The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  “You’ve been in sieges before?” asked Talisman.

  “Aye, laddie. Too many.”

  “Then what is your appraisal?”

  “I think they’ll throw everything at us. They can’t play a waiting game. They have no engineers to mine the walls; they have no battering ram to smash the gates. I think they’ll send in every man they have, lancers and foot. They’ll storm this wall by sheer weight of numbers.”

  “I think not,” said Talisman. “It is my belief that they will try a three-pronged attack. This western wall will take the brunt, but I think they will also try to breach the gates and one other wall. They will try to stretch us. Only if that fails will they risk the final assault.”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” said Druss. “If they do what you surmise, how will you combat it?”

  Talisman smiled wearily. “Our options are limited, Druss. We just hold as best we can.”

  Druss shook his head. “You’ve got to assume that some of their soldiers will get through to the ramparts and perhaps down into the compound itself. Our reaction to that will be crucial. Gut instinct tells a man to tackle the nearest enemy, but in that situation such instincts are liable to prove fatal. If a wall is breached, the first option must be to seal the breach. The men already inside are a secondary consideration.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “You already have a small reserve force ready to fill in the gaps. Draw more men to it and split them into two groups. If the enemy takes a section of wall, one group must join the defenders to win it back. The second group can attack those who have penetrated inside. We have only one outer perimeter. There is nowhere to fall back to, so these ramparts must be held. No defender must leave his post on them no matter what he sees in the compound below. The walls, Talisman! Nothing else matters.”

  The young Nadir nodded. “I take your point, axman. It will be relayed to the men. Did you know that the tribes have been drawing lots to see which group should have the privilege of standing beside you today?”

  Druss chuckled. “So that’s what they were doing. Who did I get?”

  “The Sky Riders. They are greatly pleased. It is rare for a gajin to be so popular.”

  “You think so?” Druss hefted his ax. “I’m usually popular at times like this. Could be the song of the soldier, could it not? When war and the fear of war come upon people, they revere the warrior. Once the war has passed, he is forgotten or reviled. It never changes.”

  “You don’t sound bitter about it,” Talisman pointed out.

  “I don’t get bitter at the falling of the sun or the cold north wind. They are facts of life. I once took part in a raid that rescued a score of rich farmers from Sathuli tribesmen. Oh, they waxed eloquent about how heroic we were, how they would honor us always. There was a young soldier with us who lost an arm that day. He was from their town. Within six months he and his family had almost starved to death. Facts of life.”

  “And did they die?”

  “No. I went back to the Sentran Plain and spoke to the leader of the farmers, reminded him of his obligations.”

  “I am not surprised that he listened,” said Talisman, looking into Druss’ cold blue eyes. “But you will not find that with us. Nadir memories are long. You are the Deathwalker; your legend will live on with us.”

  “Legends. Pah! I have had enough of legends. If I had half the courage of a farmer, I would be at home with my wife, looking after my lands.”

  “You have no sons?”

  “None. Nor will have,” said Druss coldly. “No. All I will leave behind are those damned legends.”

  “Some men would die for your fame.”

  “A lot of men have,” observed Druss.

  The two warriors stood in silence for a while, watching the Gothir surrounding the water wagons. “You regret being here?” Talisman asked.

  “I try not to regret anything,” replied Druss. “There’s no point in it.” Twenty Sky Rider tribesmen trooped up to the ramparts, standing by quietly as the two men spoke. Druss glanced at the first, a hawk-faced young man with brown eyes. “Were you one of those who leapt the chasm?” he asked him.

  The man gave a wide grin and nodded.

  “I would like to hear about that,” said Druss. “Later, when we’ve seen off the Gothir, you can tell me of it.”

  “I shall, Deathwalker.”

  “Good. Now gather around, my boys, and I’ll give you a few tips about siege warfare.”

  Talisman left the ramparts. As he reached the compound below, he could hear laughter coming from the men around Druss.

  Lin-tse joined him. “I should be there, Talisman. With my men on the wall.”

