“How will I know how to heal?”
Shaoshad smiled. “You do not need to know; that is the beauty of magic, poet. Simply place your hands over the wound and think it healed. Once you have done this, you will understand more.”
“I thank you, Shaoshad.”
“No, poet, it is I who thank you. Use them wisely. Now replace the lid of the coffin.”
Sieben took hold of the stone and, as he did so, glanced down. Just for a moment he saw the lon-tsia of Oshikai gleaming among the bones, then it faded. Dragging the lid back into place, he turned to Shaoshad. “He wears it once more,” said the poet.
“Aye, as it should be, hidden again by a hide-spell. No one will plunder it. The other has returned to the resting place of Shul-sen.”
“Can we win here?” Sieben asked, as the shaman’s image began to fade.
“Winning and losing are entirely dependent on what you are fighting for,” answered Shaoshad. “All men here could die, yet you could still win. Or all men could live and you could lose. Fare you well, poet.”
The spirit vanished. Sieben shivered, then thrust his hands in his pocket, curling his fingers around the stones.
Returning to the hospital, he walked silently among the ranks of wounded men. In the far corner a man groaned, and Sieben moved to his side, kneeling beside the blanket on which he lay. A lantern flickered brightly on the wall, and by its light Sieben looked at the man’s gaunt face. He had been stabbed in the belly, and though Sieben had stitched the outer flap of the wound, the bleeding was deep and internal. The man’s eyes were fever-bright. Sieben gently laid a hand on the bandages and closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. For a moment nothing happened; then bright colors filled his mind, and he saw the torn muscles, the split entrails, the pooling blood within the wound. In that instant he knew every muscle and fiber, the attachments, the blood routes, the sources of pain and discomfort. It was as if he were floating inside the wound. Blood flowed from the gaping gash in a twisting purple cylinder, but as Sieben gazed at it, the gash closed and healed. Moving on, he sealed other cuts, his mind flowing back from the depths of the wound, healing as he went. At last he reached the outer stitches, and there he stopped. It would be wise to let the man feel the pull of the stitches when he woke, he thought. If any wound was utterly healed, the secret of the stones would be out.
The warrior blinked. “It is taking me a long time to die,” he said.
“You are not going to die,” Sieben promised him. “Your wound is healing, and you are a strong man.”
“They pierced my guts.”
“Sleep now. In the morning you will feel stronger.”
“You speak the truth?”
“I do. The wound was not as deep as you believe. You are healing well. Sleep.” Sieben touched the man’s brow; instantly his eyes closed, and his head lolled to one side.
Sieben made his way to every wounded man, one by one. Most were sleeping. Those who were awake he spoke softly to and healed. At last he came to Nuang. As he floated within the old man’s injuries, he found himself drawn to the heart, and there he found a section so thin that it was almost transparent. Nuang could have died at any time, he realized, for his heart, under strain, could have torn itself apart like wet paper. Sieben concentrated on the area, watching it thicken. The arteries were hard, the inner walls choked and narrow; those he opened and made supple.
Withdrawing at last, he sat back. There was no feeling of weariness in him but instead a sense of exultation and rare delight.
Niobe was asleep in another corner of the room. Placing the jewels in a pouch, he hid them behind a water cask, moved to Niobe, and lay down beside her, feeling her warmth against him. Drawing a blanket over them both, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. She moaned and rolled in to him, whispering a name that was not his. Sieben smiled.
She awoke then and raised herself up on one elbow. “Why you smile, po-et?” she asked him.
“Why not? It is a fine night.”
“You wish to make love?”
“No, but I would appreciate a hug. Come close.”
“You are very warm,” she said, snuggling alongside him and resting her arm on his chest.
“What do you want from life?” he whispered.
“Want? What is there to want? Apart from a good man and strong babies?”
“And that is all?”
“Rugs,” she said after thinking for a few moments. “Good rugs. And a fire bucket of iron. My uncle had a fire bucket of iron; it heated the tent on the cold nights.”
“What about rings and bracelets, items of gold and silver?”
