The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  “Are they there?”

  “Of course they are not there,” snapped Sieben. “But the corpse is wearing a lon-tsia exactly like the one we found on the woman.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No. He has no fingers, Druss. Someone must have hacked them away to get at his rings. Put the lid back.”

  Druss did so. “What now?” he asked.

  “I will think on it,” said the poet. “There is something here that is not right. It will come to me.”

  “Make it soon, poet. Otherwise you may find yourself at the center of a war.”

  “A charming thought.”

  The sound of horses’ hooves came from the compound. Druss walked to the door and stepped into the sunlight. Sieben followed him in time to see Nuang Xuan leap from his pony, his people streaming in through the gates behind him.

  “I thought you were heading away from here,” called Druss.

  The Nadir leader hawked and spit. “So did I, axman. But some fool set a fire in our path, and we had no choice but to flee from it. When we tried to cut across to the east, we saw a column of lancers. Truly the gods of stone and water hate me.”

  “You’re still alive, old man.”

  “Pah, not for much longer. Thousands of them there are, all heading this way. I will let my people rest for tonight.”

  “You are a bad liar, Nuang Xuan,” said Druss. “You have come here to fight, to defend the shrine. It is no way to change your luck.”

  “I ask myself, Is there no end to Gothir malice? How does it benefit them to destroy that which we hold dear?” He drew in a deep breath. “I shall stay,” he said. “I will send the women and children away, but I and my warriors will stay. And as for luck, axman, to die defending a sacred place is a privilege. And I am not so old. I think I will kill a hundred by myself. You are staying, yes?”

  “It is not my fight, Nuang.”

  “What they are planning to do is evil, Druss.” He gave a sudden gap-toothed grin. “I think you will stay, too. I think the gods of stone and water brought you here so that you could watch me kill my hundred. Now I must find the leader here.”

  Sieben walked to where Niobe was standing in the shade. She was carrying a canvas pack, which she had dropped to the ground at her feet. Sieben smiled. “Missed me?” he asked.

  “I am too tired for lovemaking,” she said tonelessly.

  “Ever the Nadir romantic,” said Sieben. “Come, let me get you some water.”

  “I can fetch my own water.”

  “I am sure that you can, my lovely, but I would cherish your company.” Taking her hand, he led her to the table in the shade. Stone jugs had been filled with water, and there were clay cups on the table. Sieben filled one and passed it to her.

  “Do men serve women in your land?” she asked.

  “One way or another,” he agreed. Niobe drained the cup and held it out to him, and Sieben refilled it.

  “You are strange,” she said. “And you are no warrior. What will you do here when the blood spills?”

  “With luck I won’t be here when the fighting starts. But if I am …” He spread his hands. “I have some skill with wounds,” he told her. “I will be the fort surgeon.”

  “I, too, can stitch wounds. We will need cloth for bandages and much thread. Also needles. I will gather these things. And there must be a place for the dead; otherwise they stink, bloat, split, and attract flies.”

  “How nicely phrased,” he said. “Shall we talk about something else?”

  “Why for?”

  “Because this subject is … demoralizing.”

  “I do not know this word.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think you do. Tell me, are you frightened at all?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of the Gothir.”

  She shook her head. “They will come; we will kill them.”

  “Or be killed by them,” he pointed out.

  She shrugged. “Whatever,” she said grimly.

  “You, my dear, are a fatalist.”

  “You are wrong. I am of the Lone Wolves,” she said. “We were to be Eagle Wing tribe under Nuang. Now there are not enough of us, so we will become Lone Wolves again.”

  “Niobe of the Lone Wolves, I adore you,” he said with a smile. “You are a breath of fresh air in this jaded life of mine.”

  “I will only wed a warrior,” she told him sternly. “But until a good one approaches me, I will sleep with you.”

  “What gentleman would spurn such a delicate advance?” he said.

  “Strange,” she muttered, then walked away from him.

  Druss strolled across the compound. “Nuang says he’s tired of running. He and his people will stay here and fight.”

