The Legend of Deathwalker

by David Gemmell

  He had told the tribal leaders that victory was impossible. This also was true. Yet a general who fought with defeat in mind would surely lose. Slowing his breathing and calming his heart, Talisman floated above the sense of rage and frustration. Two armies were about to meet. Put aside thoughts of numbers, and examine the essentials. He saw again Fanlon's panelled study back at the Bodacas Academy, and heard the old soldier's voice whisper across the years. 'The responsibility for a martial host lies in one man. He is its spirit. If an army is deprived of its morale, its general also will lose heart. Order and confusion, bravery and cowardice, are qualities dominated by the heart. Therefore the expert at controlling his enemy frustrates him, and then moves against him. Aggravation and harassment will rob the enemy of his heart, making him fearful, affecting his ability to plan.'

  Talisman pictured Gargan and once again anger flickered. He waited for it to pass. The Lord of Larness had failed against him once, when all the odds were in his favour. Can I make him do so again, wondered Talisman?

  The man was full of hate, yet still a mighty general and a warrior of courage - and when calm he was not stupid. The secret then was to steal away his calm, allowing his hatred to swamp his intellect.

  Opening his eyes, Talisman rose and stared out to the west. From here he could see where the enemy would camp, at the foot of the dry hills, where there would be shade for their horses in the afternoon. Would they surround the Shrine? No. They would have Lancers patrol the area.

  Sitting on the wall, he gazed in at the buildings and walls of the Shrine. There was the resting-place of Oshikai, with its flat roof, a two-storied dwelling beside it with ten rooms, built for pilgrims. Beyond that there was the fallen ruin of an old tower. Three of the twenty-foot walls surrounding the buildings were still strong, but this west-facing barrier with its long V-shaped crack was the weak spot - this was where the main attack would come. Gargan would send archers to pin down the defenders, and foot soldiers armed with trench tools to tear at the crack, opening it out. Then sheer force of numbers would carry the Gothir inside.

  Talisman walked down the stone steps and along the base of the wall, halting below the damaged section. Given enough men and enough time he could repair it — or at worst, reinforce it with rocks from the fallen tower.

  Men and time. The Gods of Stone and Water had robbed him of both.

  Through the gates rode Kzun and his Lone Wolves. Talisman stripped off his shirt, dropping it to the dust, then once more climbed the steps to the parapet. Quing-chin followed with the Fleet Ponies contingent, then Lin-tse and his Sky Riders. The last to arrive was Bartsai of the Curved Horn. The Nadir warriors sat on their ponies in silence, their eyes on Talisman on the wall above them.

  'I am Talisman,' he said. 'My tribe is Wolfshead, my blood Nadir. These lands are ruled by the Curved Horn. Let the leader Bartsai join me upon this wall.' Bartsai lifted his leg over the pommel of his saddle and jumped to the ground; he walked up the steps to stand beside Talisman. Drawing his knife, Talisman drew the blade across the palm of his left hand. Blood welled from the wound. Holding out his arm, he watched as the red drops fell to the ground below. 'This is my blood which I give to the Curved Horn,' he said. 'My blood and my promise to fight unto death for the bones of Oshikai Demon-bane.' For a moment longer he stood in silence; then he called the other leaders forward. When they had joined him he gazed down on the waiting riders. 'At this place far back on the river of time Oshikai fought the Battle of the Five Armies. He won and he died. In the days to come the Nadir will speak of our struggle as the Battle of the Five Tribes. They will speak of it with pride in their hearts. For we are warriors, and the sons of men. We are Nadir. We fear nothing.' His voice rose. 'And who are these men who ride against us? Who do they think they are? They slaughter our women and our children. They pillage our holy places.' Suddenly he pointed at a rider of the Curved Horn. 'You!' he shouted. 'Have you ever killed a Gothir warrior?' The man shook his head. 'You will. You will slash your sword into his throat, and his blood will pour out on to the land. You will hear his death scream, and see the light fade from his eyes. So will you. And you! And you! Every man here will get the chance to pay them back for their insults and their atrocities. My blood -Nadir blood - stains the earth here. I shall not leave this place until the Gothir are crushed or withdrawn. Any man who cannot make the same oath should leave now.' Not one of the riders moved.

