The riders paused, observing him as he observed them. In the centre was a thickset warrior, his hair close-cropped, a widow's peak extending like an arrowhead over his brow. To his right was a shorter, slimmer rider with burning eyes, and to his left was a fat-faced man wearing a fur-rimmed iron helm.
The riders waited but Talisman made no move, nor did he speak. At last the lead rider dismounted. 'A lonely place,' he said softly. Zhusai woke and sat up.
'All places are desolate to a lonely man,' said Talisman.
'What does that mean?' asked the warrior, beckoning his comrades to join him.
'Where in all the Land of Stone and Water can a Notas feel welcome?'
'You are not very friendly,' said the man, taking a step forward. The other two moved sideways, hands on their sword-hilts.
Talisman rose, leaving the sabre by his feet, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. The moon was bright above the group. Zhusai made to rise, but Talisman spoke to her. 'Remain where you are . . . Zhusai,' he said. 'All will be well in a little while.'
'You seem very sure of that,' said the widow-peaked leader. 'And yet you are in a strange land, and not among friends.'
'The land is not strange to me,' Talisman told him. 'It is Nadir land, ruled by the Gods of Stone and Water. I am a Nadir, and this land is mine by right and by blood. You are the strangers here. Can you not feel your deaths in the air, in the breeze? Can you not feel the contempt that this land has for you? Notas! The name stinks like a three-day dead pig.'
The leader reddened. 'You think we chose the title, you arrogant bastard? You think we wanted to live this way?'
'Why are you talking to him?' snarled the fat-faced warrior. 'Let's be done with him!' The man's sword snaked from its leather scabbard and he ran forward. Talisman's right hand came up and back, the knife-blade slashing through the air to hammer home into the man's right eye, sinking in to the ivory hilt. The warrior ran on for two more paces, then pitched to his left, striking the ground face first. As the second warrior leapt forward, Zhusai's knife thudded into the side of his neck. Blood bubbled into his windpipe. Choking, he let go of his sword and tore the knife clear, staring down at the slender blade in shock and disbelief. Sinking to his knees he tried to speak, but blood burst from his mouth in a crimson spray. Talisman's foot flipped the sabre into the air and he caught it expertly.
'Your dead friend asked you a question,' he told the stunned leader. 'But I would like to hear the answer. Why are you talking to me?'
The man blinked, and then suddenly sat down by the fire. 'You are right,' he said. 'I can feel the contempt. And I am alone. It was not always thus. I made a mistake, born of pride and foolishness and I have paid for it these last twenty years. There is no end in sight.'
'What tribe were you?' asked Talisman.
'Northern Grey.'
Talisman walked to the fire and sat opposite the man. 'My name is Talisman and I live to serve the Uniter. His day is almost upon us. If you wish to be Nadir again, then follow me.'
The man smiled and shook his head. 'The Uniter? The hero with violet eyes? You believe he exists? And if he did, why would he take me?'
'He will take you — if you are with me.'
'You know where he is?'
'I know what will bring us to him. Will you follow me?'
'What tribe are you?'
'Wolfshead. As you will be.'
The man stared gloomily into the fire. 'All my troubles began with the Wolfshead. Perhaps they will end there.' Glancing up, he met Talisman's dark gaze. 'I will follow you. What blood oath do you require?'
'None,' said Talisman. 'As you have said it, so shall it be. What is your name?'
'Gorkai.'
'Then keep watch, Gorkai, for I am tired.'
So saying Talisman laid down his sabre, covered himself with a blanket and slept.
Zhusai sat quietly as Talisman stretched himself out, his head resting on his forearm; his breathing deepened. Zhusai could scarcely believe he would do such a thing! Nervously she glanced at Gorkai, reading the confusion in the man's expression. Moments before, this man and two others had ridden in to the camp to kill them. Now two were dead, and the third was sitting quietly by the fire. Gorkai rose and Zhusai flinched. But the Nadir warrior merely walked to the first of the corpses, dragging it away from the camp; he repeated the action with the second body. Returning, he squatted before Zhusai and extended his hand. She glanced down to see that he was holding her ivory-handled throwing-knife. Silently she took it. Gorkai stood and gathered firewood before settling down beside the fire. Zhusai felt no need of sleep, convinced that the moment she shut her eyes this killer would cut Talisman's throat, then abuse and murder her.
