He felt faint and dizzy, and as if from a great distance he heard the sound of soft music, then a sigh. His vision blurred, then cleared. Upon the walls of the shrine there were flickering lights that made his eyes water. He rubbed them with finger and thumb and looked again. Shimmering in place beneath the pegs on the wall was the armor of Oshikai Demon-bane: the breastplate with its 110 leaves of hammered gold, the winged helm of black iron set with silver runes, and the dread ax Kolmisai. Talisman slowly scanned the chamber. Beautiful tapestries decorated the walls, each showing an incident from the life of Oshikai: the hunt for the black lion, the razing of Chien-Po, the flight over the mountains, the wedding to Shul-sen. The last tapestry was a spectacular piece, showing a host of ravens carrying the bride to the altar while Oshikai stood waiting with two demons beside him.
Talisman blinked and battled to hold his concentration against the waves of narcotics coursing through his blood. From the third pouch he took a ring of gold, and from the fourth a small finger bone. As Nosta Khan had commanded, he slid the ring over the bone and placed it before him. With his dagger he made a narrow cut in his left forearm, allowing the blood to drip onto the bone and the ring. “I call to thee, Lord of War,” he said. “I humbly ask for your presence.”
At first there was nothing, then a cool breeze seemed to blow across the chamber, though not a mote of dust was disturbed. A figure began to materialize over the coffin. The armor of gold flowed over him, the ax floating down to rest in his right hand. Talisman almost ceased to breathe as the spirit descended to sit cross-legged opposite him. Though broad of shoulder, Oshikai was not huge, as Talisman had expected. His face was flat and hard, the nose broad, the nostrils flared. He wore his hair tied back in a tight ponytail, and he sported no beard or mustache. His violet eyes glowed with power, and he radiated strength of purpose.
“Who calls Oshikai?” asked the translucent figure.
“I, Talisman of the Nadir.”
“Do you bring news of Shul-sen?”
The question was unexpected, and Talisman faltered. “I … I know nothing of her, lord, save legends and stories. Some say she died soon after you, others that she crossed the oceans to a world without darkness.”
“I have searched the Vales of Spirit, the Valleys of the Damned, the Fields of Heroes, the Halls of the Mighty. I have crossed the Void for time without reckoning. I cannot find her.”
“I am here, lord, to see your dreams return to life,” said Talisman, as Nosta Khan had ordered. Oshikai seemed not to hear him. “The Nadir need to be united,” continued Talisman. “To do this we must find the violet-eyed leader, but we do not know where to look.”
The spirit of Oshikai gazed at Talisman, then sighed. “He will be found when the Eyes of Alchazzar are set in their rightful sockets. The magic will flow back into the land, and then he will be revealed.”
“I seek the eyes, lord,” said Talisman. “They are said to be hidden here. Is this true?”
“Aye, it is true. They are close by, Talisman of the Nadir. But you are not destined to find them.”
“Then who, lord?”
“A foreigner will take them. More than this I will not tell you.”
“And the Uniter, lord. Can you not tell me his name?”
“His name will be Ulric. Now I must go. I must keep searching.”
“Why do you search, lord? Is there no paradise for you?”
The spirit stared at him. “What paradise could there be without Shul-sen? Death I could bear, but not this parting of souls. I will find her though it take a dozen eternities. Fare you well, Talisman of the Nadir.”
Before Talisman could speak the figure was gone. The young Nadir warrior rose unsteadily and backed to the door.
Gorkai was waiting in the moonlight. “What happened in there? I heard you speak, but there was no answer.”
“He came, but he could not help me. He was a soul in torment, seeking his wife.”
“The witch Shul-sen. They say she was burned alive, her ashes scattered to the four winds and her spirit destroyed by sorcery.”
“I have never heard that story,” said Talisman. “Among others we were taught that she crossed the sea to a land where there was no nightfall, and there she lives forever in the hope that Oshikai will find her.”
“It is a prettier tale,” admitted Gorkai, “and both would explain why the lord of war cannot find her. What will we do now?”
