The Legend of Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  'I don't argue with that,' said Druss. 'Yes, he was unlucky. But they tore down his statue, and his friends robbed and then deserted him - men he had supported, aided, protected. That's what I find hard to swallow.'

  Sieben nodded. 'My father told me that a man is lucky if in his life he can count on at least two good friends. He always maintained that a man with many friends had to be either rich or stupid, and I think that is largely true. In all my life I have had only one friend, Druss, and that is you.'

  'Do you not count your women?'

  Sieben shook his head. 'Everything with them has always been transactional. They require something of me, I require something of them. We each supply the other. They give me the warmth of their bodies and their yielding flesh; I give them the incredible expertise of the perfect lover.'

  'How can you call yourself a lover when love is never present in your encounters?'

  'Don't be a pedant, Druss. I am worth the title. Even accomplished whores have told me I'm the best lover they ever had.'

  'How surprising,' said Druss, with a grin. 'I'll wager they don't say that to many men.'

  'Mockery does not suit you, axeman. We all have our skills. Yours is with that appalling weapon, mine is in love-making.'

  'Aye,' agreed Druss. 'But it seems to me my weapon ends problems. Yours causes them.'

  'Oh, very droll. Just what I need as I walk through this barren wilderness, a lecture on morals!" Sieben stroked the neck of the steel-dust gelding then stepped into the saddle. Lifting his hand he shaded his eyes. 'It is all so green. I've never seen a land that promised so much and gave so little. How do these plants survive?'

  Druss did not answer. He was trying to hook his foot into the stirrup, but the mare began walking in circles. Sieben chuckled and rode alongside, taking the mare's reins and holding her steady while the axeman mounted. 'They are deep-rooted,' said Druss. 'It rains here for a full month every winter. The plants and bushes soak it in, then battle to survive for another year. It is a hard land. Harsh and savage.'

  'Like the people who dwell here,' said Sieben.

  'Aye. The Nadir are a fierce people.'

  'Majon was telling me about a group called Chop-backs.'

  'Renegades,' said Druss. 'They call them Notas, no tribe. They are outcasts, robbers and killers. We'll try to avoid them.'

  'And if we can't?'

  Druss laughed. 'Then you can show me your skills with the pretty knives!'

  Nosta Khan sat in the shade of an overhanging rock, his scrawny left hand dipped in the cool waters of the rock pool. The sun was high overhead now, the heat beyond the shade pitiless, relentless in its power. It caused Nosta Khan no distress. Neither heat nor cold, nor pain nor sorrow could touch him now. For he was a Master of the Way - a shaman.

  He had not desired this mystic path. No, as a young man he had dreamed the dreams of all Nadir warriors: many ponies, many women, many children. A short life filled with the savage joy of battle and the grunting, slippery warmth of sex.

  It was not to be. His Talent had denied him his dreams. No wives for Nosta Khan, no children to play at his feet. Instead he had been taken as a boy to the Cave of Asta Khan, and there had learned the Way.

  Lifting his hand from the water he touched it to his brow, closing his eyes as several drops of cold water fell to the wrinkled skin of his face.

  He was seven years old when Asta took him and six other boys to the crest of Stone Hawk Peak, to sit in the blazing sunshine dressed only in breech-clouts and moccasins. The old shaman had covered their heads and faces with wet clay and told them to sit until the clay baked hard and fell clear. Each child had two reed straws through which to breathe. There was no sense of time within the clay, no sound and no light. The skin of his shoulders had burned and blistered, but Nosta had not moved. For three blazing days and three frozen nights he sat thus within that tomb of drying clay.

  It did not fall clear and he had longed to lift his hands and rip it away. Yet he did not . . . even when the terror gripped him. What if the wolves came ? What if an enemy were close? What if Asta had left him here to die because he, Nosta, was not worthy? Still he sat unmoving, the ground beneath him soiled with his urine and excrement, ants and flies crawling over him. He felt their tiny legs upon his skin and shivered. What if they were not flies, but scorpions ?