The night wore on, but Gorkai made no movement towards her or the sleeping Talisman. Instead he sat cross-legged, deep in thought. Talisman groaned in his sleep, and spoke suddenly in the tongue of the Gothir. 'Never!' he said.
Gorkai glanced at the woman, and their eyes met. Zhusai did not look away. Rising, Gorkai gestured her to walk with him. He did not look back but strode to the ponies and sat upon a rock. For a while Zhusai made no move to follow, then, knife in hand, she followed him.
'Tell me of him,' said Gorkai.
'I know very little.'
'I have watched you both. You do not touch; there is no intimacy.'
'He is not my husband,' she said coldly.
'Where is he from? Who is he?'
'He is Talisman of the Wolfshead.'
'Talisman is not a Nadir name. I have given him my life, for he touched upon my dreams and my needs. But I need to know.'
'Believe me, Gorkai, you know almost as much as I. But he is strong, and he dreams great dreams.'
'Where do we travel?'
'To the Valley of Shul-sen's Tears, and the tomb of Oshikai.'
'Ah,' said Gorkai, 'a pilgrimage, then. So be it.' He rose and took a deep breath. 'I too have dreams - though I had all but forgotten them.' He hesitated, then spoke again. 'Do not fear me, Zhusai. I will never harm you.' Gorkai walked back to the fire and sat. Zhusai returned to her blanket.
The dawn sun was hidden by a thick bank of cloud. Zhusai awoke with a start. She had been determined not to sleep, but at some point in the night had drifted into dreams. Talisman was up and talking to Gorkai. Zhusai opened their pack and re-kindled the fire, preparing a breakfast of salted oats and dried meat. The two men ate in silence, then Gorkai gathered the wooden platters and cleaned them in the pool. It was the work of a woman or a servant, and Zhusai knew it was Gorkai's way of establishing his place with them. Zhusai placed the platters within the canvas pack and tied it behind her saddle. Gorkai helped her mount, then handed her the reins of the other two ponies.
Talisman led the way out on to the steppes, Gorkai riding beside him. 'How many Notas raid in this area?' Talisman asked.
'Thirty,' answered Gorkai. 'We . . . they call themselves Chop-backs.'
'So I have heard. Have you been to Oshikai's tomb?'
'Three times.'
'Tell me of it.'
'It is a simply carved sarcophagus set in a building of white stone. Once it was a Gothir fort, now it is a holy place.'
'Who will be guarding it now?'
Gorkai shrugged. 'Hard to say. There are always warriors from at least four tribes camped close by. A blind priest sends messages to each, telling them when they may take up their duties. He also tells them when to return to their own lands, and at such times other tribes send warriors. It is a great honour to be chosen to guard the resting place of Oshikai. The last time I was there the Green Monkey tribe patrolled the tomb. Waiting were the Northern Greys, the Stone Tigers, and the Fast Ponies.'
'How many in each group?'
'No more than forty.'
The clouds began to break, and the burning sun shone clear. Zhusai lifted a wide-brimmed straw hat from the pommel of her saddle and tied it into place. The shifting dust dried her throat, but she resisted the urge to drink.
&nbs
p; And the trio rode on through the long day.
Chapter Five
The riots lasted three days, beginning in the poorest section and spreading fast. Troops were called in from surrounding areas, cavalry charging into the rioters. The death toll rose, and by the end of the third day some four hundred people were reported killed, and hundreds more injured.
The Games were suspended during the troubles, the athletes advised to remain in their quarters, the surrounding area patrolled by soldiers. As darkness fell Druss stared gloomily from the upstairs window, watching the flames leap from the burning buildings of the western quarter.
'Madness,' he said as Sieben moved alongside him.
'Majon was telling me they caught the crossbow man and hacked him to pieces.'
'And yet the killing still goes on. Why, Sieben?'
'You said it yourself: madness. Madness and greed. Almost everyone had money on Klay, and they feel betrayed. Three of the gambling houses have been burned to the ground.' Outside a troop of cavalry cantered along the wide avenue, heading for the riot area.
'What is the news of Klay?' asked Druss.
'There is no word, but Majon told me he has many friends among the physicians. And Klay is a rich man, Druss; he can afford the best.'