  “Can they win, Druss?”

  “They look like a tough bunch, and Talisman has done well with the defenses.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “There is no answer,” Druss told him. “Only odds. I wouldn’t bet half a copper on their holding for more than a day.”

  Sieben sighed. “Naturally this does not mean we’ll do something sensible—like leave?”

  “The Gothir have no right to despoil this shrine,” said Druss, a cold look in his gray eyes. “It is wrong. This Oshikai was a hero to all the Nadir. His bones should be left in peace.”

  “Excuse me for stating the obvious, old horse, but his tomb has already been plundered and his bones hacked around. I think he’s probably past caring by now.”

  “It is not about him; it’s about them,” said Druss, indicating the Nadir. “Despoiling the shrine robs them of their heritage. Such a deed has no merit. It is born of spite, and I can’t abide such things.”

  “We’re staying, then?”

  Druss smiled. “You should leave,” he said. “This is no place for a poet.”

  “That is a tempting thought, Druss, old horse. I may just do that—as soon as we sight their battle flags.”

  Nuang called out to Druss, and the axman strode away. As Sieben sat at the table, sipping water, Talisman walked across to him and sat down.

  “Tell me of the friend who is dying,” he said. Sieben explained all that he knew about the fight that had left Klay crippled, and Talisman listened gravely.

  “It is right,” he said, “that a man should risk all for friendship. It shows he has a good heart. He has fought in many battles?”

  “Many,” Sieben said bitterly. “You know how a tall tree attracts lightning during a storm? Well, Druss is like that. Wherever he is battles just seem to spring up around him. It really is galling.”

  “Yet he survives them.”

  “That is his talent. Wherever he walks, death is close behind.”

  “He will be most welcome here,” said Talisman. “But what of you, Sieben? Niobe tells me you wish to be our surgeon. Why should you do this?”

  “Stupidity runs in my family.”

  Lin-tse sat on his pony and scanned the pass. To his right rose the sheer red rock face of Temple Stone, a towering monument to the majesty of nature, its flanks scored by the winds of time, its shape carved by a long-forgotten sea that had once covered that vast land. To Lin-tse’s left was a series of jagged slopes covered with boulders. The enemy would have to pass along the narrow trail that led down beside Temple Stone. Dismounting, he ran up the first slope, pausing at several jutting rocks. With enough men and enough time, he could dislodge several of the larger boulders and send them hurtling down onto the trail. He thought about it for a while.

  Running back to his pony, he vaulted to the saddle and led his small company deeper into the red rocks. Talisman needed a victory, something to lift the hearts of the defenders.

  But how? Talisman had mentioned Fecrem and the Long Retreat; that had involved a series of lightning guerrilla raids on enemy supply lines. Fecrem had been Oshikai’s nephew and a skilled raider. Red dust rose in puffs of clouds beneath the ponies’ hooves, and Lin-tse’s throat was dry as he leaned in to
his mount, urging the stallion up the steep slope. At the crest he paused and dismounted once more. Here the trail widened. A long finger of rock jutted from the left, leaning toward a cluster of boulders on the right. The gap between them was about eighteen feet. Lin-tse pictured the advancing line of lancers. They would be traveling slowly, probably in a column of twos. If he could make them move faster at this point … Swinging in the saddle, he scanned the back trail. The slope behind him was steep, but a skilled horseman could ride down it at a run. And the lancers were skilled. “Wait here,” he told his men, then dragged on the reins. The pony reared and twisted, but Lin-tse heeled him into a run and set off down the slope. At the bottom he drew up sharply. Dust had kicked up behind him like a red mist over the trail. Lin-tse angled to the right and moved on more cautiously. Away from the trail the ground was more broken, leading to a crevice and a sheer drop of some three hundred feet. Dismounting again, he moved to the lip of the chasm, then worked his way along it. At the widest point there was at least fifty feet between the two edges, but it narrowed to ten feet where he knelt. On the other side the ground was angled upward and littered with rocks. But this part led to a wider trail, and Lin-tse followed it with his eyes. It would take him down to the western side of Temple Stone.