“We will see what tomorrow brings,” said Talisman, striding off to the rooms Gorkai had found for them. There were thirty small chambers set within the main building, all constructed for the use of pilgrims. Zhusai had spread her blankets on the floor beneath the window and pretended to be asleep as Talisman entered. He did not go to her but pulled up a chair and sat staring out at the stars.
Unable to bear the silence any longer, she spoke. “Did the spirit not come to you?” she asked.
“Aye, he came.” Slowly he told her the full story of Oshikai’s search for Shul-sen and the two legends that told of her passing.
Zhusai sat up, holding the blanket around her. “There are other stories of Shul-sen—that she was thrown from a cliff high on the Mountains of the Moon, that she committed suicide, that she was turned into a tree. Every tribe has a different tale. But it is sad that he cannot find her.”
“More than sad,” said Talisman. “He said that without her there could be no paradise.”
“How beautiful,” she said. “But then, he was Chiatze, and we are a people who understand sensitivity.”
“I have found in my life that people who boast of their sensitivity are sensitive only to their own needs and utterly indifferent to the needs of others. However, I am in no mood to argue the point.” Taking up his blanket, he lay down beside her and slept. His dreams, as always, were filled with pain.
The lash cut deeply into his back, but he did not cry out. He was Nadir, and no matter how great the pain, he would never show his suffering to these gajin, these round-eyed foreigners. The whip he had been forced to make himself, the leather wound tightly around a wooden handle and then sliced into thin strips, each tipped with a small pellet of lead. Okai counted each stroke to the prescribed fifteen. As the last slashing swipe lanced across his bleeding back, he allowed himself to slump forward against the stake. “Give him five more,” came the voice of Gargan.
“That would exceed the regulations, my lord,” answered Premian. “He has received the maximum allowed for a cadet of fifteen.” Okai could scarcely believe that Premian had spoken up for him. The house prefect had always made clear his loathing of the Nadir boys.
Gargan spoke again. “That regulation is for human beings, Premian, not Nadir filth. As you can see, he has not suffered at all. Not a sound has he made. Where there is no sense, there is no feeling. Five more!”
“I cannot obey you, my lord.”
“You are stripped of your rank, Premian. I had thought better of you.”
“And I of you, Lord Gargan.” Okai heard the lash fall to the floor. “If one more blow is laid upon this young man’s back, I shall report the incident to my father at the palace. Fifteen strokes was bad enough for a misdemeanor. Twenty would be savage beyond belief.”
“Be silent!” thundered Gargan. “One more word and you will suffer a similar punishment and face expulsion from this academy. I’ll not tolerate disobedience or insubordination. You!” he said, pointing at a boy Okai could not see. “Five more lashes if you please.”
Okai heard the whisper of the lash being swept up from the floor and tried to brace himself. Only when the first blow fell did he realize that Premian had been holding back. Whoever now held the lash was laying it on with a vengeance. At the third stroke a groan was torn from him that shamed him even more than the punishment, but he bit down hard on the leather belt between his teeth and made no further sound. Blood was running freely down his back now, pooling above the belt of his leggings. At the fifth stroke a great silence fell upon the hall. Gargan broke it. “Now, Premian, you may g
o and write to your father. Cut this piece of offal down.”
Three Nadir boys ran forward, untying the ropes that bound Okai. Even as he fell into their arms, he swung to see who had wielded the whip, and his heart sank. It was Dalsh-chin of the Fleet Ponies tribe.
His friends half carried him to the infirmary, where an orderly applied salve to his back and inserted three stitches into a deeper cut on his shoulder.
Dalsh-chin entered and stood before him. “You did well, Okai,” he said, speaking in the Nadir tongue. “My heart swelled with pride for you.”
“Why, then, did you make me cry out before the gajin?”
“Because he would have ordered five more had you not, and five more still. It was a test of will and one that might have killed you.”
“You stop talking in that filthy language,” said the orderly. “You know it is against the rules, and I won’t have it!”
Dalsh-chin nodded, then reached out and laid his hand on Okai’s head. “You have a brave heart, young one,” he said in the southern tongue. Then he turned and strode from the room.
