The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  A rider from the city had arrived the previous afternoon. There was great unrest in Gulgothir, according to the message from Garen-Tsen, but the secret police had arrested scores of nobles, and the situation was under control at the moment. The God-King was in hiding, guarded by Garen-Tsen’s minions. Gargan was urged to complete his mission with all speed and return as soon as possible.

  Well, he thought, we should take the shrine by dawn. With luck he could be back in Gulgothir in ten days.

  A servant entered the tent, bringing a goblet of water. When Gargan sipped it, the water was hot and brackish. “Send Premian and Marlham to me,” he told the man.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The officers arrived, saluted, then removed their helms, holding them under their arms. Marlham looked terribly tired, the iron-gray stubble on his cheeks adding ten years to him. Premian, though much younger, also looked weary, with dark rings under his pale blue eyes.

  “How is morale?” Gargan asked the older man.

  “Better now that we are here,” he said. “The Nadir are not known for their defensive abilities. Most of the men believe that once we have reached the ramparts, they will run.”

  “Probably true,” said Gargan. “I want lancers ringing the walls. They must not be allowed to escape, not one of them. You understand me?”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “I do not believe they will run,” put in Premian. “They will fight to the death. This shrine is their one great holy place.”

  “That is not the Nadir way,” sneered Gargan. “You don’t understand these vermin. Cowardice is built into them! You think they will care about Oshikai’s bones once the arrows fly and cold steel scores their flesh? They won’t.”

  Premian drew in a deep breath. “Okai will. He is no coward. He is a trained tactician, the best we ever saw at Bodacas.”

  Gargan surged to his feet. “Do not praise him!” he roared. “The man murdered my son.”

  “I grieved for your loss, General; Argo was a friend of mine. But that evil deed does not change Okai’s talents. He will have banded those men together, and he understands discipline and morale. They won’t run.”

  “Then let them stand and die,” shouted Gargan. “I never yet met any ten Nadir who could outfight a single Gothir swordsman. How many men do they have? Two hundred. By dusk we’ll have twice that many infantrymen storming the walls. Whether they stand or run is immaterial.”

  “They also have the man Druss,” said Premian.

  “What are you saying? Is Druss a demigod? Will he cast mountains down upon us?”

  “No, sir,” Premian said evenly, “but he is a legend among his own people. And we know, to our cost, that he can fight. He slew seven of our lancers when they attacked the renegade camp. He is a fearsome warrior, and the men are already talking about him. No one relishes going up against that ax.”

  Gargan looked hard at the young man. “What are you suggesting, Premian? That we go home?”

  “No, sir. We have our orders, and they must be carried out. All I am saying is that we should treat them with a little more respect. In an hour our infantry will assault the walls. If they believe—wrongly—that the defense will be no more than token, they will be in for a terrible surprise. We could lose a hundred men before dusk. They are already tired and thirsty; it would mean a bitter blow to morale.”

  “I disagree, sir,” said Marlham. “If we tell them that the assault will be murderous, we risk instilling a fear of defeat in them. Such fears can prove self-fulfilling prophecies.”

  “That’s not what I am saying,” insisted Premian. “Tell them that the defenders are ready to lay down their lives and that the battle will not be easy. Then impress upon them that they are Gothir soldiers and that no one can stand against them.”

  Gargan returned to the bed, where he sat in silence for several minutes. At last he looked up. “I still think they will run. However, it would be a foolhardy general who did not allow for a margin of error. Do it, Premian. Warn them and lift them.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “When the hour is up, release the prisoner. Send him toward their walls. When he is close enough for the defenders to see him, have three mounted archers cut him down.”

  Premian saluted and replaced his helm.

  “No words of condemnation, Premian?” asked Gargan.

  “No, sir. I have no taste for such things, but the sight of him will unnerve the defenders. Of that there is no doubt.”

  “Good. You are learning.”

  Sieben gazed out at the Gothir army and felt the cold touch of panic in his belly. “I think I’ll wait in the hospital, old horse,” he told Druss.

  The axman nodded. “Probably best,” he said grimly. “You’ll soon have plenty to do there.”

