The Legend of the Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  One by one he visited all the wounded, leaving them all asleep, their wounds vanished.

  At the last, he stood in the doorway and looked back, satisfied. Many men had died defending this shrine, but there were others, Talisman among them, who would have died if it had not been for him. The thought pleased the poet.

  He glanced up at the battlements, where Druss was stretched out asleep. Sieben climbed the rampart steps and healed him also.

  Lin-tse and his Sky Riders were dismantling the wall around the gates. Sieben sat on the walls watching them. The sky was a glorious blue, and even the hot breeze tasted good on the tongue.

  I am alive, he thought. Alive and in love. If there is a better feeling in all the world, I have yet to taste of it, he decided.

  14

  OKAR, THE FAT gatekeeper at the hospice, cursed as the pounding on the front door continued. Rolling from his pallet bed, he pulled on his leggings, stumbled along the corridor, and dragged back the bolts. “Be quiet!” he ordered as he dragged open the thick door. “There are sick people here trying to sleep.”

  A huge man with a thick black beard stepped into the doorway, seized him by the arms, and hoisted him into the air. “They won’t be sick for much longer,” he said with a wide grin. Okar was not a small man, but the giant lifted him and moved him aside as if he were a child.

  “You must forgive my friend,” said a slim, handsome man, “but he is very excitable.”

  A young woman followed the two men inside. She was Nadir and strikingly attractive.

  “Where do you think you are going?” asked Okar as the group made its way up the stairs. They did not reply, and he hurried after them. The abbot was waiting at the top of the stairs; still in his night robe, a candleholder in his hand, he blocked their way.

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” asked the abbot sternly.

  “We’ve come to heal our friend, Father Abbot,” said the giant. “I kept my promise.”

  Okar waited for the harsh words he was sure would follow. But the abbot stood in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable in the flickering candlelight. “Follow me,” he said softly, “and please be silent.”

  The abbot led the way through the first ward and on to a small office in the western part of the building. Lighting two lanterns, he sat down at a desk littered with papers. “Now explain,” he said.

  The giant spoke first. “We found the healing stones, Father. And they work! By all that’s holy, they work! Now take us to Klay.”

  “That is not possible,” the abbot told him, and sighed. “Klay passed from this life three days after you left. He is buried in a simple grave behind the gardens. A stone has been fashioned for him. I am truly sorry.”

  “He promised me,” said Druss. “He promised me he would live until my return.”

  “It was a promise he could not keep,” said the abbot. “The bolt that struck him was tainted with some vile substance, and gangrene set in almost immediately. No man could have withstood the deadly effect.”

  “I can’t believe it,” whispered Druss. “I have the stones!”

  “Why is it so hard for you warriors to believe?” snapped the abbot. “You think the world revolves around your desires. Do you honestly believe that nature and the laws of the universe can be changed by your will? I have heard of you, Druss. You crossed the world to find your lady. You have fought in many battles; you are indomitable. But you are a man of flesh and blood. You will live, and you will die—just like any other man. Klay was a great man, a man of kindness and understanding. His death is a tragedy beyond my ability to describe. Yet it is part of the cycle of life, and I do not doubt that the Source received him with joy. I was with him at the end. He wanted to leave you a message, and we sent for pen and ink, but he died very suddenly. I think I know what he wanted to ask you.”

  “What?” Druss asked numbly.

  “He told me of the boy Kells and how he had believed that Klay was a god who could lay his hands on his mother and heal her. The boy is still here. He sat with Klay, holding to his hand, and he wept bitter tears when the fighter died. His mother still lives. If the stones have the power you say, then I think Klay would want you to use their power on her.”

  Druss said nothing, but sat slumped in his chair, staring down at his hands. Sieben stepped forward. “I think we can do a little better than that, Father. Take me to the boy.”

