The Legend of Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  Lin-tse nodded. 'You are thinking of Fecrem and the Long Retreat.'

  'I am indeed. As I said, a victory is important. What is vital, however, is that you take no unnecessary risks. If there are more than three companies, do not engage them. Your thirty men are irreplaceable.'

  Lin-tse rose. 'I will do my utmost, general.'

  'Of that I have no doubt. You have the coolest head, Lin-tse. That is why I chose you for this mission.'

  Lin-tse's expression did not change. Without a word he strode away. Gorkai stepped forward. 'He is a hard man, that one,' he observed.

  'A man of stone,' agreed Talisman. 'Where is Zhusai ?'

  'She went into the Shrine to pray.'

  Talisman followed and found her standing by the stone sarcophagus. It was cool in the shadowed chamber and he stood for a moment, watching her. She turned towards him and smiled. 'It is so quiet here,' she said.

  'I saw you give the scarf to Kzun. Why did you do it?'

  'He is a dangerous man, and one who might . . . question your orders.'

  'A man that gold could not buy - and you won him with a piece of linen. You are a surprising woman, Zhusai.'

  'There is nothing I would not do for you, Talisman. You will forgive me for being forward, but time is precious, is it not?'

  'It is,' he admitted, moving to her side. She took his hand and held it to her breast.

  'Have you been with a woman?' she asked him.

  'No.'

  'Then there is much for us both to discover.' Drawing her to him, he touched his lips to hers. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, the taste of her mouth swamped his senses. He felt dizzy and weak, and drew back from her. 'I love you, my Talisman,' she whispered.

  For just those fleeting seconds he had forgotten the perils that awaited them both. Now realization struck him like a fist. 'Why now?' he asked, pulling away.

  'Because that is all there is,' she said. Swinging to the sarcophagus, she ran her hand over the iron plate. 'Oshikai Demon-bane, Lord of War,' she read. 'He was beset by enemies when he wed Shul-sen. And they had so little time, Talisman. They were together only four years. But great was their love. Ours will be as great. I know it. I feel it, here in this place. And if we die we shall walk hand in hand through the Void. I know this too.'

  'I do not want you to die,' he said. 'I wish I had never brought you here. I wish it with all my heart.'

  'And I am glad you did. You will win, Talisman. Your cause is just. The evil comes from the Gothir.'

  'It is a touching sentiment, Zhusai. And one which I wish were true. Sadly, the good do not always conquer. I must go, for there is much to do.'

  'When you have done all that you can, and the night grows long, come to me, Talisman. Will you do that?'

  'I will come to you,' he promised.

  The sky was black with crows and vultures as Druss and Sieben came over a ridge and down into a shallow valley. Below them were some forty goathide tents. Bodies were strewn everywhere, under a writhing mass of carrion birds. Elsewhere small desert dogs tugged at rotting flesh.

  'Sweet Heaven,' whispered Sieben, pulling back on the reins.

  Druss touched heels to the mare and rode down the hillside. Leading their extra ponies, Sieben followed him. Vultures too fat to fly spread their wings and waddled away from the horses. The stench of death caused the horses to shy away from the scene, but the riders forced them on. At first Sieben just stared ahead, trying not to look at the bodies. There were children there, and women - some huddled together, others slain as they ran. A brown dog edged into a flapping tent, then yelped and ran away. Druss dragged on the reins.

  'Why are we stopping?' asked Sieben. Druss dismounted, passing the mare's reins to the poet. Axe in hand, he strode to the tent and, ducking down, moved inside. Sieben sat on his horse and forced himself to view the scene. It was not hard to see what had happened here. The killers had attacked late in the evening, as the cook-fires were under way. The Nadir had fled in all directions, but had been cut down with ruthless efficiency. Several of the bodies had been mutilated, beheaded or dismembered.

  Druss emerged from the tent and moved to the horses, lifting clear a water canteen. 'There's a woman inside,' he said. 'She's alive, but only just. She has a babe.'