“Yes, those, too,” she agreed. “You will give them to me?”
“I think so.” Turning his head, he kissed her cheek. “Amazing as it might seem, I have fallen in love with you. I want you with me. I will take you to my own land and buy you an iron fire bucket and a mountain of rugs.”
“And the babies?”
“Twenty if you want them.”
“Seven. I want seven.”
“Then seven it will be.”
“If you are mocking me, po-et, I will cut out your heart.”
Sieben chuckled. “No mockery, Niobe. You are the greatest treasure I ever found.”
Sitting up, she looked around the large hospital. “Everyone is sleeping,” she said suddenly.
“Yes.”
“I think some must have died.”
“I don’t believe so,” he told her. “In fact I am sure that is not the case, just as I am sure none will wake for several hours. So let us return to your earlier offer.”
“Now you want lovemaking?”
“Indeed I do. Maybe for the first time in my life.”
Master Sergeant Jomil pressed his thick fingers to the cut on his face, trying to stem the flow of blood. Sweat trickled into the shallow wound, the salt stinging him, and he cursed. “You are slowing down, Jomil,” said Premian.
“Little bastard almost took my eye out … sir,” he said.
The bodies of the Nadir defenders were dragged from the rocks and laid in a line away from the pool. The fourteen Gothir dead had been wrapped in their cloaks, the bodies of the six slain lancers tied across the saddles of their mounts, the infantrymen buried where they had fallen.
“By the blood of Missael, they put up a fight, didn’t they, sir?” said Jomil.
Premian nodded. “They were fighting for pride and love of land. There is no greater motivation.” Premian himself had led the charge up the slope while the infantry had stormed the rocks. Weight of numbers had carried the day, but the Nadir had fought well. “You’ll need stitches in that face wound. I’ll attend to it presently.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jomil replied without enthusiasm.
Premian grinned at him. “How is it that a man can face swords, axes, arrows, and spears without flinching yet be terrified of a small needle and a length of thread?”
“I get to whack the buggers with the swords and axes,” said Jomil.
Premian laughed aloud, then moved to the poolside. The water was deep, clear, and cool. Kneeling, he cupped his hands and drank deeply; then, rising, he walked to the line of Nadir dead. Eighteen men, some of them little more than boys. Anger churned inside him: what a wasted exercise this was. What a futile little war! Two thousand highly trained Gothir soldiers marching through a wasteland to sack a shrine.
Yet something was wrong. Premian could feel it. An invisible worry nagged at his subconscious. An infantry soldier approached him and saluted. The man had a bloody bandage around his scalp.
“Can we start cook fires, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, but move farther into the rocks. I don’t want the smoke to spook the wagon horses when they arrive. It’ll be hard enough getting them up the slope.”
“Yes, sir.”
Premian walked to his horse and took a needle and thread from his saddlebag. Jomil saw him and cursed under his breath. It was only two hours past dawn, and already the heat was form
idable, radiating from the red rocks. Premian knelt by Jomil’s side and eased the flap of skin into place over his right cheekbone. Expertly he stitched the wound. “There,” he said at last. “Now you’ll have a fine scar to bewitch the ladies.”
“I already have more than enough scars to brag of,” grumbled Jomil. Then he grinned. “You remember that battle outside Lincairn Pass, sir?”
“Yes. You received an unfortunate wound, I recall.”
“I don’t know about unfortunate. The ladies love the story about that one. Not sure why.”
“Buttock wounds are always a source of great merriment,” said Premian. “As I recall, you were awarded forty gold crowns for bravery. Did you save any of it?”
“Not a copper of it. I spent most of it on strong drink, fat women, and gambling. The rest I wasted.” Premian glanced back at the Nadir dead. “Something bothering you, sir?” asked Jomil.
“Yes, but I don’t know what.”
“You expected there to be more of them, sir?”
“Perhaps a few.” Premian strolled to the line of dead warriors, then called out to a young Gothir lancer. The man ran to his side. “You were involved in the first attack. Which of these is the leader?”