  Leaving Druss alone in the office, Sieben, Niobe, and the abbot walked silently through the hospice, coming at last to a long, narrow room in which twenty beds were set against the walls, ten on each side. Kells lay curled up and asleep on the floor by the first bed; a tall thin woman was sleeping in a chair beside him. In the bed, her face pale in the moonlight from the high window, lay a wasted, dying figure, the skin of her face drawn tightly around her skull, no flesh visible, black rings beneath her eyes.

  Sieben knelt by the boy, lightly touching his shoulder. Kells came awake instantly, his eyes flaring wide in fear. “It is all right, boy. I come with a gift from Lord Klay.”

  “He is dead,” said the child.

  “But I bring his gift anyway. Stand up.” Kells did so. The movement and the voices awoke the thin woman in the chair.

  “What is happening?” she asked. “Is she gone?”

  “Not gone,” said Sieben. “She is coming home.” To the boy he said, “Take your mother’s hand,” and Kells did so. Sieben leaned forward and laid his palm on the dying woman’s fevered brow. The skin was hot and dry. The poet closed his eyes and felt the power of the stones flowing through him. The woman in the bed gave a weak groan, and the abbot moved in closer, looking down in wonder as her color deepened and the dark rings beneath her eyes slowly faded. The bones of her face receded as the wasted muscles of her cheeks and jaw swelled into health. Her hair, which had been dry and lifeless, shone upon the pillow. Sieben took a deep breath and stepped back.

  “Are you an angel of the Source?” asked the thin woman.

  “No, just a man,” said Sieben. Kneeling down by the boy, he saw the tears in his eyes. “She is healed, Kells. She sleeps now. Would you like to help me heal all these others?”

  “Yes. Yes, I would. Lord Klay sent you?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “And my mother is going to live?”

  “Aye. She is going to live.”

  Together Sieben and the boy moved from bed to bed, and when the dawn sun rose over Gulgothir, the sounds of laughter and unfettered joy came from within the walls of the hospice.

  It was all lost on Druss, who sat alone in the drab office, his feelings numbed. He could help hold a fortress against all odds but could not prevent the death of a friend. He could cross the ocean and fight in a hundred battles. He could stand against any man alive, yet Klay was still dead.

  Rising from his chair, he moved to the window. The dawn sun had filled the gardens beyond with color: crimson roses growing around the white marble fountain, purple foxglove amid carpets of yellow flowers beside the curving paths. “It is not fair,” Druss said aloud.

  “I cannot recall anyone saying that it would be,” came the voice of the abbot.

  “That bolt was meant for me, Father. Klay took it for me. Why should I live and he die?”

  “There are never answers to such questions, Druss. He will be remembered with great fondness by a great many people. There will even be those who will revere his memory enough to try to emulate him. We are none of us here for very long. Would you like to see his stone?”

  “Aye. I would.”

  Together the two men left the office and walked down the rear stairwell to the gardens. The air was sweet with perfume, the sun bright in the morning sky. Klay’s grave was beside a drystone wall, beneath an ancient willow. A long, rectangular slab of white marble had been set into the earth, and on it were carved the words

  Any good that I may do, let me do it now,

  for I may not pass this way again.

  “It is a qu
ote from an ancient writing,” said the abbot. “He did not ask for it, but I thought it was fitting.”

  “Aye, it is fitting,” agreed Druss. “Tell me, who is the woman Klay wanted saved?”

  “She is a prostitute; she works the southern quarter, I understand.”

  Druss shook his head and said nothing.

  “You think a whore is not worth saving?” the abbot asked.

  “I would never say that,” Druss told him, “nor would I think it. But I have just come from a battle, Father, where hundreds of men lost their lives. I have returned here to find a great man dead. And at the end of it I have ensured that one more whore will work the southern quarter. I’m going home,” Druss said sadly. “I wish I had never come to Gulgothir.”

  “If you hadn’t, then you would not have known him. And that would have been your loss. My advice is to hold to the memory of what he was and think about him as you live your own life. There may come a time when you will draw on those memories in order to achieve some good for others, just as he would have done.”

  Druss took in a deep breath, glanced down once more at the simple grave, then turned away. “Where is my friend? We should be leaving soon.”

