The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  A tall man moved from the shadows, a rust-pitted knife in his right hand. “Got you, you little Nadir bastard!” he said.

  Talisman gazed into the man’s cruel eyes, and his anger rose, cold and all-engulfing. “What you have found,” said Talisman, “is death.”

  Knife hand raised, the man ran in and stabbed down toward Talisman’s neck. But Talisman swayed to the right, his left forearm sweeping up to block the attacker’s wrist. In the same flowing movement his right arm came up behind the man’s shoulder; then, with a savage jerk, he brought his weight down on the knife arm, which snapped at the elbow. The man screamed and dropped the knife. Releasing him, Talisman swept up the blade, ramming it to the hilt between the man’s ribs. As he dragged back on his victim’s greasy hair, Talisman’s dark eyes fixed on the terrified face. “May you rot in many hells,” whispered the Nadir, twisting the knife blade. The mortally wounded man’s mouth opened for one last scream of pain, but he died before he could draw breath.

  Releasing the body, Talisman wiped the knife clean of blood on the man’s filthy tunic and moved on into the darkness. All was silent there. Walls towered on both sides of him, decorated with lines of shuttered windows. Talisman emerged onto a wider alley, no more than sixty yards long, and saw glimmering lights from the windows of a tavern. Hiding the knife beneath his hooded cloak, he walked on. The tavern door opened, and a big man with a square-cut black beard stepped into sight. Talisman approached him.

  “Your pardon, lord,” said the Nadir, the words tasting like acid on the tongue, “but could you direct me to the Street of Weavers?”

  “Laddie,” said the man, slumping drunkenly to an oak bench, “I’d be surprised if I could find my own way home. I’m a stranger here myself and have been lost in this city maze more than once tonight. By heaven, I don’t know why anyone would want to live in such a place. Do you?”

  Talisman turned away. At that moment the men who had been pursuing him came into sight, five at one end of the alley and four at the other. “We’re going to cut your heart out!” shouted the leader, a fat, balding ruffian. Talisman drew his knife as the first five attackers rushed in. Movement came unexpectedly from Talisman’s left. His eyes flickered toward it. The drunken stranger had risen to his feet and appeared to be trying to move the oak bench. No, not move it, Talisman realized, but lift it! It was so incongruous and bizarre a moment that he had to jerk his eyes from the scene in order to face his attackers. They were close now, three armed with knives and two with cudgels of lead. Suddenly the heavy oak bench hurtled past Talisman like a spear. It struck the gang leader full in the face, smashing his teeth and punching him from his feet, then spun off into the others, sending two of them to the ground. The remaining two men leapt over the bodies and ran in close. Talisman met the first blade to blade, then hammered his elbow into the man’s chin. The attacker fell face first to the cobbles. As he struggled to rise, Talisman kicked him twice in the face; at the second kick the man groaned and slumped unconscious to the ground.

  Talisman swung, but the last assailant was vainly struggling in the iron grip of the stranger, who had lifted him by neck and groin and was holding him suspended above his head. Spinning on his heel, Talisman saw the four remaining attackers edging forward from the other end of the alley. The stranger ran toward them, gave a grunt of effort, and hurled his hapless victim straight into them. Three went down but struggled to their feet. The stranger stepped forward.

  “I think that’s enough now, lads,” he said, his voice cold. “So far I haven’t killed anyone in Gulgothir. So gather your friends and go on about your business.”

  One of the men moved carefully forward, peering at the stranger. “You’re the Drenai fighter, aren’t you? Druss?”

  “True enough. Now be on your way, lads. The fun is over—unless you’ve an appetite for more.”

  “Klay will beat you to a bloody pulp in the final, you bastard!” Without another word the man sheathed his knife and turned to his comrades. Together they helped the injured from the alley, having to carry the leader, who was still unconscious.

  The stranger turned to Talisman. “An ugly place,” he said with a broad grin, “but it does have its delights. Join me in a jug?”

  “You fight well,” said Talisman. Glancing around, he could see the attackers milling at the mouth of the alley. “Yes, I’ll drink with you, Drenai. But not here. My feeling is they will talk among themselves until their courage returns; then they will attack again.”