  “No.” Talisman told him to pick forty warriors from among the other tribes. “You will lead the first group, Gorkai the second.” Then he outlined Druss’ battle plan for a wall breach defense.

  A young warrior moved past them, heading for the north wall. Talisman called him back. “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Shi-da, General.”

  “You were a friend of Quing-chin’s?”

  “I was.”

  “I saw you wounded yesterday—in the belly and chest.”

  “It was not as deep as I feared, General. The surgeon has healed me. I can fight.”

  “There is no pain?”

  “Aye, there is pain. The stitches are tight. But I will stand with the Fleet Ponies, General.”

  “Let me see the wound,” said Talisman, leading the man to the shade and sitting him on the table that had been set there. Shi-da doffed his goatskin jerkin. There was blood on the bandage wrapped around his waist. The young warrior started to unravel it, but Talisman stopped him.

  “The wound is bound well. Do not disturb it. Fight well today, Shi-da.”

  The young man nodded, his face grim, then walked away.

  “What was that about?” asked Lin-tse.

  “Every one of the wounded is back on the walls today,” said Talisman. “Truly the poet is a fine surgeon. I saw Shi-da struck. I would have sworn the blade passed almost all the way through him.”

  “You think he has found the Eyes of Alchazzar?” whispered Lin-tse.

  “If he has, then I will take them.”

  “I thought you said that Druss needed them.”

  “Druss is a fighting man I admire above all others. But the eyes belong to the Nadir. They are part of our destiny, and I cannot allow them to be taken by gajin.”

  Lin-tse laid his hand on Talisman’s arm. “If we survive here, my brother, and if Sieben has the jewels, you know what will happen if you try to take them. Druss will fight for them. He is not a man to be frightened by weight of numbers. We will have to kill him.”

  “Then we will kill him,” said Talisman, “though it would break my heart to do so.”

  Talisman poured water from a stone jug, drained the clay cup, and walked away with Lin-tse to the newly built wall around the gates. Niobe stepped from the shadows behind them and made her way to the hospital.

  Sieben was sitting with Zhusai. They were laughing together, and Niobe was surprised to find a ripple of anger within herself at the sight of them. The Chiatze woman was slim and beautiful, her clothes of white silk adorned with mother-of-pearl. Niobe was still wearing Sieben’s blue silk shirt, but it was stained with the blood of the wounded and with sweat from her tired body. Sieben saw her, and a broad smile showed on his handsome face. He walked across the deserted room and hugged her. “You are a vision,” he said, kissing her.

  “Why is she here?” asked Niobe.

  “She has offered to help with the wounded. Come, say hello.”

  Taking Niobe by the hand, he led her to Zhusai. The Chiatze woman looked nervous under Niobe’s piercing gaze as Sieben introduced them.

  “I should have offered help before,” Zhusai said to Niobe. “Please forgive me.”

  Niobe shrugged. “We need no help. The po-et is very skilled.”

  “I am sure that he is. But I kno
w much of the tending of wounds.”

  “She will be valuable,” put in Sieben.

  “I do not want her here,” said Niobe.

  Sieben was surprised, but he masked it and turned to Zhusai. “Perhaps, my lady, you should change your clothes. Blood will ruin that fine silk. You can return to us when the battle has started.”

  Zhusai gave a short bow of her head and walked from the room.

  “What is the matter with you?” Sieben asked Niobe. “Are you jealous, my dove?”

  “I am not a dove. And there is no jealousy. Do you not know why she is here?”

  “To help. That is what she said.”

  “You are in much danger, po-et.”

  “From her? I do not think so.”

  “Not just from her, fool. Every Nadir knows the story of the Eyes of Alchazzar, the purple jewels of power. Talisman thinks you have found them, and so do I. There were men dying here yesterday who are now standing on the walls.”

  “Nonsense. They were—”

  “You don’t lie to me!” she snapped. “I hear Talisman. He says that if you have the jewels, he will take them; he says that they will kill Druss if he interferes. You give jewels to Talisman—then you are safe.”