  Still the child did not move. On the morning of the fourth day, as the sun brought warmth and pain to his chilled yet raw flesh, a section of the clay broke clear, allowing him to move the muscles of his jaw. Tilting his head, he forced open his mouth. The two reed straws dropped away, then a large chunk of baked clay split above his nose. A hand touched his head and he flinched. Asta Khan peeled away the last of the clay.

  The sunlight was brutally bright and tears fell from the boy's eyes. The old shaman nodded. 'You have done well,' he said. They were the only words of praise he ever heard from Asta Khan.

  When at last he could see, Nosta looked around him He and the old man were alone on Stone Hawk Peak 'Where are the other boys?'

  'Gone. They will return to their villages. You have won the great prize.'

  'Then why do I feel only sadness?' he asked, his voice a dry croak.

  Asta Khan did not answer at first. He passed a water skin to the boy and sat silently as he drank his fill. 'Each man,' he said at last, 'gives something of himself to the future. At the very least the gift is in the form of a child to carry his seed onward. But a shaman is denied that pleasure.' Taking the boy by the hand, he led him to the edge of the precipice. From here they gazed down over the plains and the distant steppes. 'See there,' said Asta Khan, 'the goats of our tribe. They worry about little, save to eat, sleep and rut. But look at the goat-herder. He must watch for wolves and lions, for the flesh-eating worms of the blowfly, and he must find pastures that are safe, and rich with grass. Your sadness is born of the knowledge that you cannot be a goat. Your destiny calls for more than that.'

  Nosta Khan sighed and once more splashed his face with water. Asta was long dead now, and he remembered him with little affection.

  A golden lioness and three cubs came into sight on the trail. Nosta took a deep breath and focused his concentration.

  The rearing rocks are part of the body of the Gods of Stone and Water, and I am one with the rocks.

  The lioness moved warily forward, her great head sniffing the air. Satisfied that her family was safe she edged to the pool, the cubs gambolling behind her. The last of the cubs leapt upon the back of one of the others and commenced a play fight. The lioness ignored them and drank deeply. She was thin, her pelt patchy. When she had drunk her fill, she moved into the shade and lay beside Nosta Khan. The cubs followed her, nuzzling her teats. One scrambled over Nosta Khan's bare legs, then settled down in the old man's lap with its head resting on his thigh.

  Reaching out, he laid his hand on the lioness's broad head. She did not flinch. Nosta Khan allowed his mind to float free. High above the hills he floated, scanning the folds and gullies. Less than a mile to the east he found a small family group of ochpi, wild mountain goats with short curved horns. There was a male, three females, and several young. Returning to his body, Nosta touched the lioness with his spirit. Her head came up, nostrils flaring. There was no way she could pick up the scent from this distance, with the wind against her, but Nosta Khan filled her mind with the vision of the ochpi. The lioness rose, scattering the cubs, then she loped away. At first the cubs remained where they were, but she gave a low growl and they ran after her.

  With luck she would feed.

  Nosta sat back, and waited. The riders would be here within the hour. He pictured the axeman, his broad, flat face and deep, cold eyes. Would that all these Southerners could be so easily manipulated, he thought, remembering his spirit meeting in the tavern. Once outside it had been so easy to mesmerize the crossbow man and command him to shoot down the Gothir fighter. Nosta recalled with pleasure the flight of the bolt, the sickening impact, and the intense shock of the c
rossbow man when he realized what he had done.

  The threads were drawing together well now, but there was so much still to weave. Nosta rested his body and his mind, floating in half-sleep in the warmth.

  Two riders came into view. The shaman took a deep breath and focused, as he had when the lioness came to the pool. He was a rock, eternal, unchanging, save to the slow eroding winds of time. The lead rider, a tall, slim young man with fair hair, dressed in garish silks, dis-mounted smoothly, holding firm to the reins, preventing the steel-dust gelding from reaching the cool water. 'No yet, my lovely,' he said softly. 'First we must cool you down.' The second rider, the black-bearded axeman lifted his leg over the saddle pommel and jumped down His mount was old, and more than tired. Laying his axe to the ground Druss unbuckled the saddle, hauling it clear of the mare's back. She was lathered in sweat and breathing heavily; he wiped her down with a cloth and tethered her next to the tall gelding in the partial shade of the east side of the pool. The fair one moved to the pool and stripped off his clothing, shaking off the dust and folding it neatly. His body was pale as ivory, smooth and soft. No warrior this, thought Nosta Khan as the young man dived into the water. Druss gathered his axe and moved to the shade where Nosta Khan sat. Squatting down he cupped his hands and drank, then splashed water to his thick dark hair and beard.