  “He and his wife are gone, Druss. He said to tell you he will meet you on the road. He is returning the stones to a man named Talisman.”

  * * *

  Talisman, Gorkai, and Zhusai rode up the dusty rise, cresting the slope and pulling back on the reins of their weary ponies. Below them, spreading right across the valley, were the tents of the Northern Wolfshead.

  “We are home,” said Talisman.

  “Now perhaps, my general,” said Gorkai, “you can tell me why we have ridden so hard.”

  “This is the Day of the Stone Wolf. All the captains of every Wolfshead tribe are gathered here. At noon there is a ceremony in the High Cave.”

  “And you must be there?”

  “Today I will stand before my people and take my Nadir name. That right was denied me when I returned home from the academy; some of the Elders believed I had been tainted by Gothir education. Nosta Khan named me Talisman and said that I would keep that name until I found the Eyes of Alchazzar.”

  “What name will you now choose, my love?” asked Zhusai.

  “I have not yet decided. Come, let us ride.” And Talisman led the trio down into the valley.

  High on the hillside, from the mouth of a huge cave, Nosta Khan watched them. His emotions were mixed. He could sense the presence of the eyes and knew that Talisman had fulfilled his quest. That alone was cause for rejoicing, for with the power restored to the Stone Wolf, the Day of the Uniter was infinitely closer. Yet there was anger, too, for Talisman had disobeyed him and had despoiled the woman. Even now she was pregnant and almost lost to the cause. There was only one answer, and it saddened Nosta Khan. Talisman, for all his strength and skill, had to die. After that there were herbs and potions to rob Zhusai of the babe. Perhaps then all could proceed as it should.

  Rising, he turned from the sunlight and entered the cave. It was huge and spherical, great stalactites hanging like spears from the domed ceiling. The Stone Wolf had been carved from the rock of the rear wall centuries before, and it sat now, its great jaws open, its sightless eyes waiting for a return to the light.

  This day, at noon, the eyes would shine again, albeit briefly. They were too powerful to be left in the stone sockets, prey to whatever thief had the wit or courage to steal them. No. From now on the Eyes of Alchazzar would be carried on the person of Nosta Khan, shaman to the Wolfshead.

  Three acolytes entered the cave, bearing bundles of oil-soaked torches, which they placed in rusting brackets on the walls around the Stone Wolf.

  Nosta Khan strolled back into the sunlight and watched the steady stream of men moving purposefully up the hillside. “Light the torches,” he commanded the acolytes.

  Returning to the Stone Wolf, he squatted down before it and closed his eyes, focusing his powers. More than forty leaders would be there that day; not one of them had violet eyes, but after the ceremony he would question all of them. The Uniter was out there somewhere on the steppes. With the power of the eyes, Nosta Khan would find him.

  The leaders trooped into the cave and sat in a wide semicircle some twenty feet back from the Stone Wolf. Each leader had his own champions with him, chosen warriors. They stood behind their warlords with their hands on their sword hilts, ready for any treachery. Truly, thought Nosta Khan, we are a divided people.

  When all the leaders were present, Nosta Khan rose. “This is a great day,” he told the assembly. “What was lost has been returned to us. This is the first day of the Uniter. The Eyes of Alchazzar have been found!”

  A gasp went up from the crowd, followed by a stunned silence. “Step forth, Talisman,” commanded the shaman.

  Talisman rose from the center of the group and made his way through the ranks to stand beside the shaman. “This is the man who led the defenders at the Shrine of Oshikai Demon-bane. This is the man who inflicted defeat on the gajin. Today, with pride, he will take his Nadir name and be remembered for all time as a great Wolfshead hero.” Turning to Talisman, he said, “Give me the eyes, my boy.”