  He sat alone for a while, thinking the plan through. Then he rode back to his men.

  Premian led his hundred lancers deep into the red rock country. He was tired, his eyes bloodshot and gritty. The men behind him rode silently in a column of twos; all of them were unshaven, their water rations down by a third. For the fourth time that morning, Premian held his arm in the air, and the troops reined in. The young officer Mikal rode alongside Premian. “What do you see, sir?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Send a scout to that high ground to the northeast.”

  “There is no army facing us,” complained Mikal. “Why all these precautions?”

  “You have your orders. Obey them,” said Premian. The young man reddened and wheeled his horse. Premian had not wanted Mikal on this mission. The boy was young and hot-headed. Worse, he held the Nadir in contempt even after the fire at the camp. But Gargan had overruled him; he liked Mikal and saw in him a younger version of himself. Premian knew that the men did not object to the slow advance into enemy territory. The Royal Lancers had all fought Nadir warriors in the past and in the main were canny men who would sooner suffer discomfort in the saddle than ride unaware into an ambush.

  One fact was sure: the man who planned the raid on the camp would not have only one string to his bow. Premian had not ridden these lands before, but he had studied the exquisite maps in the Great Library at Gulgothir and knew that the area around Temple Stone was rich with hiding places from which archers could attack his troops or send boulders hurtling down on them. Under no circumstances would he lead his men headlong into the enemy’s arms. Sitting on his mount, he watched as the scout rode to the high ground. The man reached the top and then waved his arm in a circular motion, indicating that the way was clear. Premian led his four companies forward once more.

  His mouth was dry. Fishing in his saddlebag, he produced a small silver coin, which he put into his mouth to encourage salivation. The men would be watching him, and if he drank, then so would they. According to the maps, there was no major water supply in this region, though there were several dry riverbeds. Often solid digging produced small seeps that would at least give the horses a drink. Or there might be hidden rock tanks of which the cartographers were unaware. Premian kept watch for bees, which never strayed far from water. So far he had seen nothing. Nor had the horses reacted to the shifting of the hot winds; they could scent water from great distances.

  Premian summoned his master sergeant, Jomil. The man was close to fifty and a veteran of Nadir campaigns. Heeling his horse alongside Premian, he gave a crisp salute. His grizzled face looked even older, with its two-day growth of silver bristles. “What do you think?” he asked the man.

  “They’re close,” answered Jomil. “I can almost smell them.”

  “Lord Larness requires prisoners,” said Premian. “Relay that to the men.”

  “A reward would be pleasant,” suggested Jomil.

  “There will be one, but do not announce it. I want no recklessness.”

  “Ah, but you are a careful man, sir,” Jomil said with a grin.

  Premian smiled. “That is what I would like my grandchildren to say as I sit with them in the cool of an autumn garden: ‘He was a careful man.’ ”

  “I already have grandchildren,” Jomil told him.

  “Probably more than you know.”

  “No ‘probably’ about it, sir.” Jomil returned to his men, passing the word concerning prisoners. Premian lifted the white horsehair-plumed helm from his head and ran his fingers through his sweat-streaked blond hair. Just for a moment the wind felt cool as the sweat evaporated, then the oppressive heat began again. Premian replaced the helm.

  Ahead, the trail twisted and Temple Stone came into sight. Shaped like a giant bell, it reared up majestically toward the sky. Premian found it an impressive sight and wished he had the time to sketch it. The trail steepened toward a crest. Summoning Mikal, he told him to take his company of twenty-five to the crest and wait for the main body to follow. The young man saluted and led his men away to the east. Premian scowled. He was riding too fast. Did he not understand that the horses were tired and that water was scarce?