'I would have died,' said Druss softly. 'A knife was flashing towards my eye. In that moment I could do nothing. His hand moved like lightning, poet. I have never seen anything like it. He plucked the blade from the air.' Druss shook his head. 'I still do not believe it. Yet moments later a coward's bolt had smashed him to the ground. He'll not walk again, Sieben.'
'You can't say that, old horse. You are no surgeon.'
'I know his spine was smashed. I have seen that injury a score of times. There's no coming back from it. Not without. . .' He fell silent.
'Without what?'
Druss moved away from the window. 'A Nadir shaman came to me — just before the fight. He told me of magical gems to heal any wound.'
'Did he also try to sell you a map to a legendary diamond mine?' asked Sieben, with a smile.
'I'm going out,' said Druss. 'I need to see Klay.'
'Out? Into that chaos? Come on, Druss, wait till morning.'
Druss shook his head.
'Then take a weapon,' Sieben urged. 'The rioters are still looking for blood.'
'Then they had better stay away from me,' snarled Druss, 'or I'll spill enough of it to drown them all!'
The grounds were deserted and the gates open. Druss paused and stared at the broken statue lying on the lawn. It looked as if the legs had been shattered by hammers. The neck was sheared away, the head lying on the grass, its stone eyes staring unseeing at the black-bearded warrior standing in the gateway.
Druss gazed around him. The flower-beds had been uprooted, the lawn churned into mud around the statue. He strode to the front door, which was open. No servants greeted him as he moved through to the training area. There was no sound. The sand circles were empty of fighters, the fountains silent. An old man came in sight, carrying a bucket of water; he was the servant who had looked after the beggar boy. 'Where is everyone?' asked Druss.
'Gone. All gone.'
'What of Klay?'
'They moved him to a hospice in the southern quarter. The scum-sucking bastards!'
Druss wandered back into the main building. Couches and chairs had been smashed, the curtains ripped down from the windows. A portrait of Klay had been slashed through, and the place smelt of stale urine. Druss shook his head in puzzlement. 'Why would the rioters do this? I thought they loved the man.'
The old man set down the bucket, righted a chair and slumped down. 'Oh aye, they loved him, until his back broke. Then they hated him. People had wagered their life savings on him. They heard he was involved in a drunken brawl and that all bets were dead. Their money gone, they turned on him. Turned on him like animals! After all he'd won for them - done for them. You know,' he said, glancing up, his ancient face flushed with anger, 'the hospice they carried him to was built from money donated by Klay. Many of the people who came here and screamed abuse had been helped by him in the past. No gratitude. But the worst of them was Shonan.'
'Klay's trainer?'
'Pah!' spat the old man. 'Trainer, handler, owner? Call him what you will, but I call him a blood-sucking parasite. Klay's gone now - and so has his wealth. Shonan even says that this house belongs to him. Klay, it seems, had nothing. Can you believe that? The bastard didn't even pay for the carriage that took Klay to the hospice. He will die there penniless.' The old man laughed bitterly. 'One moment he was the hero of the Gothir -loved by all, flattered by all. Now he is poor, alone and friendless. By the gods, it makes you think, doesn't it?'
'He has you,' said Druss. 'And he has me.'
'You? You're the Drenai fighter, you hardly knew him.'
'I know him and that is enough. Can you take me to him?'
'Aye, and gladly. I'm finished here now. I'll gather my gear and meet you at the front of the house.'
Druss strolled through to the front lawn. A group of about a dozen athletes were coming through the gate and the sound of laughter pricked Druss's anger. At the centre of the group was a bald-headed man wearing a gold torque studded with gems. They stopped by the statue and Druss heard a young man say, 'By Shemak, that monstrosity cost over 3,000 raq. Now it is just rubble.'
'What's past is past,' said Gold Torque.
'So what will you do now, Shonan?' asked another.
The man shrugged. 'Find another fighter. It will be hard, mind, for Klay was gifted. No doubt about that.'
The old man moved alongside Druss. 'Doesn't their grief move you to tears? Klay supported them all. See the young blond one ? Klay paid off his gambling debts no more than a week ago. Just over a thousand raq. And this is the way they thank him!'
'Aye, they're a shoddy bunch,' said Druss. Striding across the lawn, he approached Shonan.