  On unsteady legs, Sieben walked from the ramparts. Nuang Xuan approached Druss. “I stand with you,” he said, his face pale, his eyes blinking rapidly.

  Around twenty Nadir were standing silently close by. “What tribe are you?” Druss asked the nearest, a young man with nervous eyes.

  “Lone Wolves,” he answered, licking his lips.

  “Well,” said Druss good-naturedly, his voice carrying to the other men on the western wall. “This old man with me has pledged to kill a hundred Gothir soldiers. I am to keep count. I don’t want any of you Lone Wolves to get in his way. Killing a hundred takes great concentration!”

  The young man swung to look at Nuang. Then he grinned. “I kill more than him,” he said.

  “That sounds like a wager in the offing,” said Druss. “What is your name?”

  “I am Chisk.”

  “Well, Chisk, I have a silver piece that says when dusk falls old Nuang will have outscored you.”

  The man looked downcast. “I have no silver with which to gamble.”

  “What have you got?” the axman asked.

  The Nadir warrior fished deep into the pocket of his filthy goatskin jacket, coming up with a small round charm inset with lapis lazuli. “This wards off evil spirits,” he said. “It is worth many pieces of silver.”

  “I expect it is,” agreed Druss. “You want to pledge it?”

  The man nodded. “I bet I kill more than you, too,” said the Nadir.

  Druss laughed and patted the man’s shoulder. “One bet per man is enough, lad. Any of you other Lone Wolves want to wager?”

  Warriors pushed forward, offering ornate belts, curved daggers, and buttons of carved horn. Druss accepted all offers.

  A burly warrior with deep-set eyes tapped him on the arm. “Who counts?” he asked. “No one can watch us all.”

  Druss smiled. “You are all heroes,” he said, “and men to trust. Count for yourselves. Tonight, when the enemy has skulked back to his camp, we’ll get together and see who has won. Now get back to your positions. The hour is almost up.”

  Nuang stepped in close. “I think you lose a lot of silver, axman,” he whispered.

  “It’s only money,” said Druss.

  Talisman joined Druss. “What is the commotion here?” he asked. Several of the warriors gathered around him, speaking in Nadir. Talisman nodded and gave a weary smile. “They think you are a great fool,” he told Druss.

  “It’s been said before,” the axman admitted.

  Three riders came from the enemy camp, one of them dragging a prisoner. As they came closer, they swerved their horses; the prisoner fell heavily and struggled to rise.

  “It is Quing-chin,” said Talisman, his voice flat and his expression unreadable.

  The prisoner’s hands had been cut off, the stumps dipped in black pitch. The rider leading him cut free the rope; Quing-chin stumbled on, turning in a half circle.

  “He has been blinded also,” whispered Nuang.

  Several of the Nadir on the walls cried out to the maimed man. His head came up, and he staggered toward the sound. The three riders let him approach, then notched arrows to their bows and galloped toward him. One arrow struck him low in t
he back, but he did not cry out. A second arrow plunged between his shoulder blades. Quing-chin fell then and began to crawl. A horseman drew rein alongside him, sending a third shaft deep into his back.

  An arrow flew from the ramparts, falling well short of the riders.

  “No one shoot!” bellowed Talisman.

  “A hard way to die,” whispered Nuang Xuan. “That is what the enemy promises for all of us.”

  “This was their moment,” said Druss, his voice cold and bitter. “Let them enjoy it. In a little while we will have our moment. They will not enjoy that!”

  A drum sounded in the enemy camp, and hundreds of infantrymen began to move toward the western wall, the sun bright on their silver breastplates and helms. Behind them came two hundred archers, arrows notched to the strings.

  Druss swung to Talisman, who had drawn his saber. “No place here for you, General,” he said softly.

  “I need to fight,” hissed Talisman.

  “Just what they’d want. You are the leader. You cannot die in the first attack; the blow to morale would be savage. Trust me. Leave the wall. I won’t let it fall.”

  Talisman stood for a moment, then rammed his saber back in its scabbard and turned on his heel.