  Mikal and his men reached the crest just in time to see a small group of four startled Nadir warriors running for their ponies. Lord Gargan had said he wanted prisoners, and Mikal could almost hear the words of praise the general would heap upon him. “A gold Raq for the man who captures one!” he shouted, and spurred his mount. The gelding leapt forward. The Nadir scrambled to their mounts and kicked them into a run, sending up clouds of red dust as they galloped down the slope. The ponies were no match for Gothir horses, and it would be only a matter of moments before Mikal and his men reached them. Drawing his saber, Mikal squinted against the dust and leaned in to the neck of his mount, urging it to greater speed. The Nadir rounded a bend in the trail. He could just make them out through the dust cloud. His horse was at a full gallop, his men bunched behind him as he rounded the bend. He saw the Nadir slightly to the left; their horses bunched and jumped, as if going over a small fence.

  In that terrible moment Mikal saw the chasm yawning before him like the mouth of a giant beast. Throwing himself back in the saddle, he hauled savagely on the reins, but it was too late. The gelding, at a full gallop, leapt out over the awesome drop and then tipped headfirst, flinging Mikal from the saddle. He fell screaming toward the distant rocks.

  Behind him the lancers had also dragged on their reins. Seven fell immediately after him, the others milling at the edge of the crevice. Fifteen Nadir warriors, shouting at the tops of their voices, rose from hiding places in the rocks and ran toward the riders. The startled horses bolted, sending ten more lancers plunging to their deaths. The remaining eight men jumped from their saddles and turned to fight. Outnumbered and demoralized, with the chasm behind them and nowhere to run, they were hacked down swiftly and mercilessly. Only one Nadir warrior was wounded, his face gashed, the skin of his cheek flapping against his chin. Gathering the Gothir horses and the helms of the fallen men, they rode swiftly back down the trail.

  Premian and his three companies topped the crest moments later. Jomil rode down and found the bodies. Returning to his captain, he made his report. “All dead, sir. Most of them appear to have ridden over a cliff. Their bodies are scattered on the rocks below. Some good men lost, sir.”

  “Good men,” agreed Premian, barely keeping the fury from his voice. “Led by an officer with the brains of a sick goat.”

  “I heard your order to him, sir. You told him to wait. You’re not to blame, sir.”

  “We’ll detour down to the bodies and bury them,” he said. “How many do you think were in the attacking party?”

  “From the tracks, no
more than twenty, sir. Some of the Nadir were riding ahead of our boys. They jumped the gorge at a narrow point.”

  “So, twenty-six men dead for the loss of how many of the enemy?”

  “Some were wounded. There was blood on the ground where they hid their ponies—maybe ten of them.”

  Premian gave him a hard look. “Well, maybe one or two,” Jomil admitted.

  It took more than three hours to detour to the foot of the chasm. By the time the Gothir troops reached the bodies, it was almost dusk.

  The eighteen corpses had all been stripped of armor and weapons and beheaded.

  10

  SIEBEN STOOD AND gazed around at the old storehouse. Niobe and the other Nadir women had cleaned it of dust, dirt, and ancient cobwebs, and five lanterns had been set in brackets on the walls. Only one was lit now, and he used its flickering light to study the layout of this new hospital. Two barrels full of water had been set at the northern end of the large, square room, placed close to the two long tables the Nadir had carried in earlier. Sieben examined the tools set there: an old pair of pliers, three sharp knives, several curved needles of horn, and one long straight needle of iron. He found that his hands were trembling. Niobe moved silently alongside him. “Is this all you need, po-et?” she asked, laying a small box filled with thread on the table.

  “Blankets,” he said. “We’ll need blankets. And food bowls.”

  “Why for food bowls?” she asked. “If a wounded man has strength to eat, he has strength to fight.”

  “A wounded man loses blood and therefore strength. Food and water will help rebuild him.”

  “Why do you tremble?”

  “I have assisted surgeons three times in my life. Once I even stitched a wound in a man’s shoulder. But my knowledge of anatomy … the human body … is severely limited. I do not, for example, know what to do with a deep belly wound.”

  “Nothing,” she said simply. “A deep belly wound is death.”