The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  The Gothir fell back.

  Druss knelt down by the old Nadir leader. “How goes it?” he asked.

  “More than a hundred,” said Nuang. “I think I have killed all the Gothir there are, and what you see outside are merely ghosts.”

  Druss rose and scanned the defenses. The north wall had only eighteen defenders still standing. Around him on the western ramparts there were some twenty-five Sky Riders. Above the gates he counted thirty, including Talisman’s man, Gorkai. In the compound below Lin-tse had fewer than a dozen men. Druss tried to add the numbers together but lost them in a sea of weariness. Taking a deep breath, he recounted.

  Fewer than a hundred defenders were visible to him, but the bodies of Nadir dead lay everywhere. He saw the Curved Horn leader Bartsai lying on the ground below the ramparts, three dead Gothir around his corpse.

  “You are bleeding, Deathwalker,” said a Sky Rider.

  “It is nothing,” replied Druss, recognizing the hawk-faced young man he had spoken to earlier.

  “Take off your jerkin,” said the youngster.

  Druss groaned as he eased the ripped and nearly ruined leather from his huge frame. He had been cut four times around the shoulders and upper arms, but there was a deeper wound under his right shoulder blade. Blood had pooled around his belt.

  “You need stitches, hey,” the Nadir told him. “Or you bleed to death.”

  Druss leaned on the ramparts and stared down at the Gothir forces, which had moved back out of bowshot.

  “Take the old man with you,” said the Nadir, grinning. “He fights so well, he shames us all.”

  Druss forced a grin and hauled Nuang Xuan to his feet. “Walk with me a while, old man.” Turning to the Nadir warrior, he said, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Talisman felt the pain of his wounds recede and found himself lying on a bare hillside under a gray sky. His heart hammered in panic as he recognized the landscape of the Void. “You are not dead,” came a calm voice from close by. Talisman sat up and saw the little sorcerer Shaoshad sitting beside a flickering blaze. The tall figure of Shul-sen stood beside him, her silver cloak gleaming in the firelight.

  “Then why am I here?” he asked.

  “To learn,” said Shul-sen. “When Oshikai and I came to the land of the steppes, we were touched by its beauty, but more than this, we were called by its magic. Every stone carried it, every plant grew with it. Elemental power radiated from the mountains and flowed in the streams. The gods of stone and water, we called them. You know what gives birth to this magic, Talisman?”

  “No.”

  “Life and death. The life forces of millions of men and animals, insects and plants. Each life comes from the land, then returns to the land. It is a circle of harmony.”

  “What has this to do with me?”

  “Not so much with you, my boy, as with me,” put in Shaoshad. “I was one of the three who robbed the land of its magic. We drew it forth and invested it in the Eyes of Alchazzar; we made the land barren; we sought to redirect the random magnificence of the energy, to focus it on behalf of the Nadir. In doing so we destroyed the link between the Nadir and the gods of stone and water. Our people became increasingly nomadic, feeling no love for the earth beneath their feet or the mountains that towered above them. They became split and divided, isolated from one another.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” asked Talisman.

  “Why do you think?” responded Shul-sen.

  “I do not have the eyes. I thought the poet might, but I think now he is merely a skilled surgeon.”

  “If you had them, Talisman, would you do what is right for the land?” asked Shaoshad.

  “And what is that?”

  “Return to it what was stolen.”

  “Give up the power of the eyes? With them I could bring all the tribes together into one unstoppable army.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted Shul-sen, “but without love of land, what would they fight for? Plunder and rape, revenge and murder? And this army you speak of—it would be filled with men whose lives are but a fraction of a beat in the heart of eternity. The land is immortal. Give it back its magic, and it will repay you a thousandfold. It will give you the Uniter you dream of; it will give you Ulric.”

  “And how do I do this?” he whispered.

  “It is not as deep as you thought,” said Sieben as Druss lay on the table, feeling the poet’s fingers probing at the wound in his back. Indeed, there was little pain now except from the ragged stitches.

  “You are a revelation to me,” said Druss, grunting as he sat up, the stitches pulling tight. “Who would have thought it?”

  “Who indeed? How is it going out there?”