  Sieben dismounted and tethered the horses to a tent-pole. The Gothir mounts were skittish and nervous of the dogs and vultures, but the Nadir ponies stood by calmly. Swiftly he hobbled the horses with lengths of rawhide, then joined Druss. Inside the tent lay a naked young woman, a terrible wound in her belly and side. Blood had drenched the brightly coloured blankets on which she lay. Her eyes were open, but her mouth was hanging slack. Druss raised her head, holding the canteen to her lips; water dribbled over her chin, but she managed to swallow a little. Sieben gazed at the wound; it was deep, the blade having completely pierced her body. The babe, part hidden beneath a pile of furs, was whimpering softly. Druss picked it up, and held it to the woman's swollen breast. It began to suck, weakly at first. The woman groaned and moved her arm around the child, drawing it in to her.

  'What can we do?' asked Sieben. Druss's cold eyes met his. The axeman said nothing. When Sieben reached up to stroke the woman's face, her dead eyes stared at him. The babe continued to feed.

  'This one they kept for rape,' said Druss. 'What a pack of mongrels!'

  'May they rot in Seven Hells,' said Sieben. The babe ceased to suck and Druss lifted it to his broad shoulder, supporting its head and gently rubbing its back. Sieben's eyes were drawn to the woman's swollen nipple. Milk and blood were seeping from it.

  'Why, Druss?' he asked.

  'Why what?'

  'Why did they do it? What was the purpose?'

  'I am not the man to ask, poet. I have seen the sack of cities, and watched good men become evil as they are fired by rage and lust and fear. I don't know why they do it. The soldiers who did this will go home to their wives and families and be good husbands and fathers. It is a mystery to me.'

  Wrapping the naked babe in a blanket, he carried him out into the sunlight. Sieben followed him. 'Will they write it as a victory, do you think?' asked Sieben. 'Will they sing songs about this raid?'

  'Let's hope there are some women with milk in their breasts at the Shrine,' said Druss. Sieben freed the horses and held the babe until Druss had mounted. Passing the child to the axeman, he stepped into the saddle of the gelding.

  'He fed on milk and blood,' said Sieben. 'He drank from the dead.'

  'But he lives,' said Druss. 'He breathes.'

  The two rode on. Druss lifted the blanket over the top of the infant's head, shielding him from the bright sun. The child was asleep now. Druss could smell the newness of life upon him, the creamy scent of milk-fed breath. He thought of Rowena, and her longing for such a child to hold at her own breast.

  'I will be a farmer,' he said suddenly. 'When I get home, I shall stay there. No more wars. No more vultures.'

  'You believe that, my friend?' asked Sieben.

  Druss felt the sinking of his heart. 'No,' he said.

  They rode on across the burning steppes for another hour, then transferred the saddles to the two Nadir ponies. The baby awoke and cried for a while. Druss tried to calm him, then Sieben took him. 'How old is he, do you think?' the poet asked.

  'Perhaps a month. Two - I don't know.'

  Sieben swore and Druss laughed. 'Anointed you too, has he?'

  'During my short, eventful life I have learned many things, Druss, old horse,' he said, holding the babe at arm's length. 'But I never thought I would have to worry about urine stains on silk. Will it rot the fabric, do you think?'

  'We can only hope not.'

  'How does one stop them crying?'

  'Tell him one of your stories, poet. They always put me to sleep.'

  Sieben cradled the babe close, and began to sing a gentle song about the Princess Ulastay and her desire to wear stars in her hair. He had a good voice, strong and melodic. The Nadir child rested its head
against his chest and was soon asleep. Towards dusk they saw a dust-cloud ahead, and Druss led them off the trail and into a small gully. Two companies of Lancers rode by above them, heading west, their armour bright, the helms gleaming red in the fading sunshine. Sieben's heart was hammering fast. The babe murmured in his arms, but the sound did not carry above the drumming of hoofbeats.

  Once they had passed, Druss headed north-east.

  With the dying of the sun the air grew cooler, and Sieben felt the warmth of the child in his arms. 'I think he has a fever,' he told Druss.

  'All babies are hot,' said Druss.

  'Really? I wonder why.'

  'They just are. By Heavens, poet, do you have to question everything?'

  'I have a curious mind.'

  'Then set it to work on how we are going to feed the child when he wakes. He looks a lusty infant to me, and his cries are likely to travel far. And we are unlikely to meet friends out here.'

  'That's it, Druss. Always try to finish on a comforting note.'