“Twenty lashes for defending yourself,” said his closest friend, Zhen-shi. “That was not just.”
“You cannot expect justice from gajin,” Okai told him. “Only pain.”
“They have stopped hurting me,” said Zhen-shi. “Perhaps it will be better for all of us from now on.”
Okai said nothing, knowing that they had stopped hurting his friend because Zhen-shi ran errands for them, cleaned their boots, bowed and scraped, acted like a slave. As they mocked him, he would smile and bob his head. It saddened Okai, but there was little he could do. Every man had to make his own choices. His own was to resist them in every way yet learn all they could teach. Zhen-shi did not have the strength for that course; he was soft and remarkably gentle for a Nadir boy.
After a short rest in the infirmary, Okai walked unaided to the room he shared with Lin-tse. From the Sky Rider tribe, Lin-tse was taller than most Nadir youths, his face square and his eyes barely slanted. It was rumored that he had gajin blood, but no one said that to his face. Lin-tse was short of temper and long on remembered wrongs.
He stood as Okai entered. “I have brought you food and drink, Okai,” he said. “And some mountain honey for the wounds upon your back.”
“I thank you, Brother,” Okai replied formally.
“Our tribes are at war,” said Lin-tse, “and therefore we cannot be brothers. But I respect your courage.” He bowed, then returned to his studies.
Okai lay facedown on the narrow pallet bed and tried to block the hot pain that flowed from his lacerated back. “Our tribes are at war now,” he said, “but one day we will be brothers, and the Nadir will sweep down on these gajin and wipe them from the face of the earth.”
“May it be so,” responded Lin-tse. “You have an examination tomorrow, do you not?”
“Yes. The role of cavalry in punitive expeditions.”
“Then I shall question you on the subject. It will help shield your mind from the pain you are suffering.”
Talisman awoke just before dawn. Zhusai still slept as he silently rose and left the room. In the courtyard below, the blind Nadir priest was drawing water from the well. In the half light of the predawn the man looked younger, his face pale and serene. “I trust you slept well, Talisman?” he inquired as the Nadir approached.
“Well enough.”
“And were the dreams the same?”
“My dreams are my concern, old man, and should you wish to live to complete your history, you would be advised to remember my words.”
The priest laid down the bucket and sat on the lip of the well, his pale opal eyes glinting in the last of the moonlight. “Dreams are never secret, Talisman, no matter how hard we try to protect them. They are like regrets, always seeking the light, always shared. And they have meaning far beyond our understanding. You will see. Here in this place the circle will be complete.”
The priest carried the bucket to a nearby table and with a copper ladle slowly began to fill clay water pots that hung on slender ropes from the beams of the porch.
Talisman walked to the table and sat. “What are these histories you write?” he asked.
“They mostly involve the Chiatze and the Nadir. But I have become fascinated by the life of Oshikai. Do you know the origin of the name ‘Nadir’?”
Talisman shrugged. “In the southern tongue it means ‘the point of greatest hopelessness.’ ”
“In Chiatze it means ‘the crossroads of death,’ ” said the priest. “When Oshikai first led his people out of Chiatze lands, a great army followed them, seeking to exterminate what they perceived as his rebel force. He met them on the plain of Chu-chien and destroyed them. But two more armies were closing in on him, and he was forced to lead his people across the Ice Mountains. Hundreds died, and many more lost fingers and toes, arms and legs, to the terrible cold. As they cleared the frozen passes, they emerged onto the terrible desert of salt beyond. The despair was almost total. Oshikai called a meeting of his council. He told them that they were a people born in hardship and danger and that they had now reached their nadir. From that moment he changed their name. Then he addressed the multitude and told them that Shul-sen would lead them to water and that a land full of promise would await them beyond the salt desert. He spoke of a dream where the Nadir grew and prospered from shimmering sea to snow-topped peaks. That is when he gave them the verse all Nadir children learn as they suck their mothers’ milk:
Nadir we,
youth born,
ax wielders,
bloodletters,
victors still.