The lancer gazed down at all the faces. “It is hard to say, sir. They all look alike to me, vomit-colored and slant-eyed.”
“Yes, yes,” Premian said irritably. “But what do you remember of the man?”
“He had a white scarf over his head. Oh … and rotting teeth. I remember that. They were yellow and black. Vile.”
“Check the teeth of the dead,” ordered Premian. “Find him for me.”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied, without enthusiasm.
Moving back to Jomil, he reached out, taking the man’s extended hand and hauling him to his feet. “Time to work, Sergeant,” he said. “Get the infantry out on the slope. I want all the boulders pushed from the trail. We’ve fourteen wagons on the way, and it will be bad enough trying to get them up the slope without needing to negotiate them through a maze of scattered rocks.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lancer returned from his examination of the corpses. “He’s not there, sir; he must have run off.”
“Run off? A man who would leap from a rock twenty feet high and launch himself into a group of lancers? A man who could inspire his warriors to die for him? Run off? That is most unlikely. If he is not here, then … sweet Karna!” Premian swung on Jomil. “The wagons; he has gone after the wagons!”
“He can’t have more than a handful of men,” argued Jomil. “There are fourteen drivers, tough and armed.”
Premian ran to his horse and stepped into the saddle. Calling out to two of his officers, he ordered them to gather their companies and follow him. Kicking the horse into a run, he left the pool and galloped out onto the slope. As he breasted the rise, he saw the smoke more than a mile to the south. At full gallop he pushed the gelding hard. Behind him came fifty lancers.
It was a matter of minutes before they rounded a bend in the trail and saw the burning wagons. The horses had been cut free, and the bodies of several of the drivers could be seen with arrows jutting from their chests. Premian dragged his exhausted mount to a halt and swiftly surveyed the scene. Smoke was billowing around the area, stinging his eyes. Five wagons were burning.
Suddenly he saw a man with a blazing torch run through the smoke. He was wearing a white head scarf. “Take him!” bellowed Premian, kicking his horse forward. The lancers swept out around him, riding through the oily smoke.
A small group of Nadir warriors were desperately trying to fire the remaining wagons. As the thunder of hoofbeats reached them over the roaring of the flames, they dropped their torches and ran for their ponies.
The lancers tore into them, cutting them down.
Premian swung his horse just as something dark came at him from a blazing wagon. He instinctively ducked as a white-scarfed Nadir warrior cannoned into him, sending him hurtling from the saddle. They hit hard, and Premian rolled, scrabbling for his sword. But the man ignored him and, taking hold of the saddle pommel, vaulted to the gelding’s back. Drawing his saber, the Nadir charged the lancers, hacking and cutting. One man fell from his mount with his throat slashed open; a second pitched to his left as the flickering blade pierced his face. A lance ripped into the Nadir’s back, half lifting him from the saddle. Twisting savagely, he tried to reach the lancer. Another soldier heeled his horse forward, driving his longsword into the man’s shoulder. The Nadir, dying now, sent one last lunge at the sword wielder, the blade piercing his arm. Then he sagged to his right. The gelding reared, throwing him to the ground with the lance still embedded deep in his back. He struggled to rise and groped for his fallen saber; blood was bubbling from his mouth, and his legs were unsteady. A rider closed in on him, but he lashed out, his sword cutting the horse’s flanks. “Get back from him!” shouted Premian. “He’s dying.”
The Nadir staggered and turned toward Premian. “Nadir we!” he shouted.
A lancer spurred his horse forward and slashed his sword down at the man. The Nadir ducked under the blow and leapt forward to grab the lancer’s cloak, dragging him down into the path of his saber, which sliced up into the man’s belly. The lancer screamed and pitched from the saddle. Both men fell to the ground. Soldiers leapt from their mounts and surrounded the fallen Nadir, hacking and cleaving his body.
Premian ran forward. “Get back, you fools!” he yelled. “Save the wagons!”