  Gargan, Lord of Larness, waited patiently as his manservant, Bren, unbuckled the heavy breastplate and removed it. The flesh around his middle had spread since last he had worn it, and the freedom of release caused him to sigh with pleasure. He had ordered new armour last month, but it was not ready when Garen-Tsen told him of the jewels, and the need for speed.

  Bren unfastened the thigh-plates and greaves and Gargan sat down on a canvas chair and stretched out his legs. The nation was sliding into the pit, he thought bitterly. The emperor's madness was growing daily, and the two factions were hovering in the shadows. Civil war loomed. Madness!

  And we are all caught up in it, he realized. Magical jewels indeed! The only magic that counted was contained in the swords of the Royal Guards, the shining points of the Royal lances.

  What was needed now was an outside threat to pull the Gothir nation together. A war with the tribes would focus the minds of the people wonderfully. It would buy time. The Emperor had to go. The question was when, and how, and who would replace him? Until that day, Gargan would have to give the factions something else to think about.

  Bren left the tent, returning with a tray of wine, butter, cheese and bread. 'The captains wish to know when you will see them, my Lord,' he said. Gargan looked up at him. The man was getting old, worn out.

  'How many campaigns have you served with me?' asked Gargan.

  'Twelve, my Lord,' answered Bren, cutting the bread and buttering three slices.

  'Which do you remember most fondly?'

  The old man paused in his preparations. 'Gassima,' he said.

  Pouring the wine into a silver goblet, Bren added water and passed it to his general. Gargan sipped it. Gassima! The last civil war, almost twenty-five years ago now. Outnumbered, Gargan had led a retreat across the marshes, then swung his force and launched an attack which ought to have been suicidal. On his giant white stallion, Skall, he had thundered into the heart of the enemy camp and killed Barin in hand-to-hand combat. The war was won on that day, the civil war ended. Gargan drained his wine and handed the goblet to Bren, who refilled it.

  'That was a horse, by Missael! Feared nothing. It would have charged into the fires of Hell.'

  'A rnighty steed,' agreed Bren.

  'Never known another like him. You know the stallion I ride now? He is of the blood of Skall, his great-grandson. But he does not have the same qualities. Skall was a prince of horses.' Gargan chuckled. 'Mounted three mares on the day he died - at the ripe age of thirty-two. I have only wept twice in my life, Bren. The first was on the death of Skall.'

  'Yes, my Lord. What shall I tell the captains?'

  'One hour from now. I have letters to read.'

  'Yes, my Lord.' Leaving the meal on the table, Bren stepped back through the tent-flap. Gargan stood and poured a third goblet of wine; this time he added no water. The mail riders had caught up with the vanguard of the army at dusk and there were three letters for him. He opened the first, which bore the seal of Garen-Tsen. Gargan tried to focus on the spidery script. Lifting a lantern from its pole, he lowered it to the desk. His eyes were not what they were. 'Nothing is what it was,' he thought.

  The letter told of the funeral of the Queen, and how Garen-Tsen had smuggled the King from the city, having him taken to the Winter Palace at Siccus. The factions were beginning to speak openly now in the Senate about 'a need for change'. Garen-Tsen urged a speedy end to the campaign, and a swift return to the capital.

  The second letter was from his wife. He scanned it: four pages containing little of interest, detailing small incidents from the household and the farms. A maidservant had broken an arm, falling from a chair as she cleaned windows, a prize foal had been sold for a thousand raq, three slaves had fled the North Farm, but had been recaptured in a local brothel.

  The last letter was from his daughter, Mirkel. She had given birth to a baby boy and she was calling him Argo. She hoped Gargan could see him soon.

  The old soldier's eyes misted.

  Argo. Finding his mutilated body had been like a knife blow to the heart, and Gargan could still feel the pain of it. He had known all along that allowing Nadir filth to attend the Academy would lead to disaster. But never had he remotely considered the possibility that it would lead to the death of his own son. And what a death to suffer!

  Anger and sorrow vied in him.

  The old Emperor had been a wise man, ruling well in the main. But his later years had seen a rise in confusion, a softening of his attitudes. It was for this man that Gargan had fought at Gassima. I gave you that crown, he thought. I placed it on your head. And because of you my son is dead.