  “The big attack is to come … soon,” answered Druss. “If we hold that off …” His voice tailed away.

  “We are going to lose, aren’t we?” asked Sieben.

  “I think so, poet, though it hurts me to say it. Is Talisman dead?”

  “No, he is sleeping. His wounds were not as bad as we feared.”

  “I’d better get back to the wall.” Druss stretched his back. “Amazing,” he said. “I feel as if I’ve slept for eight hours. I can feel the strength flowing through me. Those poultices you use have great power. I’d be interested to know what’s in them.”

  “Me, too. Niobe prepares them.”

  Druss shrugged on his jerkin and buckled his belt. “I am sorry I brought you to this,” he said.

  “I’m a free man who makes his own decisions,” Sieben told him, “and I am not sorry at all. I met Niobe. Sweet heaven, Druss, but I love that woman!”

  “You love all women,” said Druss.

  “No. Truly, this is different. And what is more incredible is that given the choice, I would not change a single thing. To die not having known true love must be terrible.”

  Nuang approached them. “Are you ready, axman?”

  “You are a tough old goat,” Druss told him, and together they returned to the battlements. Sieben watched them for a moment, then moved back among the wounded men. He caught Niobe’s eye and smiled as she pointed to where Zhusai was sitting beside Talisman, holding the sleeping man’s hand. The Chiatze girl was weeping. Sieben crossed the room, settling down beside her.

  “He will live,” he told her softly.

  She nodded dumbly.

  “I promise you,” he said, gently laying his hand on Talisman’s chest.

  The Nadir warrior stirred and opened his eyes. “Zhusai …?” he whispered.

  “Yes, my love.”

  He groaned and struggled to rise. Sieben helped him to his feet. “What is happening?” he asked.

  “The enemy troops are gathering for another charge,” said Sieben.

  “I must be there.”

  “No, you must rest!” insisted Zhusai.

  Talisman’s dark eyes turned to Sieben. “Give me more strength,” he said.

  The poet shrugged. “I cannot. You have lost a lot of blood, and you are weak.”

  “You have the Eyes of Alchazzar.”

  “I wish I did, old horse. I’d heal everybody here. By heaven, I’d even raise the dead.”

  Talisman looked closely at him, but Sieben met his stare with blank equanimity. Placing his arm over Zhusai’s shoulder, Talisman kissed her cheek. “Help me to the wall, my wife,” he said. “We will stand upon it together.”

  As they moved off, Sieben heard a small voice whisper in his ear: “Go with them.” He swung around, but there was no one close. The poet shuddered and stood where he was. “Trust me, my boy,” came the voice of Shaoshad.

  Sieben walked out into the sunlight, then ran to catch Talisman and the woman. Taking the warrior’s other arm, he helped him up the rampart steps to the western wall.

  “Well, they’re gathering again,” muttered Druss.

  On the plain beyond, the Gothir were once more in fighting ranks, waiting for the drumbeat signal. All along the wall weary Nadir defenders also waited, swords ready.


  “Must be more than a thousand of them,” said Sieben, feeling the onset of terror.

  The drumbeat sounded, and the Gothir army began to move.

  Zhusai stiffened and drew in a sharp breath. “Put your hand on her shoulder,” ordered Shaoshad. When Sieben reached out and gently touched Zhusai, he felt the power of the stones flow from him like a dam bursting. She released her hold on Talisman and moved to the ramparts.

  “What are you doing, Zhusai?” hissed Talisman.

  She turned to him and gave a dazzling smile. “She will return,” said the voice of Shul-sen.

  The woman climbed to the top of the ramparts and raised her arms. Overhead the sun—brilliant in a clear blue sky—shone down on the woman in bloodstained clothes. The wind picked up, stirring her raven-dark hair. Clouds began to form with astonishing speed, small white puffballs that swelled and grew, darkening down and obscuring the sun. The wind roared, buffeting the defenders. Blacker and blacker grew the sky, then a clap of thunder burst above the shrine. Lightning forked down, exploding in the midst of the Gothir army. Several men were hurled from their feet. Jagged spears of dazzling light flashed into the enemy force, while thunder rolled across the heavens.