  Sieben sat down on the newly scrubbed table. “I can’t do that, my love. Druss made a promise to a dying man, and Druss is a man who lives by his word. You understand? But I won’t keep them; I promise you that. If we survive here, which is doubtful at best, I will take them to Gulgothir and heal Druss’ friend. Then I will return them to Talisman.”

  “He will not allow it. That is why he sent the woman; she will watch you like a snake. You heal no more dying men, po-et.”

  “I have to. That is what the power is for.”

  “This is no time to be weak. Men die in battle. They go to the earth; they feed the land. You understand?” She looked deep into his blue eyes and knew she was not convincing him. “Fool! Fool!” she said. “Very well. Keep them alive. But do not heal them so much that they walk from here. You hear what I say?”

  “I do, Niobe. And you are right. I can’t risk Druss being killed for them.” He smiled and, reaching out, pushed his fingers through her dark hair. “I love you. You are the light in my life.”

  “And you are a trouble to me,” she said. “You are no warrior, and you are soft like a puppy. I should have no feelings for a man like you.”

  “But you do, don’t you?” he said, drawing her into an embrace. “Tell me!”

  “No.”

  “You are still angry with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then kiss me and feel it fade.”

  “I don’t want it to fade,” she said, pulling away.

  Outside a battle horn sounded. “It begins again,” sighed Sieben.

  The Gothir infantry formed into three groups of about two hundred men. Druss watched them carefully. Only two of the groups contained ladder bearers. “The third group is going for the gates,” he said to no one in particular.

  Behind the infantry more than five hundred lancers waited on foot in two lines, their lances discarded and their sabers in their hands. A slow drumbeat sounded, and the army moved forward slowly. Druss could feel the fear in the men around him.

  “Don’t think of numbers,” said Druss. “All that counts is the number of ladders, and they have fewer than thirty. Only thirty men can reach the wall at any time; the rest will be milling around below, useless. Never be cowed by numbers alone.”

  “Do you not know fear, axman?” asked Nuang Xuan.

  Druss turned and grinned. “What are you doing here, old man? You are wounded.”

  “I am as tough as a wolf, as strong as a bear. How close am I to my hundred?”

  “By my reckoning you need more than ninety more.”

  “Pah, you obviously miscounted.”

  “Stay close to me, Nuang,” said Druss softly. “But not too close.”

  “I will be here at day’s end, and the Gothir dead will be a mountain,” promised Nuang.

  Archers ran through the enemy lines, sending scores of shafts at the defenders, who ducked below the battlements. No one was struck. The drumbeat quickened, and Druss could hear the sound of running men drowning out the drums. Ladders clattered against the wall, and a man to Druss’ left started to rise, but Druss dragged him down. “Not yet, laddie. The archers are waiting.”

  The warrior blinked nervously. Druss knelt for ten more heartbeats, then launched himself upright, the great ax shining in the sunlight. As he reared up, a Gothir warrior reached the top of the ladder and Snaga thundered down to smash the man’s skull.

  “Climb and die!” roared Druss, sending a reverse cut into the bearded face of a second warrior.

  All around him the Nadir were hacking and slashing at the attackers. Two Gothir soldiers reached the ramparts but were cut down instantly. A Nadir warrior fell with an arrow jutting from his temple.

  On the wall above the gate Talisman watched as Druss and the Sky Riders fought to contain the western ramparts. The second Gothir force had swung to the north wall, where Bartsai and his Curved Hornmen were battling to hold them.

  Axes smashed into the gates, splintering the ancient wood. Nadir defenders threw rocks down on the enemy soldiers milling below, but the sounds of tearing wood continued.

  “Be ready!” Talisman warned the men of the Fleet Ponies. Notching arrows to their bows, they knelt on the ramparts and the newly built curved wall inside the gates. In that moment Talisman felt a fierce pride surge through him. These men were Nadir, his people! And they were fighting together against the common enemy. This is how it should be, thought the young man. No more slavelike obedience to the cursed gajin. No more running from the threat of their lancers, their punitive raids, their slaughter.

  Suddenly the gates were breached, and scores of men pushed through, only to be confronted by an eight-foot wall.