  Nosta Khan closed his eyes and reached out to touch Druss's arm and read his thoughts. An iron grip closed around his wrist and his eyes flared open. Druss was looking directly at him.

  'I have been waiting for you,' said Nosta, fighting for calm.

  'I do not like men creeping up on me,' said the axeman, his voice cold. Nosta glanced down at the pool and the tension eased from him. The Spell of Concealment had not failed him, Druss had merely seen the reflection of his hand upon the water. Druss released his grip and drank once more.

  'You are seeking the Healing Jewels, eh? That is good. A man should stand by his friends in their darkest moments.'

  'Exactly where are they?' asked Druss. 'I do not have much time. Klay is dying.'

  'I cannot tell you exactly. They were stolen several hundred years ago by a renegade shaman. He was hunted and stopped to rest at the Shrine of Oshikai; after that he was found and killed. Despite the most severe torture he refused to reveal the hiding-place. I now believe they are hidden at the Shrine.'

  'Then why have you not searched for them?'

  'I think he placed them within the tomb of Oshikai Demon-bane. No Nadir may defile that sacred object. Only a . . . foreigner . . . would desecrate it.'

  'How much more are you concealing from me, little man?'

  'A great deal,' admitted Nosta. 'But then there is much that you do not need to know. The only truth that is of value to you is this: the jewels will save the life of your friend, and return him to full health.'

  Sieben emerged from the water and padded across the hot stones to the shade. 'Ah, made a friend, I see,' he said, as he sat beside the shaman. 'I take it this is the old man who spoke to you in the tavern?' Druss nodded and Sieben extended his hand. 'My name is Sieben. I am the poet. You may have heard of me.'

  'I have not heard of you,' said Nosta, ignoring the outstretched hand.

  'What a blow to one's vanity,' said Sieben, with an easy smile. 'Do you have poets among the Nadir?'

  'For what purpose?' asked the old man.

  'Art, joy, entertainment . . .' Sieben hesitated as he saw the blank look of incomprehension on the old man's face. 'History!' he said suddenly. 'How is your history retained among the tribe?'

  'Each man is taught the history of his tribe by his mother, and the history of his family by his father And the tribe's shaman knows all their histories, and the deeds of every Nadir hero.'

  'You have no art, no sculptors, actors, painters?'

  Nosta Khan's coal-dark eyes glittered. 'Three in five Nadir babies die in infancy. The average age of death among Nadir men is twenty-six. We live in a state of constant war, one with another, and in the meanwhile being hunted for sport by Gothir noblemen. Plague, pestilence, the constant threat of drought or famine - these are matters which concern the Nadir. We have no time for art.' Nosta Khan spat out the last word as if the taste upon his tongue was offensive.

  'How excruciatingly dull,' said Sieben. 'I never felt sorry for your people - until now. Excuse me while I water the horses.'

  Sieben rose and dressed. Nosta Khan swallowed down his irritation, and returned his gaze to Druss. 'Are there many like him in the South lands?'

  Druss smiled. 'There are not many like him anywhere.' Reaching into his pack, he produced a round of cheese wrapped in muslin and some dried beef. He offered a portion to Nosta Khan, who refused. Druss ate in silence. Sieben returned and joined him. When they had completed the meal, Druss yawned and stretched out in the shade; within moments he was asleep.

  'Why do you travel with him?' Nosta Khan asked Sieben.

  'For the adventure, old horse. Wherever Druss goes one is sure to find adventure. And I like the idea of magical jewels. I'm sure there'll be a song or a story in it.'

  'On that we will agree,' said Nosta Khan. 'Even now two thousand Gothir warriors are being marshalled. Led by Gargan, the Lord of Larness, they will march to the Shrine of Oshikai Demon-bane and lay siege to it, with the intention of killing everyone there, and taking the jewels as a gift to the madman who sits upon the throne. You are riding into the eye of the hurricane, poet. Yes, I am sure there will be a song in it for you.'