  The Gothir broke and ran, but still the lightning tore into them, catapulting men into the air. The fierce wind brought the smell of burning flesh to the stunned defenders. The Gothir horses uprooted their picket ropes and galloped away. On the plain, men were tearing off their armor and hurling aside their weapons—to no avail, it seemed. Sieben saw a man struck, his breastplate exploding. Those close to him were punched to the ground, where their bodies went into spasm.

  Then the sun broke through the clouds, and the woman in white turned and stepped back to the ramparts. “My lord is in paradise,” she told Talisman. “This is a debt repaid.” She sagged against Talisman, who held her close.

  On the plain more than half the Gothir force was dead, with many others suffering terrible burns.

  “They’ll not fight again,” Gorkai said, as the clouds dispersed.

  “No, but they will,” muttered Druss, pointing to a line of cavalry breasting the hills and riding down toward the shattered Gothir camp.

  Sieben’s heart sank as more than a thousand men came into sight, riding in columns of twos.

  “Who would have my luck?” said Nuang bitterly.

  13

  PREMIAN ROLLED TO his belly and pushed his blistered hands into the cold mud. Lightning had struck three men close to him. They were unrecognizable now. He staggered to his feet, his legs unsteady and dizziness swamping him. The dead and dying were everywhere, and the living staggered around as if drunk.

  Some way to his left Premian saw Lord Gargan sitting beside his dead horse. The man looked old now and sat with his head in his hands. Premian had been wearing no armor—Gargan had stripped him of his rank and sentenced him to thirty lashes for disobedience—but the lack of metal on his frame had saved him during the lightning storm.

  Slowly he made his way to the general. Half of Gargan’s face was blistered and black. He looked up as Premian approached, and the younger man had to mask his horror at the sight. Gargan’s left eye was gone, and blood flowed from the empty socket.

  “All finished,” mumbled the general. “The savages have won.” Premian knelt by him and took his hand, unable to think of anything to say. “They murdered my mother,” said Gargan. “I was five years old. She hid me under some sacking. They raped and murdered her. And I watched. I … wanted to help her. Couldn’t. Just lay there and wet myself with fear. Then my son …” Gargan drew a long, shuddering breath. “Fetch me a sword.”

  “You don’t need a sword, my lord. It is over.”

  “Over? You think it is over? It will never be over. Them or us, Premian. Now and forever.” Gargan sagged to his right. Premian caught him and lowered him to the ground. “I can hear horses,” whispered the general. And he died.

  Premian glanced up to see the line of cavalry moving toward him, and he stood as they approached. A cavalry general rode up and glanced down at the dead Lord of Larness.

  “I had orders for his arrest and immediate execution,” he said. “It is just as well he is gone. I had great respect for him.”

  “Arrest? On what charge?” Premian asked.

  “Who are you?” responded the general.

  “Premian, sir.”

  “Ah, good. I am also carrying orders for you. You are to take command of the lancers and return to Gulgothir.” Swinging in his saddle, he surveyed the chaos. “Your force will not be a large one, I fear. What happened here?”

  Swiftly Premian told him. Then he asked, “Does the attack continue, sir?”

  “The sacking of a shrine? Great heavens, no! What an utter waste of good men. I can’t think what possessed Gargan to lead such a lunatic venture.”

  “I believe he was under orders, sir.”

  “All orders are changed now, Premian. We have a new emperor. The madman is dead, killed by his own guards. There is sanity once more in Gulgothir.”

  “Praise the Source for that,” Premian said, with feeling.

  On the walls of the shrine, Druss, Talisman, and the defenders watched a rider move slowly from the devastated camp. He was wearing no armor, and his silver hair shone in the sunlight.

  “Shemak’s balls, it’s Majon!” said Sieben. “He rides that horse with all the grace of a carrot sack.”

  “Who is Majon?” asked Talisman, his face gray with the pain of his wounds.

  “The Drenai ambassador. Best advise your men not to shoot at him.” Talisman relayed the order as Majon rode closer; his long face was pinched and tight, and Druss could see the fear in the man.

  “Ho, Druss!” called Majon. “I am unarmed. I come as a herald.”

  “No one is going to hurt you, Ambassador. We’ll lower a rope for you.”