  “Well, walk with me, laddie. The Gothir gave us lodgings, which I believe are not far from here, and there’s a jug of Lentrian red that has been calling my name all evening.” Together they moved west, out onto the main avenue leading to the colosseum. The attackers did not follow.

  Talisman had never been inside so luxurious a lodging, and his dark, slanted eyes soaked in the sights: the long oak-paneled staircase, the wall hangings of velvet, the ornate cushioned chairs, sculpted and gilded, the carpets of Chiatze silk. The huge warrior called Druss led him up the stairs and into a long corridor. Doors were set on both sides at every fifteen paces. The stranger paused at one of them, then pressed a bronze latch, and the door slid open to reveal a richly furnished apartment. When Talisman peered in, his first sight was of a six-foot-long rectangular mirror. He blinked, for he had seen his reflection before, but never full-length or quite so clearly. The stolen black cloak and tunic were travel-stained and dust-covered, and his jet-black eyes gazed back at him with undisguised weariness. The face he gazed upon—despite being beardless—looked far older than his eighteen years, the mouth set in a grim, determined line. Responsibility sat upon him like a vulture, eating away at his youth.

  Stepping closer to the mirror, he touched the surface. It looked like glass. But glass was virtually transparent; how, then, did it reflect so wonderfully? Peering closer, he examined the mirror, and on the bottom right edge he saw what appeared to be a scratch. Dropping to his knee, he stared at it and found that he could look through the scratch at the carpet beyond the mirror. “They paint the glass with silver somehow,” said Druss. “I don’t know how it is done.”

  Turning from the mirror, Talisman walked into the room. There were six couches covered with polished leather, several chairs, and a long, low table on which was a jug of wine and four silver goblets. The room was as large as the home tent of his father, and that housed fourteen! Twin doors on the far side opened onto a wide balcony that overlooked the colosseum. Talisman padded across the lush carpets and out onto the balcony. The Great Arena was surrounded by tall brass poles on which stood burning lamps casting red light on the lower half of the colosseum. It was almost as if the enormous structure were on fire. Talisman wished that it was—and this entire city with it!

  “Pretty, is it not?” asked Druss.

  “You fight there?”

  “Just once more. The Gothir champion, Klay. Then I’m going home to my farm and my wife.”

  Druss passed his guest a goblet of Lentrian red, and Talisman sipped it. “All the flags flying from so many nations. Why? Are you planning a war?”

  “As I understand it,” said Druss, “it is the opposite. The nations are here for the Fellowship Games. They are supposed to encourage friendship and trade between the nations.”

  “The Nadir were not invited to take part,” said Talisman, turning from the window and reentering the main room.

  “Ah, well, that’s politics, laddie. I neither understand nor condone it. But even if they did wish to invite the Nadir, to whom would the invite be sent? There are hundreds of tribes, mostly at war with one another. They have no center—no leader.”

  “That will change,” said Talisman. “A leader is prophesied, a great man. The Uniter!”

  “I hear there have been many so-called Uniters.”

  “This one will be different. He will have eyes the color of violet and will bear a name no Nadir has ever chosen. He is coming. And then let your world beware!”

  “Well, I w
ish you luck,” said Druss, sitting back on a couch and raising his booted feet to the table. “Violet eyes, eh? That’ll be something to see.”

  “They will be like the Eyes of Alchazzar,” said Talisman. “He will be the embodiment of the Great Wolf in the Mountains of the Moon.”

  The door opened, and Talisman spun to see a tall, handsome young man enter. His fair hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, and he wore a cloak of crimson over a long blue tunic of opal-adorned silk.

  “I hope you’ve left some of that wine, old horse,” the newcomer said, addressing Druss. “I’m as dry as a lizard’s armpit.”

  “I must be going,” said Talisman, moving toward the door.

  “Wait!” said Druss, rising. “Sieben, do you know the whereabouts of the Street of Weavers?”

  “No, but there’s a map in the back room. I’ll fetch it.” Sieben returned moments later and spread the map on the low table. “Which quarter?” he asked Talisman.

  “Northwest.”