“What happened to Shul-sen?” asked Talisman.
The priest smiled as, laying down his bucket once more, he sat at the table. “There are so many tales, most embroidered upon, some mere fancy, others crafted with such mystical symbolism that they become meaningless. The truth, I fear, is more mundane. It is my belief that she was captured by Oshikai’s enemies and slain.”
“If that were so, he would have found her.”
“Who would have found her?”
“Oshikai. His spirit has searched for her for hundreds of years, but he has never found her. How could that be?”
“I do not know,” admitted the priest, “but I will think on it. How is it you know these things?”
“Accept merely that I know,” answered Talisman.
“We Nadir are a secretive people and yet also curious,” said the priest with a smile. “I will return to my studies and consider the question you pose me.”
“You claim to walk the many paths of the future,” said Talisman. “Why can you not walk the single path of the past and see for yourself?”
“A good question, young man. The answer is simple. A true historian must remain objective. Anyone who witnesses a great event immediately forms a subjective view of it, for it has affected him. Yes, I could go back and observe, yet I will not.”
“Your logic is flawed, priest. If the historian cannot observe events, he must then rely on the witness of others who, by your own words, can offer only a subjective view.”
The priest laughed aloud and clapped his hands together. “Ah, my boy! If only we had more time to talk. We could debate the hidden circle of deceit in the search for altruism or the lack of evidence for the nonexistence of a supreme being.” His smile faded. “But we do not have the time.”
The priest returned the bucket to the well and walked away. Talisman leaned back and watched the majesty of the dawn sun rising above the eastern peaks.
Quing-chin emerged from his tent and into the sunlight. A tall man with deep-set eyes and a solemn face, he stood enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. He had slept without dreams and had woken feeling refreshed and ready for the sweet taste of revenge, his anger of the previous day replaced by a cold, resolute sense of purpose. His men were seated in a circle nearby. Quing-chin lifted his powerful arms above his head and slowly stretched the muscles of his
upper back. His friend Shi-da rose from the circle and brought him his sword. “It is sharp now, comrade,” said the smaller man, “and ready to slice the flesh of the enemy.” The other six men in the circle rose. None were as tall as Quing-chin.
The sword brother of Shanqui, the warrior slain by the Sky Rider champion, moved before Quing-chin. “The soul of Shanqui waits for vengeance,” he said formally.
“I shall send him a servant to tend his needs,” quoted Quing-chin.
A young warrior approached the men, leading a dappled pony. Quing-chin took the reins from him and swung into the saddle. Shi-da handed him his long lance decorated with the dark double twist of horsehair that denoted a blooded warrior of the Fleet Ponies and a black helm of lacquered wood rimmed with fur. Pushing back his shoulder-length dark hair, Quing-chin donned the helm. Then, touching heels to the pony’s flanks, he rode from the camp and out past the white walls of Oshikai’s resting place.
Men were already moving around the camp of the Sky Riders, setting their cook fires, as Quing-chin rode in. He ignored them all and headed his pony toward the farthest of the eighteen tents. Outside the entrance a lance had been plunged into the ground, and set atop the weapon was the head of Shanqui. Blood had dripped to the ground below it, and the flesh on the dead face was ashen gray.
“Come forth,” called Quing-chin. The tent flap was pulled open, and a squat warrior stepped into view. Ignoring Quing-chin, he opened his breeches and emptied his bladder on the ground. Then he looked up at the severed head.
“Here to admire my tree?” he asked. “See, it is blooming already.” Most of the Sky Riders had gathered around the two men now, and they began to laugh. Quing-chin waited until the sound had died down. When he spoke, his voice was cold and harsh.
“It is perfect,” said Quing-chin. “Only a Sky Rider tree would have rotting fruit on it.”
“Ha! This tree will have fresh fruit today. So sad you will not be able to admire it.”
“Ah, but I shall. I will tend it myself. And now the time for talk is past. I shall await you in the open, where the air is not filled with the stench of your camp.”
The Legend of the Deathwalker Page 15