  Nadir janizaries! A foul and perditious idea. Why was it the old man could not see the stupidity of it? The Nadir were numberless, and dreamed only of the day when a Uniter would draw them together into one unstoppable army. And yet the Emperor had wished the sons of their chiefs to be trained in the ways of Gothir warfare. Gargan could still scarcely believe it.

  The day when Okai had been the prize student was a grim one to recall. What was worse was to know that the man who walked up to the dais was the murderer of his son. He had him close then; he could have reached out and torn away his throat.

  Gargan reached for the jug - and hesitated. The captain would be here soon, and strong drink was no aid to planning.

  Rising from the table, he rubbed at his weary eyes and stepped outside the tent. Two guards came to attention. Gargan stared out over the camp-site, pleased with the orderly placing of tents, the neatness of the five picket lines. The ground had been well cleared around the camp-fires, dug over and wetted down, so that no spark could land upon the tinder-dry grass of the steppes.

  Gargan walked on, scanning the camp for signs of disorderliness or complacency. He found none, save that one of the latrine trenches was dug in an area where the prevailing wind would carry the stench back into the camp. He noted it in his mind. Two Nadir heads had been tied to a pole outside one tent. A group of Lancers were sitting around a camp-fire close by. When Gargan strode up, the men leapt to their feet, saluting smartly.

  'Bury them,' said Gargan. 'They are attracting flies and mosquitoes.'

  'Yes, sir!' they chorused.

  Gargan returned to his tent. Sitting down at the table, he took quill and ink and wrote a short letter to Mirkel, congratulating her and stating his hope and his intention to be with her soon. 'Take good care of little Argo,' he wrote. 'Do not rely on wet-nurses. A child draws much from his mother's milk, taking in not only nourishment but also spirit and courage. One should never allow a babe of noble birth to suckle at a common breast. It dissipates character.'

  Travelling carefully, using dry gullies and low terrain, Quing-chin and his nine riders avoided the Gothir patrols. As darkness fell they were hidden to the south of the Gothir encampment. His friend, Shi-da, crept alongside him as he knelt behind a screen of dry bushes, scanning the camp.

  The night breeze was picking up, blowing from the south-ea
st. Shi-da tapped Quing-chin's shoulder. 'It is done, my brother.'

  Quing-chin settled back on his haunches. The breeze was picking up. 'Good.'

  'When ?' asked Shi-da, eagerness showing on his young face.

  'Not yet. We wait until they settle for the night.'

  'Tell me of Talisman,' said Shi-da, settling down alongside him. 'Why is he the chosen one? He is not as strong as you.'

  'Strength of body counts for nothing in a general,' said Quing-chin. 'He has a mighty heart, and a mind sharper than a dagger.'

  'You also have a great heart, my brother.'

  Quing-chin smiled. The boy's hero-worship was a source of both irritation and delight. 'I am the hawk, he is the eagle. I am the wolf, he is the tiger. One day Talisman will be a war leader among the Nadir. He will lead armies, little brother. He has a mind for . . .' He hesitated. There was no Nadir word for logistics. 'A mind for planning,' he said, at last. 'When an army marches it must be supplied. It needs food and water and, just as important, it needs information. It takes a rare man to be able to plan for all eventualities. Talisman is such a man.'

  'He was at the Academy with you?'

  'Yes. And at the last he was the Honour Student, beating all others.'

  'He fought them all?'

  'In a way.' Behind them a pony whinnied and Quing-chin glanced back to where the others were hidden. 'Get back to them,' he said, 'and tell Ling that if he does not control his pony better than that I shall send him back in disgrace.'

  As the boy eased himself back from the gully's crest Quing-chin settled down to wait. Fanlon had often said that a captain's greatest gift was patience - knowing when to strike, and having the nerve to wait for the right moment.

  As the air cooled the wind would increase. So too would the moisture, caused by the change in temperature. All these factors combined to make good timing essential. Quing-chin looked out at the enemy camp, and felt his anger rise. They were not in defensive formation, as was required when in enemy territory. There was no outer perimeter of fortifications. They had constructed the encampment according to the regulations for a peace-time manoeuvre: five picket lines, each with two hundred horses, the tents set out in squares by regiment. How arrogant they were, these gajin. How well they understood Nadir mentality.