s eyes and stood. Spinning on his heel, he walked across to the far side, where the warriors were still arguing. They looked up as he approached. Pushing through the circle, he stood at its center. “There is a time to fight,” he said, “and a time to run. Think back over your lives. Have you not run enough? And where will you go? How far must you run to avoid the lancers? The fighters at the shrine will become immortal. How far must you run to escape the haunting words of their song?
“The enemy can fight only so long as they have water. This is the only deep pool. Every day we deny them water gives our brothers a further chance of victory, and in this we become part of the great song. I am a man with no friends, no sword brothers. My youth was stolen from me in the Gothir mines, working in the dark, my body covered in sores. I have no wife, no sons. Kzun can make no gifts to the future. When I am dead, who will mourn for me? No one. The blood of Kzun runs in no living creature. The Gothir put my spirit in chains, and when I slew the guards and freed my body, my spirit remained, trapped in the dark. I think it is there still, living in the black filth, hiding in the dark tunnels. I could not—cannot—ever feel the sense of belonging that is at the heart of all we are. All that is left to me is a desire to see the Nadir—my people—walk straight and free. I should not have called you cowards, for you are all brave men. But your spirits, too, have been chained by the gajin. We are born to fear them, to run from them, to bow our heads. They are the masters of the world. We are vermin on the steppes. Well, Kzun believes this no longer. Kzun is a lost and bitter man,” he said, his voice breaking. “Kzun has nothing to lose. Your comrade back there is dead. He asked me if I would walk into the dark with him; he said his spirit would wait for me. I knew then that I would die here. I am ready for that. Perhaps I will be reunited with my spirit. But I will meet him on the dark road. And we will walk together into the Void. Any man among you who is not ready to do the same should leave now. I will not send him on his way with curses. Here is where Kzun stands. Here is where he will fall. That is all I have to say.”
Kzun walked back through the circle and up into the rocks overlooking the steppes. The wagons were no longer burning, but smoke was still rising from the charred wood. Vultures had begun to tear at the corpses. Kzun squatted down in the shadows; his hands were trembling, and fear rose in him, bringing bile to his throat.
An eternity in the dark beckoned, and Kzun could imagine no greater terror. He glanced up at the clear blue sky. What he had told them was true: when he died, not one living creature on the surface of the steppes would mourn for him. He had nothing but a scarred, hairless body and rotting teeth to show for his life. In the mines there were no luxuries like friendship. Each man struggled alone. When he was free, the legacy of the years in the dark haunted him still. He could no longer abide sleeping in tents with others but needed the clean open air and the wondrous taste of solitude. There had been one woman he had yearned for, but he had never spoken of it. By then Kzun was a warrior with many ponies and could have bid for her. He had not and had watched in sick despair as she wed another.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. The warrior with the graying hair squatted down beside him. “You say you have no sword brothers. Now you have. We will stand with you, Kzun of the Lone Wolves. And we will walk the dark road with you!”
For the first time since he had been dragged to the mines Kzun felt the rush of hot tears to his cheeks. He bowed his head and wept unashamedly.
Gargan, Lord of Larness, reined in his massive gray stallion and leaned forward on the high pommel of his saddle. Ahead lay the buildings housing the Shrine of Oshikai Demon-bane. Behind him his troops waited: the 800 infantrymen standing in patient lines of four, and the 200 archers flanking the foot soldiers, with the Royal Lancers, in four columns of 250, fanned out on both sides. Gargan stared hard at the white walls, noting the V-shaped crack in the first. Shadin
g his eyes, the warrior scanned the defenders, seeking the vile face of Okai. But at that distance they were all a blur.
Gargan’s hands opened and closed, gripping the pommel so tightly that his knuckles shone white against the tan of his skin. “I will take you, Okai,” he whispered. “I will put you through ten thousand torments before you die.”
Raising his arm, Gargan called out for the herald. The young man rode alongside him. “You know what to say. Do it! And try to stay out of bowshot. These savages have no understanding of honor.”
The soldier saluted and then rode his black gelding at a run toward the walls, drawing up in a cloud of red dust. The gelding reared, and the herald’s voice rang out. “Know this, that Lord Gargan, with the full authority of the God-King, has come to visit the Shrine of Oshikai Demon-bane. The gate will be opened within the hour, and the traitor Okai, known now as Talisman, will be brought before Lord Gargan. If this is done, no harm will be offered to those within the shrine.” He paused, allowing his words to sink in, then called out again. “If this is not done, Lord Gargan will have to consider all men inside the compound traitors. The army will surround them and take them captive. Every man will have his hands cut off, his eyes put out, before being hanged. You will all walk the Void blind and maimed. These are the words of Lord Gargan. You have one hour.”
Swinging his horse, the young lancer rode back to the column.
Premian rode alongside Gargan. “They’ll not surrender, sir,” he said.
“I know,” replied Gargan.
Premian looked up into the general’s hard face, seeing the glint of triumph there. “We have only thirty ladders left, sir. An assault on the walls will be costly.”
“That’s what soldiers are paid for. Prepare the camp and send out fifty lancers to patrol the surrounding country. We’ll launch the first attack at dusk. Concentrate on the broken wall and then torch the gates.”
Gargan turned his horse and rode back through the men, while Premian ordered the troops to stand down and prepare camp. Gargan’s tent had been destroyed in the fire, but a new one had been constructed from canvas sacking and cloth that had survived the blaze. The general sat his stallion as soldiers erected the tent; then he dismounted and strode inside. His chairs had been destroyed, but the pallet bed had survived. Gargan sat down, glad to be out of the blazing sun. Removing his plumed helm and unbuckling his breastplate, he stretched out on the bed.
The Legend of the Deathwalker Page 31