The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  Talisman rose and walked across the room. The target had been decorated with curious Chiatze hieroglyphs traced in gold paint. He did not recognize most of them. But the knife blade had pierced an oval at the center of which was a delicately drawn talon, and this image he understood. “Where did it strike?” called Chorin-Tsu. Talisman told him.

  “Good, good. Come and rejoin me, my boy.”

  “I have passed your test?”

  “One of them. Here is the second. Drink from one of the cups.”

  “Which one contains the poison?” asked Talisman.

  Chorin-Tsu said nothing, and Talisman stared at the cups. “Suddenly I am not thirsty.”

  “Yet you must drink,” Chorin-Tsu insisted.

  “Tell me the purpose of the game, old one. Then I shall decide.”

  “I know you can throw a knife, Talisman; this I have seen. But can you think? Are you worthy to serve the Uniter, to bring him to our people? As you rightly surmise, one of the cups contains a deadly poison. Death will follow if it even touches your lips. The other contains nothing but water. How will you choose?”

  “There is insufficient information,” said Talisman.

  “You are wrong.”

  Talisman sat quietly, his mind working at the problem. He closed his eyes, recalling every word spoken by the old man. Leaning forward, he lifted the left-hand cup, twirling it in his fingers, and then the right. Both were identical. Transferring his gaze to the rug, he gave a rare smile. It was embroidered with the same set of symbols as the target. And below the left-hand cup was the oval and the talon. Lifting the cup, he tasted the water. It was sweet and cool.

  “Good, you are observant,” said Chorin-Tsu. “But is it not amazing that you should have thrown the knife to the exact symbol, when there were twelve others to strike?”

  “How did you know I would strike it?”

  “It was written thus in the stars. Nosta Khan knew it also. He knew it through his talent, whereas I knew it through study. Now, answer me this: What is the third test?”

  Talisman took a deep breath. “The talon was the mark of Oshikai Demon-bane, the oval the symbol of his wife, Shul-sen. When Oshikai wished to wed Shul-sen, her father set him three tasks. The first was one of marksmanship, the second concerned intelligence, the third … required a sacrifice. Oshikai had to slay a demon who had been his friend. I know no demons, Chorin-Tsu.”

  “As with all myths, my boy, they serve a purpose beyond the richness of the tales. Oshikai was a reckless man, given to great rages. The demon was merely a part of himself, the wild and dangerous side of his personality. Shul-sen’s father knew this and wanted Oshikai to pledge himself to love her till the end of his days, never to harm her, never to put her aside for another.”

  “What has this to do with me?”

  “Everything.” Chorin-Tsu clapped his hands together. The door opened, and a young Chiatze woman entered. She bowed to both men, then knelt and touched her head to the floor at Chorin-Tsu’s feet. Talisman gazed at her in the candlelight. She was exquisitely beautiful, with raven-dark hair and wide almond-shaped eyes. Her mouth was full, and her figure was trim within a white silk blouse and long satin skirt.

  “This is Zhusai, my granddaughter. It is my wish that you take her with you on your quest. It is also the wish of Nosta Khan and your father.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “No more will be said. You will leave my home and journey back to the tents of your people.”

  “And my quest?”

  “Will continue without my aid.”

  “I am not ready for a wife. I have dedicated my life to the pursuit of revenge and the Day of the Uniter. But even were I to consider marriage, then as the son of a chieftain, it would be my right to choose my own woman. It would certainly be my wish that she be Nadir. I have great respect for the Chiatze, but they are not my people.”

  Chorin-Tsu leaned forward. “Leaders have no rights; that is one of the great secrets of leadership. However, you miss the point, young man. Zhusai is not to be your wife. She is pledged to the Uniter; she will be the Shul-sen to his Oshikai.”

  “Then I do not understand,” admitted Talisman, relieved. “What sacrifice is required of me?”

  “Do you accept Zhusai into your custody? Will you protect her with your life?”

  “If that is required, so be it,” promised Talisman. “Now, what is the sacrifice?”