Using their cloaks, the lancers beat at the flames, but it was useless. The dry timbers had caught now, and the fires raged on, unstoppable. Premian ordered the five remaining wagons pulled clear, then sent out riders to gather the wagon horses, which, having picked up the scent of water, were walking slowly toward the pool. Ten of the drivers were also found, hiding in a gully, and were brought before Premian. “You ran,” he said, “from seven Nadir warriors. Now half our wagons are gone. You have put the entire army in peril by your cowardice.”
“They came screaming out of the steppes in a cloud of dust,” argued one man. “We thought there was an army of them.”
“You will take your places on the remaining wagons and see them loaded and the water delivered back to the camp. Once there, you will face Lord Gargan. I don’t doubt your backs will feel the weight of the lash. Now get out of my sight!”
Swinging away from them, Premian thought through the mathematics of the situation. Five wagons with eight barrels each. Some fifteen gallons could be stored in each barrel. In those conditions a fighting man needed, minimally, around two pints of water per day. By that rough estimate he calculated that one barrel could supply sixty men with water. Forty barrels would be barely enough for the men, let alone the horses. And the horses for only one day … From now on there would have to be a constant shuttle between the camp and the pool.
Still, he reasoned, it could have been worse. If he had not reacted when he had, all the wagons would have been lost. But the thought did not cheer him. If he had left a guard force with them in the first place, the Nadir attack would have failed.
His thinking was interrupted by the sound of savage laughter and the hacking of sword blades. The white-scarfed Nadir leader had been beheaded and dismembered. Furious, Premian ran into the jeering group. “Stand to attention!” he bellowed, and the men shuffled nervously into a line. “How dare you?” stormed Premian. “How dare you behave like savages? Do you have any idea what you look like at this moment? Would any of you wish to be seen by your loved ones, prancing about and waving the limbs of a dead warrior above your heads? You are Gothir! We leave this … barbarity to lesser races.”
“Permission to speak, sir?” asked a lean soldier.
“Spit it out.”
“Well, Lord Gargan said all Nadir were to have their hands cut off, didn’t he, sir?”
“That was a threat made to frighten the Nadir, who believe that if they lose a limb, they will be devoid of that limb throughout eternity. It w
as not a threat, I believe, that Lord Gargan intends to carry out in reality. I may be wrong in this. But here and now I am in command. You will dig a grave for that man and place his limbs alongside him. He was my enemy, but he was brave and gave his life for a cause he believed in. He will be buried whole. Am I understood?”
The men nodded. “Then get to it.”
Jomil approached Premian, and the two walked away from the surly group. “That wasn’t wise, sir,” said Jomil, keeping his voice low. “You’ll get the name of a Nadir lover. Word’ll spread that you’re soft on the enemy.”
“It doesn’t matter a damn, my friend. I shall be resigning my commission the moment this battle is over.”
“That’s as may be, sir, but if you’ll pardon my bluntness, I don’t think Lord Gargan was making an idle threat. And I don’t want to see him putting you on trial for disobedience.”
Premian smiled and looked into the old soldier’s grizzled face. “You are a fine friend, Jomil. I value you highly. But my father told me never to be a part of anything that lacked honor. He once said to me that there was no greater satisfaction for a man than to be able to look in the mirror while shaving and be proud of what he saw. At this moment I am not proud.”
“I think you ought to be,” Jomil said softly.
It was three hours after noon, and still the enemy had not attacked. The foot soldiers were sitting in the camp, many of them using their cloaks and swords to form screens against the harsh heat of the blazing sun. The horses of the lancers were picketed to the west. Most stood forlornly with their heads down; others had sunk to the ground for want of water.
Shading his eyes, Druss saw the five water wagons returning and gave a low curse under his breath. Gothir soldiers ran to the wagons, surrounding them.
Talisman climbed to the ramparts and stood beside Druss. “I should have sent more men with Kzun,” he said.
Druss shrugged. “As I recall, they set out last night with fourteen wagons. Your man did well. There’ll be scarcely enough water in those wagons, and they’ll not last a day. The horses alone need more than those wagons will supply.”
The Legend of the Deathwalker Page 34