  Sieben’s slender finger traced the map. “There it is! Beside the Hall of Antiquities.” He glanced up at Talisman. “You leave here by the main entrance and continue along the avenue until you come to the statue of the war goddess—a tall woman carrying a long spear; there’s a hawk on her shoulder. You bear left for another mile until you see the Park of Poets ahead of you. Turn right and keep going until you reach the Hall of Antiquities. There are four huge columns outside and a high lintel stone on which is carved an eagle. The Street of Weavers is the first on the right, past the hall. Would you like me to go over it again?”

  “No,” said Talisman. “I shall find it.” And without another word the Nadir left the room.

  As the door closed, Sieben grinned. “His gratitude overwhelms me. Where do you meet these people?”

  “He was involved in a scuffle, and I gave him a hand.”

  “Many dead?” inquired Sieben.

  “None, as far as I know.”

  “You’re getting old, Druss. Nadir, was he not? He’s got a nerve walking around Gulgothir.”

  “Aye, I liked him. He was telling me about the Uniter to come, a man with the Eyes of Alchazzar, whatever that means.”

  “That is fairly simple to explain,” said Sieben, pouring himself a goblet of wine. “It’s an old Nadir legend. Hundreds of years ago three Nadir shamans, men of great power reputedly, decided to create a statue to the gods of stone and water. They drew magic from the land and shaped the statue, which they called Alchazzar, from the stone of the Mountains of the Moon. It was, I understand, in the form of a giant wolf. Its eyes were huge amethysts, its teeth of ivory.”

  “Get to the point, poet!” snapped Druss.

  “You have no patience, Druss. Now bear with me. According to the legends, the shamans drew all the magic from the land, placing it within the wolf. They did this so that they could control the destiny of the Nadir. But one of the shamans later stole the Eyes of Alchazzar, and suddenly the magic ceased. Robbed of their gods, the Nadir tribes—peaceful until then—turned on one another, fighting terrible wars, which continue to this day. There! A nice little fable to help you sleep.”

  “So what happened to the man who stole the eyes?” asked Druss.

  “I have no idea.”

  “That’s what I hate about your stories, poet. They lack detail. Why was the magic trapped? Why did he steal the eyes? Where are they now?”

  “I shall ignore these insults, Druss, old horse,” said Sieben with a smile. “You know why? Because when word got out that you were ill, your odds against Klay lengthened to twelve to one.”

  “Ill? I have never been ill in my life. How did such a rumor start?”

  Sieben shrugged. “I would … guess it was when you failed to attend the banquet in the God-King’s honor.”

  “Damn, I forgot about it! You told them I was sick?”

  “I don’t believe I said sick … more … injured. Yes, that was it. Suffering from your injuries. Your opponent was there, and he asked after you. Such a nice fellow. Said he hoped the prophecy did not affect your style.”

  “What prophecy?”

  “Something about you losing the final,” said Sieben airily. “Absolutely nothing to worry about. Anyway, you can ask him yourself. He has invited you to his home tomorrow evening, and I should be grateful if you would accept.”

  “You would be grateful? Do I take it there is a woman involved in this?”

  “Now that you mention it, I did meet a delightful serving maid at the palace. She seems to think I’m some kind of foreign prince.”

  “I wonder how she formed that opinion,” muttered Druss.

  “No idea, old lad. However, I did invite her to dine with me here tomorrow. Anyway, I think you’ll like Klay. He’s witty and urbane, and his arrogance is carefully masked.”

  “Oh, yes,” grunted Druss. “I like him already.”

  2

  THE HOUSE ON the Street of Weavers was an old gray stone Gothir building, two stories under a roof of red terra-cotta tiles. However, the rooms inside had been redesigned after the fashion of the Chiatze. No square or rectangular rooms remained; the walls now flowed in perfect curves: ovals or circles or circles upon ovals. Doors and door frames followed those lines; even the heavy, square-framed Gothir windows, so bleak and functional from the outside, had been decorated on the interior frames with exquisitely sculpted circular covers.