  “Perhaps there will be none. Zhusai, show our guest to his room.” The young woman bowed once more, then rose silently and led Talisman from the chamber.

  At the end of a short corridor Zhusai opened a door and stepped inside. Rugs were set around the room, and blankets had been spread on the floor. There were no chairs or ornaments. “This is your room,” she said.

  “Thank you, Zhusai. Tell me, have you ever been in the desert?”

  “No, lord.”

  “Does the prospect of our journey cause you concern? We will be traveling through hostile lands, and there will be many dangers.”

  “There is only one danger I fear, lord,” she said.

  “And that is?” As he asked the question he saw a gleam appear in her eyes and a tightening of the muscles of her face. In that moment the quiescent, agreeable Chiatze girl-child disappeared, replaced by a hard-eyed woman. Then, just as suddenly, the girl mask fell back into place.

  “It is best not to speak of fears, lord. For fear is akin to magic. Good night. Sleep well.”

  The door closed behind her.

  Sieben’s laughter was rich, the sound filling the room, and the Drenai ambassador reddened. “I think you’ll find that this is no subject for humor,” he said coldly. “We are talking here about international diplomacy, and the whims of individuals have no place in it.” The poet sat back and studied the ambassador’s thin face. His steel-colored hair was carefully combed and delicately perfumed, his clothes immaculate and very costly. Majon wore a white woolen cloak and a blue silk tunic edged with gold. The ambassador’s fingers toyed with his crimson neck scarf and the ceremonial brooch—a silver horse rearing—that denoted his rank. The man was angry and was allowing it to show. This, Sieben decided, was a calculated insult. Diplomats were masters of oily charm, their expressions endlessly amiable when they dealt with superiors. “Do you disagree?” asked Majon.

  “I rarely disagree with politicians,” Sieben told him. “It seems to me that the worst of you could convince me that a horse turd tastes like a honey cake. And the best would leave me believing that I alone in all the world had failed to enjoy its flavor.”

  “That is a highly insulting remark,” snapped Majon.

  “I do apologize, Ambassador. It was meant as a compliment.”

  “Will you seek to convince him or not? This matter is of the highest importance. I swear, by the memory of Missael, that we could be talking of war!”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that, Ambassador. I saw the God-King, remember?” Majon’s eyes widened, and he swiftly raised his hand to his mouth, holding a finger to his lips in warning. Sieben merely grinned. “An inspired leader,” he said with a wink. “Any ruler who would sack a politician and raise his pet cat to ministerial rank has my support.”

  Majon rose from his chair and walked to the door, opening it and peering out into the corridor. Swinging back into the room, he stood before the poet. “It is not wise to mock any ruler, most especially when in the capital city of such a man. The peoples of the Drenai and the Gothir are at peace. Long may it remain so.”

  “Yet in order to ensure that peace,” said Sieben, his smile fading, “Druss must lose against Klay?”

  “Put simply, that is indeed the situation. It would not be … appropriate … for Druss to win.”

  “I see. You have little faith, then, in the God-King’s prophecy?”

  Majon poured himself a goblet of wine and sipped it before answering. “It is not a question of faith, Sieben; it is simply politics. The God-King makes a prophecy at this time every year. They come
true. There are those who believe that since his prophecies generally concern the actions of men, the men themselves ensure their accuracy. Others simply accept that their ruler is divine. However, in this instance the point is academic. He has predicted that Klay will take the gold. If Druss were to win, it would be seen as an insult to the God-King and interpreted as a Drenai plot to destabilize the administration. The consequences of such an action could be disastrous.”

  “I suppose he could put his cat in charge of the army and attack Dros Delnoch. A terrifying prospect!”

  “Is there a brain inside that handsome head? The army you speak of numbers more than fifty thousand men, many of them battle-hardened by war against Nadir tribes and Sathuli raiders. But that is not the point. Here in Gothir there are three main factions. One faction believes in the divine right of the Gothir to conquer the world. The other seeks to conquer the world without concerning themselves with the question of divine rights. You understand? For reasons best known to themselves, each faction hates the other. This nation stands constantly on the brink of civil war. While they are thus fighting among themselves, the Drenai are free from the appalling cost of resisting an invasion.”