  “Now! Now! Now!” yelled Talisman. Arrows lanced into the crowded mass below. So closely packed were they, with others pushing from behind, that few Gothir could raise their shields. Shafts tore into them, and rocks pelted them. As Talisman strained to lift a jagged boulder, two men helped him, and they pitched the stone over the ramparts and down into the death pit. Panicked now, the Gothir fought to retreat, trampling their own wounded.

  Talisman gazed down with grim satisfaction at the thirty or more bodies. An arrow flashed past his face, and he ducked. Enemy archers were crowding around the breached gates, shooting up at the defenders. Two Nadir warriors fell, their chests pierced.

  “Stay down!” shouted Talisman. As ladders suddenly clattered against the wall behind him, he swore. With archers shooting at them from the rear and an assault from the front, the section would be hard to hold.

  Throwing himself flat, Talisman squirmed to the edge of the ramparts, calling down to the bowmen on the curved wall. “Ten of you pin down the archers,” he commanded. “The rest to me!”

  Ignoring the threat of arrows, Talisman surged upright and drew his saber. Three men appeared at the ramparts. Leaping forward, he plunged his saber into the leading man’s face, spearing his open mouth.

  In the compound below, Gorkai waited with twenty men. Sweat dripped from his face as he watched Talisman and the Fleet Ponies men battling against the warriors swarming over the ramparts. “I should go to him,” he told Lin-tse.

  “Not yet, Brother. Stand firm.”

  On the north wall Bartsai and his men fell back as the lancers gained the ramparts. With an awful suddenness the defending line broke, and a dozen enemy soldiers broke clear, swarming down the rampart steps and into the compound.

  Lin-tse and his men charged to meet them. Gorkai transferred his saber to his left hand and wiped his sweating right hand on his leggings. The men of the Curved Horn tribe were on the verge of breaking, and Gorkai prepared himself to rush to their aid.

  At that moment, seeing the danger, Druss ran along the ramparts of the western wall and leapt the yawning gap to th
e northern ramparts, his huge form crashing into the attackers and scattering them. The silver blades of his ax cut into the enemy ranks. His sudden appearance galvanized the Curved Horn men into renewed ferocity, and the Gothir were forced back.

  Lin-tse had lost eight men, but the twelve Gothir lancers were reduced to four, fighting in two pairs, back to back. Two more Nadir fell before Lin-tse and his men cut the lancers down.

  Gorkai swung to watch Talisman. The line was holding, but more than ten Nadir were dead and the attack was no more than minutes old. Some wounded men were making their way to the hospital; others lay where they had fallen, trying to stop the flow of blood with their hands.

  Lin-tse and the remainder of his men moved back to stand alongside Gorkai’s group. The tall Nadir chief glanced at Gorkai. Blood was flowing from a wound in his face. “You can tackle the next breach,” he said, forcing a smile.

  Gorkai did not have long to wait. Talisman’s men were swept aside as a section of the battlements gave way, and Talisman himself took a spear thrust into the chest. Gorkai screamed a battle cry and led his men forward, hurtling up the rampart steps two at a time. Talisman gutted the spearman, dragged the broken spear from his chest, and then fell. Gorkai leapt across his body as more Gothir soldiers made it to the ramparts.

  Talisman’s vision was blurring, and he felt a great dizziness sweep over him. I cannot die, he thought. Not now! Struggling to his knees, he scrabbled for his saber. Darkness loomed, but he fought against it.

  Gorkai and his men retook the battlements, forcing the Gothir back. Blood was bubbling from Talisman’s chest, and he knew that a lung had been punctured. Two men took him by the arms, hauling him to his feet. “Get him to the surgeon!” ordered Gorkai.

  Talisman was half helped, half carried to the hospital building. He heard Zhusai cry out as he was brought in. Desperately trying to focus, he saw the face of Sieben above him … then he passed out.

  The Gothir had given up their assault on the northern wall, and Druss, his helm struck from his head, jumped the gap in the ramparts and rejoined the Fleet Ponies. Nuang Xuan, wounded again in the chest and arms, was sitting slumped by the wall.