  In the small central study Chorin-Tsu sat cross-legged on an embroidered rug of Chiatze silk, his deep brown eyes staring unblinking at the man kneeling before him. The newcomer’s eyes were dark and wary, and though he was kneeling, as was customary in the presence of one’s host, his body was tense and ready. He reminded Chorin-Tsu of a coiled snake, very still but ready to strike. Talisman flicked his gaze to the rounded walls, the reliefs of sculpted lacquered wood, and the delicate paintings in their lacquered frames. His gaze flowed over the works of art, never pausing to examine them. Swiftly he returned his attention to the little Chiatze. Do I like you? Chorin-Tsu wondered, as the silence lengthened. Are you a man to be trusted? Why did destiny choose you to save your people? Without blinking, Chorin-Tsu studied the young man’s face. He had a high brow, which often denoted intelligence, and his skin was closer to the gold of the Chiatze than to the jaundiced yellow of the Nadir. How old was he? Nineteen? Twenty? So young! And yet he radiated power, strength of purpose. You have gained experience beyond your years, thought the old man. And what do you see before you, young warrior? A wrinkled ancient, a lantern whose oil is almost gone, the flame beginning to stutter? An old man in a room of pretty pictures! Well, once I was strong like you, and I had great dreams also. At the thought of those dreams his mind wandered briefly, and he came to with a start and found himself staring into Talisman’s jet-black eyes. Fear touched him fleetingly, for now the eyes were cold and impatient.

  “Be so kind as to show me the token,” said Chorin-Tsu, speaking in the southern tongue, his voice barely above a whisper. Talisman reached into his tunic and produced a small coin stamped with the head of a wolf. He offered it to the old man, who took it with trembling fingers, leaning forward to examine it. Talisman found himself staring at the small white braid of hair on the crown of Chorin-Tsu’s otherwise shaven head. “It is an interesting coin, young man. Sadly, however, anyone can possess such a piece,” said the embalmer, his breath wheezing from him. “It could have been taken from the true messenger.”

  Talisman gave a cold smile. “Nosta Khan told me you were a mystic, Chorin-Tsu. You should therefore have little difficulty judging my integrity.”

  There were two shallow clay cups of water set on a silk rug. The young Nadir reached for one, but the old man waved a hand and shook his head. “Not yet, Talisman. Forgive me, but I shall tell you when to drink. As to your point, Nosta Khan was not speaking of psychic powers. I was never a true mystic. What I have been all my life, Talisman, is a student. I have studied my craft, I have examined the great sites of history, but most of all I have
studied men. The more I studied the race, the better I understood its foibles. But the curious thing about study, when conducted with an open mind, is that it makes one smaller. But forgive me; philosophy is not a Nadir preoccupation.”

  “Being savages, you mean?” answered the Nadir without rancor. “Perhaps I should therefore leave the answer to the priest-philosopher Dardalion, who said, ‘Every question answered leads to seven other questions. Therefore, to a student the gathering of knowledge merely increases the awareness of how much more there is still to know.’ Will that suffice, Master Embalmer?”

  Chorin-Tsu masked his surprise and bowed deeply. “Indeed it will, young man. And I pray you will forgive this old one for such rudeness. These are heady days, and I fear my excitement is affecting my manners.”

  “I take no offense,” said Talisman. “Life is harsh on the steppes. There is little opportunity for a contemplative existence.”

  The old man bowed again. “I do not wish to compound my rudeness, young sir, but I find myself intrigued as to where a Nadir warrior would come upon the words of Dardalion of the Thirty.”

  “It is said that a little mystery adds spice to a relationship,” Talisman told him. “However, you were talking about your studies.”

  Chorin-Tsu found himself warming further to the young man. “My studies also involve astrology, numerology, the casting of runes, the reading of palms, the fashioning of spells. And yet there remain so many things to baffle the mind. I shall give you an example.” From his belt he pulled an ivory-handled throwing knife, which he pointed toward a round target set on the wall some twenty paces away. “When I was younger, I could hurl this blade into the golden center of that target. But now, as you see, my fingers are gnarled and bent. Do it for me, Talisman.” The young Nadir caught the tossed blade. For a moment he weighed it in his hand, feeling the balance. Then he drew back his arm and let fly. The silver steel shimmered in the lantern light and flashed across the room to lance home into the target. It missed the gold by a finger’s breadth. “The target is covered with small symbols. Go and tell me the symbol that the blade pierced,” ordered Chorin-Tsu.