  “Right, lads,” shouted Druss. “Keep your heads down, for they’ll pepper us with arrows at first. Spread yourselves and put away your swords. When the ladder men reach the walls, we’ll pelt the whoresons with rocks. Then use daggers; they’re better for the close work. Save the long blades for when they’ve reached the ramparts.”

  The fines of infantry slowed just out of bowshot range. Druss knelt and watched the archers run through their ranks. Hundreds of shafts slashed through the air. “Get down!” he yelled, and all along the wall the Nadir defenders ducked behind the crenellated battlements. Druss glanced back to the compound. Talisman and the reserve force of twenty men, led by Lin-tse, were out in the open as the shafts soared over the wall. One man was struck in the leg; the rest ran back to the cover of the lodging building. Out on the plain the infantrymen began to move, slowly at first and then, as they closed on the wall, raising their round shields before them and breaking into a charge. Nadir arrows slashed at them, and several men fell. The Gothir archers sent volley after volley over the heads of the infantry. Two Nadir bowmen were cut down.

  The ladder bearers reached the western wall. Druss knelt, wrapped his arms around a boulder as large as a bull’s head, and with a grunt heaved it to the battlements. A ladder thudded against the wall. Gripping the boulder between his hands, Druss hoisted it above his head and sent it sailing out over the wall. Seven men were on the ladder as the boulder struck the first, smashing his skull to shards. The huge rock hit the shoulder of the third man, snapping his collarbone; he fell, dislodging three others. Rocks and stones rained down on the attackers, but they pushed on.

  The first man reached the ramparts, his shield held above his head. Chisk ran forward, ramming his dagger through the man’s eye, and with a choking cry the attacker fell.

  “One for Chisk!” shouted the Nadir. Two more men reached the ramparts. Druss leapt to his right, sending Snaga crashing through a wooden helm and braining the second man with a reverse sweep. Nuang jumped forward, thrusting his dagger at the head of a climbing soldier. The blade gashed the man’s forehead, but he stabbed out with his short sword, catching Nuang on the left wrist and scoring the flesh. Snaga crashed down on the man’s shoulder, splitting his breastplate. Blood gushed from the wound, and the climber fell away.

  To Druss’ left four Gothir soldiers had forced their way to the ramparts, forming a fighting wedge that allowed more men to reach the walls unopposed. Druss charged the group, Snaga sweeping down in a murderous arc. One man was cut down instantly; Druss shoulder-charged a second, spinning him from the ramparts to fall headfirst to the compound below; a third went down to a terrible blow that caved in his ribs. The fourth thrust his sword at Druss’ belly. Nuang’s blade hacked down, parrying the thrust, then swept up to slash through the soldier’s neck. Dropping his sword, the Gothir soldier staggered back with blood pumping from his severed jugular.

  Dropping his ax, Druss grabbed the dying man by the throat and groin and heaved him high into the air. Spinning, he hurled the body at two more soldiers as they cleared the ramparts; both were thrown back from the walls. Nuang ran forward to plunge his sword into the open mouth of a bearded soldier who had just reached the top of the ladder. The blade smashed through the man’s palate, emerging from the back of his neck. The sword was torn from Nuang’s grasp as the man plummeted to the ground.

  Druss swept up a short sword lying on the ramparts and tossed it to the old man. Nuang caught it expertly.

  All along the western wall the Nadir struggled to block wave after wave of attackers.

  Below, Talisman stood with Lin-tse and twenty warriors, trying to judge the best moment to send fresh troops into the fray. Beside him Lin-tse waited with sword drawn. The defense was briefly breached, five soldiers hacking and cleaving a path to the steps. Lin-tse started forward, but Talisman called him back. Druss had attacked the men, cutting three down in as many heartbeats.

  “He is terrifying,” said Lin-tse. “Never have I seen the like.”

  Talisman did not reply. The Lone Wolves were fighting like demons, inspired by the ferocious skills of the black-garbed axman. On the other walls Nadir warriors watched with awed admiration.

  “They are coming for the gates!” shouted Gorkai. “They have fire buckets and axes.”

  Talisman lifted his arm to show that he had heard but made no move. More than a dozen of the defenders on the western wall were wounded. Five fought on, with several others struggling down the steps and making their way to the hospital.