  Nosta relished the fear that showed in the young man's soft eyes. Stretching his scrawny frame, he struggled to his feet and walked away from the pool. All was moving as he had planned, yet Nosta felt uneasy. Could Talisman marshal the Nadir troops to withstand Larness ? Could he find the Eyes of Alchazzar ? Closing his eyes Nosta let his spirit fly to the east, soaring over the mountains and dry valleys. Far below he saw the Shrine, its curved white walls shining like a ring of ivory. Beyond it were the tents of the Nadir guardians. Where are you, Talisman, he wondered?

  Concentrating on the face of the young man, he allowed his spirit to drift down, drawn by the pull of Talisman's personality. Opening the eyes of his spirit, Nosta Khan saw the young Nadir warrior breasting the last rise before the valley. Behind him came the Chiatze woman, Zhusai. Then a third rider came in sight, leading two ponies. Nosta was surprised. Floating above this stranger he reached down, his spirit fingers touching the man's neck. The rider shivered and drew his heavy coat more closely about his powerful frame.

  Satisfied, Nosta drew back. In the one instant of contact he had witnessed the attempted attack on Talisman and the girl, and Gorkai's conversion to the cause of the Uniter. It was good; the boy had performed well. The Gods of Stone and Water would be pleased.

  Nosta flew on, hovering over the Shrine. Once it had been a small supply fort, its walls boasting wooden parapets but no towers. Less than twenty feet high, they had been constructed to keep out marauding tribesmen - not two thousand trained soldiers. The west-facing gates were rotting upon their hinges of bronze, while the west wall had crumbled at the centre, leaving a pile of rubble below a V-shaped crack.

  Fear touched Nosta Khan with fingers of dread.

  Could they hold against Gothir Guards?

  And what of Druss? What role would the axeman play? It was galling to see so much, and yet know so little. Was his purpose to stand, axe in hand, upon the walls? In that moment a fleeting vision flickered in his mind: a white-haired warrior standing upon a colossal wall, his axe raised in defiance. As suddenly as it had come, it faded away.

  Returning to his body Nosta took a deep, shuddering breath.

  By the pool the poet was sleeping alongside the giant axeman.

  Nosta sighed, and walked away into the east.

  Talisman sat on the highest wall staring out over the Valley of Shul-sen's Tears. The sun was bright, and yet here a light breeze was blowing, robbing the heat of its withering power. In the distance the mountains looked like banks of dark storm-cl
ouds hugging the horizon, and overhead two eagles were circling on the thermals. Talisman's dark eyes scanned the valley. From this southern wall of Oshikai's resting-place he could see two camps. At the first a long horse-hair standard, bearing the skull and horns of a wild ox, was planted before the largest tent. The thirty warriors of the Curved Horn tribe were sitting in the fading sunshine cooking their evening meals. Three hundred paces to the west was a second series of goat-hide tents; the standard of the Fleet Ponies was pitched there.

  Out of sight on the northern side of the Shrine were two more camps, of the Lone Wolves and the Sky Riders, each guarding a compass point near the resting-place of the greatest Nadir warrior. The breeze died away and Talisman strolled down the rickety wooden steps to the courtyard, making his way to a table near the well. From here he could see where the west wall had crumbled away at the centre. Through the jagged hole he could just make out the distant tree line of the western hills.

  This place is rotting away, he thought, just like the dreams of the man whose bones lie here. Talisman was fighting to control a cold, gnawing anger deep in his belly. They had arrived last night just in time to witness a sword duel between two Nadir warriors, which ended in the sudden and bloody disembowelling of a young man from the Fleet Ponies tribe. The victor, a lean warrior wearing the white fur wrist-ring of the Sky Riders, leapt upon the dying man, plunging his sword into his victim's neck, see-sawing the blade through the vertebrae, tearing the head from the shoulders. Blood-drenched, he had surged to his feet, screaming his triumph.

  Talisman had heeled his pony on through the gates. Leaving Gorkai to tend the mounts, he had walked across the courtyard to stand before the Shrine entrance.