The man grinned at Druss. 'How fall the mighty,' he said, pointing to the statue.
'And the not so mighty,' said Druss, his fist thundering into the man's face and catapulting him from his feet. Several of the athletes surged forward but Druss glared at them - and they stopped in their tracks. Slowly they backed away and Druss moved to the fallen Shonan. Both the man's front teeth had been smashed through his lips, and his jaw was hanging slack. Druss ripped the gold torque from his neck and tossed it to the old man. 'This might pay a bill or two at the hospice,' he said.
'It will that,' agreed the old man. The athletes were still standing close by. Druss pointed to the young man with long blond hair.
'You, come here.' The man blinked nervously, but then stepped forward.
'When this piece of offal wakes, you tell him that Druss is going to find him again. You tell him that I expect Klay to be looked after. I expect him to be back in his own house, with his own servants, and with money enough to pay them. If this is not done I will come back and kill him. And after that I will find you, and I will rip your pretty face from your skull. You understand me?' The young man nodded and Druss swung to the others. 'I have marked all you maggots in my mind. If I find that Klay wants for anything I shall come looking for each of you. Make no mistake: if Klay suffers one more ounce of indignity you will all die. I am Druss and that is my promise.'
Druss walked away from them, the old man alongside him. 'My name is Carmol,' said the servant, with a broad grin. 'And it is a pleasure to meet you again!'
Together they walked across the riot-torn city. Here and there bodies could be seen lying by the wayside, and the smell of burning buildings wafted to them on the wind.
The hospice was sited in the centre of the poorest quarter, its white walls out of place among the squalid buildings that surrounded it. The riots had begun near here, but moved on days since. An elderly priest showed them to Klay's room, which was small and clean with a single cot bed placed beneath the window. Klay was asleep when they entered and the priest brought two chairs for the visitors. The fig
hter awoke as Druss sat beside the bed.
'How are you feeling?' asked the Drenai.
'I've known better days,' answered Klay, forcing a smile. His face was grey beneath his tan, his eyes sunken and blue-ringed.
Druss took hold of the fighter's hand. 'A Nadir shaman told me of a place to the east where there are magical jewels to heal any wound. I leave tomorrow. If they exist, I shall find them and bring them to you. You understand?'
'Yes,' said Klay, despair in his voice. 'Magical jewels to heal me!'
'Do not give up hope,' said Druss.
'Hope is not on offer here, my friend. This is a hospice and we come here to die. Throughout this building there are people waiting for death, some with cancers, others with lung rot, still more with wasting diseases for which there are no names. There are wives, husbands, children. If such jewels exist, there are other more deserving cases than mine. But I thank you for your words.'
'They are not just words, Klay. I am leaving tomorrow. Promise me you will fight for life until my return.'
'I always fight, Druss. That's my talent. The east, you say? That is Nadir heartland, filled with robbers and thieves, and deadly killers. You wouldn't want to meet them.'
Druss chuckled. 'Trust me, laddie. They wouldn't want to meet me!'
Garen-Tsen stared down at the body of the embalmer - his face twisted in death, frozen in mid-scream, eyes wide and staring. Blood had ceased to flow from the many wounds, and the broken fingers twitched no longer.
'He was a tough one,' said the torturer.
Garen-Tsen ignored the man. The information gleaned from the embalmer had been far from complete; he had held something back to the end. Garen-Tsen stared at the dead face. You knew exactly where they were, he thought. Through his years of study Chorin-Tsu had finally pieced together the route taken by the renegade shaman who had originally stolen the Eyes of Alchazzar. The man had ultimately been found hiding in the Mountains of the Moon, and he was slain there. Of the Eyes there was no sign. He could have hidden them anywhere, but a number of incidents suggested they were concealed in - or near - the tomb of Oshikai Demon-bane. Miraculous healings were said to have taken place there: several blind men regained their sight; a cripple walked. In themselves these miracles meant nothing. Tombs of heroes or prophets always attracted such claims, and being Chiatze Garen-Tsen well understood the nature of hysterical paralysis or blindness. Even so, it was the only indication as to the whereabouts of the jewels. The problem remained, however, that the tomb had been surreptitiously searched on at least three occasions. No hidden jewels had been found.
The Legend of Deathwalker Page 11