  “Cost? Are we talking coin here?”

  “Of course we are talking coin,” said Majon, his irritation flaring. “Mobilization of men, training, new armor, swords, breastplates. Food for the recruits. And where do we find the recruits? The land. Peasants and farmers. When they are soldiers, who gathers the crops? The answer is that many fields are left unharvested. What happens to the price of grain? It soars. And at the end, what has been achieved? The fortress will hold, and the men will go home to find that their taxes have risen to pay for the war. Fifty thousand trained soldiers angry at the government.”

  “You didn’t mention the dead,” said Sieben softly.

  “A good point. The threat of disease from corpses, the costs of burial. Then there are the cripples, who become an endless drag on the benevolence of the state.”

  “I think you have made your point, Ambassador,” put in Sieben. “Your humanity does you credit. But you mentioned three factions, and you have described only two.”

  “Lastly there is the Royal Guard, ten thousand men, the elite of the Gothir army. They placed the God-King on the throne after the last insurrection, and they keep him there. Neither of the other two factions is yet powerful enough to be guaranteed victory without the support of the guards. Therefore, everyone stands frozen, unable to move. Ideally, that situation should be encouraged to continue.”

  Sieben laughed. “And meanwhile a madman sits on the throne, his reign punctuated by murder, torture, and enforced suicides?”

  “That is a problem for the Gothir, Sieben. Our concern is the Drenai, of whom there are also close to three thousand living in Gothir lands whose lives would be forfeit if any general hostilities were announced. Merchants, laborers, physicians—aye, and diplomats. Are their lives without meaning, Sieben?”

  “Smoothly done, Majon,” said Sieben, clapping his hands. “And now we come to the horse-turd-honey cake. Of course their lives have meaning. But Druss is not responsible for them or for the actions of a madman. Don’t you understand, Ambassador? Nothing you or the God-King can do will change that. Druss is not a stupid man, yet he sees life very clearly. He will go out and face Klay and give everything he has to win. There is nothing anyone could say that would induce him to do less. Nothing at all. All your arguments here would be meaningless. Druss would say that whatever the God-King chooses to do—or not to do—is up to his own conscience. But even more than that, Druss would refuse for one very simple reason.”

  “And that is?”

  “It wouldn’t be right.”

  “I thought you said he was intelligent!” snapped Majon. “Right, indeed! What has right to do with this? We are dealing with a … sensitive and … unique ruler.”

  “We are dealing with a lunatic who, if he wasn’t king, would be locked away for his own safety,” responded Sieben.

  Majon rubbed his tired eyes. “You mock politics,” he said softly. “You sneer at diplomacy. But how do you think we hold the world at peace? I’ll tell you, Sieben. Men like me travel to places like this, and we’re fed those horse-turd cakes of yours. And we smile, and we say how nourishing they are. We move in the space between other men’s egos, massaging them as we walk. We do this not for gain but for peace and prosperity. We do it so that Drenai farmers, merchants, clerics, and laborers can raise their families in peace. Druss is a hero; he can enjoy the luxury of living his own life and speaking his own truths. Diplomats cannot. Now, will you help me convince him?”

  Sieben rose. “No, Ambassador, I will not. You are wrong in this, though I give you the benefit of the doubt as to your motives.” He walked to the door and turned. “Perhaps you’ve been eating those cakes too long. Perhaps you have acquired a taste for them.”

  Behind the paneled walls a servant slipped away to report the conversation.

  Garen-Tsen lifted the hem of his long purple robe and stepped carefully down the worn stone steps to the dungeon level. The stench there was great, but the tall Chiatze closed his mind to it. Dungeons were supposed to stink. Prisoners dragged into such places were assailed by the gloom, the damp, and the awful smell of fear. It made interrogation that much more simple.

  In the dungeon corridor he paused and listened. Somewhere to his left a man was crying, the noise muffled by the heavy stone of his cell. Two guards stood by. Garen-Tsen summoned the first. “Who weeps?” he asked.