  “I am quite comfortable here, thank you,” he replied, his voice shaking.

  “Nonsense,” Druss called out. “Our hospitality is well known, and my friends here would think themselves insulted if you didn’t join us.”

  A rope was lowered, and the ambassador dismounted. Removing his sky-blue cape, which he draped over his saddle, he took hold of the rope and was hauled to the ramparts. Once he got there, Druss introduced him to Talisman. “He’s one of the kings among the Nadir,” said Druss. “An important man.”

  “Delighted to meet you, sir,” said Majon.

  “What words do you bring from the enemy?” countered Talisman.

  “There are no enemies here, sir,” Majon told him. “The … battle is over. The cavalry force you see before the walls was sent to arrest the renegade Gargan. The general Cuskar has asked me to assure you that all hostilities are now at an end and that the shrine will not be despoiled by any Gothir soldier. Equally, you and all your men are free to go. Your actions against the renegade Gargan will not be seen as crimes against the new emperor.”

  “New emperor?” put in Druss.

  “Yes, indeed. The madman is dead, killed by two of his guards. There is a new order now in Gulgothir. The scenes in the city were wonderful to behold, Druss. Dancing and singing in the streets, no less. The new emperor’s government is being led by a minister of rare culture and breeding: his name is Garen-Tsen, and it seems he has been working behind the scenes for some time to overthrow the God-King. A charming man with a great understanding of diplomacy. Already we have signed three trade agreements.”

  “You mean we won?” said Sieben. “And we are all going to live?”

  “I believe that puts the facts succinctly,” said Majon. “One small matter, Druss, my friend,” added the ambassador, drawing the axman away from the others. “Garen-Tsen asked me to mention the matter of some jewels said to be hidden here.”

  “There were no jewels,” said Druss bitterly. “Just old bones and new deaths.”

  “You … er … searched the coffin, did you?”

  “Yes. Nothing. It’s all a myth.”


  “Ah, well. It matters not, I am sure.” Returning to Talisman, the ambassador bowed again. “The general Cuskar has brought three surgeons with him. He has asked me to offer you their services for your wounded.”

  “We have a fine surgeon, but thank the general for his kindness,” said Talisman. “In return for such goodwill, do tell the general that if he brings his water wagons to the walls, I will see that the barrels are filled.”

  Druss and Gorkai lowered Majon to the ground. The ambassador mounted his horse, waved once, then cantered back to the Gothir camp.

  Talisman sank back to the ramparts. “We won,” he said.

  “That we did, laddie. But only just.”

  Talisman held out his hand. “You are a man among men, Deathwalker,” he said. “On behalf of my people, I thank you.”

  “You should get back to the hospital,” said Druss, “and let our ‘fine’ surgeon tend to you.”

  Talisman smiled and with the support of Zhusai and Gorkai made his way down the rampart steps. In the compound below, the Nadir had formed into loose groups, talking excitedly about the battle. Lin-tse watched them dispassionately, but in his eyes there was sadness.

  “What is wrong?” asked Sieben.

  “Nothing a gajin could see,” said the warrior, walking away.

  “What was he talking about, Druss?”

  “They are all with their own tribesmen. The mixing has ended. They came together for this one battle, and now they are drawing apart again—the way of the Nadir, perhaps.” Druss sighed. “Ah, but I am weary, poet. I need to see Rowena again, to breathe the air of the mountains. By heavens, it would be nice to smell the sweet breeze coming over the long grass and the pine meadows.”

  “It would indeed, Druss, old horse.”

  “First we must return to Gulgothir. I want to see Klay. We’ll rest for a couple of hours, then ride out.”

  Sieben nodded. “Niobe is coming with us. I’m going to marry her, Druss, give her babies and an iron fire bucket!”

  Druss chuckled. “I expect it will be in that order.”

  Sieben returned to the hospital, where Talisman was sleeping soundly. In the small office he found a strip of parchment, a quill pen, and an inkwell that was almost dry. Adding a little water to the ink, he penned a short message on the parchment. When the ink was dry, he folded the parchment into four and walked back into the larger room. Kneeling by Talisman, he slid the message under a fold of the bandage around his chest and used the power of the Eyes of Alchazzar to heal the Nadir leader.