  “In a moment,” said Talisman. The young warrior turned to the assembly. “The Shrine of Oshikai stands,” he said, his voice ringing out. “It stands because Nadir warriors aimed straight and stood tall. Here in this place I praise Bartsai, leader of the Curved Horn, who died defending the bones of Oshikai. Here in this place I praise Kzun of the Lone Wolves, who was slain leading Curved Horn warriors in defense of our holiest shrine. Here in this place I praise Quing-chin of the Fleet Ponies, who was maimed and butchered by the gajin. Here in this place I praise Lin-tse of the Sky Riders. And I bring a new warrior to the ranks of the Wolves. Come forward, Gorkai.”

  Gorkai rose and marched to the front. Across his shoulder he carried a long hammer with a head of heavy iron. “This is Gorkai, who was Notas and is now Wolfshead.

  “Nosta Khan has told you that the Day of the Uniter is close, and he is right. It is time to put aside the stupidity of the past. Look at you all! You are Wolfshead, and yet you sit here with your champions behind you, fearing the brothers who sit beside you. Rightly fearing them! For given the chance, there is not one of you who would not slay the other in order to rule. Each man here is an enemy. It is folly of the worst kind. While the Gothir wax rich, we starve. While the Gothir raid our villages, we plan wars among ourselves. Why is this? Were we born stupid?

  “Centuries ago, wise men of the Nadir committed an act of appalling stupidity. They drew the magic from the land and set it in these,” he said, drawing the Eyes of Alchazzar from the pocket of his goatskin jerkin. The jewels shone in the torchlight as he raised them up.

  “The power of the steppes and the mountains,” he said. “The magic of the gods of stone and water. Trapped here … with these purple jewels any man here could be khan. He could be immortal. I saw their power. I was struck down at the shrine, pierced through the body, yet I have no scar.”

  All eyes were on the jewels now, and he felt the lust in every gaze.

  “The Eyes of Alchazzar!” he shouted, his voice echoing around the cavern. “But does any man here believe that Bartsai or Kzun or Quing-chin died so that one petty Wolfshead leader could command the magic of the gods of stone and water? Is any one of you worthy to wield this power? If he is here, let him stand now and tell us why he deserves this honor!”

  The leaders glanced one to another, but no one moved.

  Talisman spun on his heel and walked to the Stone Wolf. Reaching up, he pressed the stones back into the eye sockets. Then, turning once more, he gestured to Gorkai, who threw the long hammer through the air. Talisman caught it.

  “No!” screamed Nosta Khan.

  Talisman took one step back, then swung the hammer in a mighty blow, the iron connecting with the stone brow and shattering the wolf’s head. In that moment the jewels flared in a blinding blaze of purple
light, engulfing Talisman and filling the cavern. Lightning crackled between the stalactites, and a great rumble like distant thunder caused the cavern floor to tremble and groan.

  Dust fell from the ceiling, the purple light shining on the motes like a thousand jewels hanging in the air. As the dust settled and the light faded, Talisman dropped the hammer and stood staring at the ruins of the Stone Wolf. Of the Eyes of Alchazzar there was no sign.

  “What have you done?” screamed Nosta Khan, rushing at him and grabbing his arm. Talisman turned, and the shaman gasped and fell back, his jaw slack, his eyes blinking rapidly.

  Gorkai moved forward … and stopped. Talisman’s eyes had changed, as if the blazing purple light of the jewels had lodged there, glittering in the torchlight. No longer dark, they shone with violet light.

  “Your eyes …” whispered Gorkai.

  “I know,” said Talisman.

  Moving past the stunned shaman, Talisman stood before the awed leaders.

  “Today I take my Nadir name,” he said. “Today Talisman is no more. He died as the magic returned to the land. From this day, I am Ulric of the Wolfshead.”

  Dros Delnoch

  Thirty years later

  DRUSS THE LEGEND sat beside the young soldier Pellin and chuckled as he concluded his tale. “So, in the end,” he said, “we did it all for a young whore! Sieben didn’t seem to mind; he had Niobe, and he took her home and bought her a fabulously ornate fire bucket. She was a good woman, outlived him by ten years. He wasn’t faithful to her. I don’t think Sieben knew what faithful meant. He was loyal, though, and I guess that counts for something.”