  The guard, a fat, bearded man with stained teeth, sniffed loudly. “Maurin, sir. He was brought in yesterday.”

  “I will see him after speaking to the senator,” said Garen-Tsen.

  “Yes, sir.” The man backed away, and Garen-Tsen walked slowly to the interrogation room. An elderly man was seated there, his face blotched and swollen, his right eye almost shut. Blood had stained his white undertunic.

  “Good morning, Senator,” said Garen-Tsen, moving to a high-backed chair that a guard slid into position for him. He sat opposite the injured man, who glared at him balefully. “I understand that you have decided to remain uncooperative.”

  The prisoner took a deep, shuddering breath. “I am of the royal line, Garen-Tsen. The law expressly forbids torture.”

  “Ah, yes, the law. It also expressly forbids plotting to kill the king, I understand. And it frowns on conspiracies to overthrow the rightful government.”

  “Of course it does!” snapped the prisoner. “Which is why I would never be guilty of such dealings. The man is my nephew; you think I would plan to murder my own blood kin?”

  “And now you add heresy to the charges,” said Garen-Tsen mildly. “The God-King is never to be referred to as ‘a man.’ ”

  “A slip of the tongue,” muttered the senator.

  “Such slips are costly. Now, to matters at hand. You have four sons, three daughters, seven grandchildren, fourteen cousins, a wife, and two mistresses. Let me be frank with you, Senator. You are going to die. The only question that remains is whether you die alone or with your entire family.”

  All color drained from the prisoner’s face, but his courage remained. “You are a vile devil, Garen-Tsen. There is an excuse for my nephew, the king—poor boy—for he is insane. But you—you are an intelligent, cultured man. May the gods curse you!”

  “Yes, yes, I am sure they will. Shall I order the arrest of your family members? I do not believe your wife would relish the atmosphere of these dungeons.”

  “What do you desire from me?”

  “A document is being prepared for your signature. When it is completed and signed by you, you will be allowed to take poison. Your family will be spared.” Garen-Tsen rose. “And now you must excuse me. There are other traitors awaiting interrogation.”

  The old man looked up at the Chiatze. “There is only one traitor here, you Chiatze dog. And one day you will be dragged screaming to this very room.”

  “That m
ay indeed prove true, Senator. You, however, will not be here to see it.”

  An hour later Garen-Tsen rose from his scented bath. A young manservant applied a hot towel to his wet body, gently rubbing away the drops of water clinging to the golden skin. A second servant brought a phial of scented oil, which he massaged into Garen-Tsen’s back and shoulders. When he had finished, a third boy stepped forward carrying a fresh purple robe. The Chiatze raised his arms, and the robe was expertly settled in place. Two ornate slippers were laid on the rug at his feet. Garen-Tsen slipped his feet into them and walked to his study. The ornate desk of carved oak had been freshly polished with beeswax and scented with lavender. Three inkwells had been placed there, along with four fresh white quill pens. Seating himself in a padded leather chair, Garen-Tsen took up a quill and a virgin sheet of thick paper and began his report.

  As the noon bell was struck in the courtyard beyond, there came a tap at his door. “Enter!” he called. A slim, dark-haired man moved to the desk and bowed.

  “Yes, Oreth, make your report.”

  “The sons of Senator Gyall have been arrested. His wife committed suicide. Other family members have fled, but we are hunting them now. The wife of the noble Maurin has transferred funds to a banker in Drenan: eighty thousand gold pieces. His two brothers are already in the Drenai capital.”

  “You will send a message to our people in Drenan. They must deal with the traitors.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything else, Oreth?”

  “Only one small matter, sir. The Drenai fighter, Druss. It seems he will probably attempt to win. His ambassador will try to persuade him, but the fighter’s friend, Sieben, maintains he will not be convinced.”

  “Who do we have following the fighter?”

  “Jarid and Copass.”

  “I have spoken to Klay, and he says the Drenai will prove a tough opponent. Very well, arrange to have him waylaid and cut. Any deep wound will suffice.”