  “Now!” he told Lin-tse.

  The tall Sky Rider leapt forward, sprinting up the steps.

  Axes thudded into the gate, and Talisman saw Gorkai and the men of the Fleet Ponies hurling rocks over the battlements. Smoke seeped through the ancient wood. But as Druss had suggested, they had soaked the gates every day, and the fires quickly died away.

  Talisman signaled to Gorkai to send back ten men to stand with him.

  The battle raged on. Druss, covered in blood, stormed along the ramparts, leaping down to the fighting platform and scattering the Gothir warriors who had forced their way over the battlements. Talisman committed his ten men to help, then drew his sword and followed them in. He knew Druss was right about the crushing blow there would be to morale if he died, but his men had to see him fight.

  Climbing to the platform, he swept his saber through the throat of a charging Gothir soldier. Two more ran at him. Druss smashed his ax through the shoulder of the first; then the old man Nuang Xuan gutted the second.

  The Gothir fell back, taking their ladders with them.

  A great cry went up from the Nadir. They jeered and waved their swords over their heads.

  Talisman called Lin-tse to him. “Get a count of the injured and have the more seriously wounded men carried to the hospital.”

  The Lone Wolves gathered around Druss, clapping him on the back and complimenting him. In their excitement they were speaking Nadir, and Druss understood not a word of it. He turned to the stocky Chisk. “Well, laddie,” he said. “How many did you kill?”

  “I don’t know. But it was many.”

  “Did you beat this old man, do you think?” asked Druss, throwing his arm around Nuang’s shoulder.

  “I don’t care,” shouted Chisk happily. “I kiss his cheek!” Dropping his sword, he took the surprised Nuang by the shoulders and hugged him. “We showed them how Nadir fight, eh? We whipped the gajin dogs.”

  Nuang grinned, took a step, then fell to the ground with a surprised look on his face. Chisk knelt down beside him, dragging open the old man’s jerkin. Three wounds had pierced Nuang’s flesh, and blood was flowing freely.

  “Hold fast, Brother,” said Chisk. “The wounds are not bad. We get you to the surgeon, though, hey?�
� Two Lone Wolves helped Chisk carry Nuang across to the hospital.

  Druss strode from the wall to the well, drawing up a bucket of clear, cool water. Pulling an old cloth from his belt, he sponged the blood from his face and jerkin, then emptied the bucket over his head.

  From the battlements came the sound of laughter. “You could do with a bath, too, you whoresons!” he shouted. Dropping the bucket back into the well, he drew it forth again, then drank deeply. Talisman joined him. “We killed or wounded seventy,” said the Nadir leader. “For the loss of nine dead and fifteen wounded. What next, do you think?”

  “The same again, but with fresh troops,” said Druss. “And before dark, too. My guess is there will be at least two more attacks today.”

  “I agree with you. And we will hold; I know that now.”

  Druss chuckled. “They’re a fine bunch of fighters. Tomorrow it will be the gates—a concerted attack.”

  “Why not tonight?”

  “They haven’t learned their lesson yet,” said Druss.

  Talisman smiled. “You are a good teacher, axman. I am sure they will learn before the day is over.”

  Druss took another long drink, then pointed to a group of men working at the base of the old tower. They were separating blocks of granite and hauling them clear of the rubble.“ What is the purpose of that?” asked the axman.

  “The gates will fall,” said Talisman, “but we will have a surprise for the first troops to get through.”

  Nuang Xuan lay quietly on the floor with his head on a pillow stuffed with straw, a single blanket covering him. The stitches in his chest and shoulder were tight, his wounds painful, yet he felt at peace. He had stood beside the axman and had killed five of the enemy. Five! Across the room a man cried out. Nuang carefully rolled to his side, seeing that the surgeon was stitching wounds in a man’s belly; the wounded warrior thrashed out, and Niobe grabbed his arms. Waste of time, thought Nuang, and within moments the injured man gave a gurgling cry and was still. The surgeon swore. Niobe dragged the corpse from the table, and two men carried a freshly wounded man to take his place.