  Lin-tse stepped up alongside Talisman. With a curved dagger he cut his left hand, then raised it high. One by one the other leaders joined them. Kzun turned to Talisman, stretching out his bloody hand, and Talisman gripped it. 'Brothers in blood!' declared Kzun. 'Brothers unto death!'

  Talisman strode to the edge of the parapet. Drawing t his sabre he looked down on the riders. 'Brothers unto |death!' he shouted. Swords hissed into the air.

  'Brothers unto death!' they roared.

  The blind priest sat in his quarters, listening as the roar went up. The dreams of men, he thought, revolve always around war. Battle and death, glory and pain. Young men lust for it, old men talk of it fondly. A great madness settled on him and he slowly moved around the room, gathering his papers.

  Once he too had been a warrior, riding the steppes on raids, and he remembered well the heady excitement of battle. A small part of him wished he could remain with these young men, and smite the enemy. But a very small part.

  There was only one real enemy in all the world, he knew. Hatred. All evil was born of this vile emotion. immortal, eternal, it swept through the hearts of men of every generation. When Oshikai and his armies had reached these lands hundreds of years before, they had found a peaceful people living in the lush south lands, After Oshikai's death they had subjugated them, raiding their villages and taking their women, sowing the seeds of hatred. The seeds had grown and the southerners had fought back, becoming more organized. At the same time the Nadir had splintered into many tribes. The southerners became the Gothir, and their remembrances of past iniquities made them hate the Nadir, visiting upon them the terror of the killing raids.

  When will it end, he wondered?

  Slowly he packed his manuscripts, quills and ink into a canvas shoulder-bag. There was not room for all of them, and the others he hid in a box below the floorboards. Hoisting the pack to his back, he walked from the room and out into a sunlit morning he could not see.

  The riders had returned to their camps and he heard footsteps approaching. 'You are leaving?' asked Talisman.

  'I am leaving. There is a cave a few miles to the south. I often go there when I wish to meditate.'

  'You have seen the future, old man. Can we beat them?'

  'Some enemies can never be overcome,' said the priest, and without another word he walked away.

  Talisman watched him go. Zhusai came to him, and wrapped a linen bandage around his wounded hand. 'You spoke well,' she said admiringly. Reaching out, he stroked his hand through her dark hair.

  'You must leave this place.'

  'No, I shall stay.'

  Talisman gazed on her beauty then, the simple white tunic of silk shining in the sunlight, the sheen of her long, black hair. 'I wish,' he said, 'that you could have been mine.'

  'I am yours,' she told him. 'Now and always.'

  'It cannot be. You are pledged to the Uniter. To the man with violet eyes.'

  She shrugged. 'So says Nosta Khan. But today you united five tribes and that is enough for me. I stay.' Stepping in to him, she took his hand and kissed the palm.

  Quing-chin approached them. 'You wished to see me, Talisman?'

  Zhusai drew away, but Talisman caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. Then he turned, and beckoned Quing-chin to follow him. 'We must slow their advance,' he said, leading the warrior to the breakfast table.

  'How so?'

  'If they are still two days from us they will make one more night camp. Take ten men and scout the area. Then, when they are camped, scatter as many Gothir horses as you can.'

  'With
ten men?'

  'More would be a hindrance,' said Talisman. 'You must follow the example of Adrius - you remember your studies with Fanlon?'

  'I remember,' said Quing-chin, with a wry smile. 'But I didn't believe it then.'

  'Make it true now, my friend, for we need the time.'

  Quing-chin rose. 'I live to obey, my general,' he said, speaking in Gothir and giving the Lancers' salute. Talisman grinned.

  'Go now. And do not die on me - I need you.'

  'That is advice I shall keep close to my heart,' the warrior promised.

  Next Talisman summoned Bartsai. The Curved Horn leader sat down and poured himself a cup of water. 'Tell me of all the water-holes within a day's ride of here,' he said.

  'There are three. Two are small seeps. Only one would supply an army.'

  'That is good. Describe it to me.'

  'It is twelve miles to the east, and high in the mountains. It is very deep and cold, and is full even in the driest seasons.'

  'How easy is it to approach?'

  Bartsai shrugged. 'As I said, it is high. There is only one path to it, snaking up through the passes.'

  'Could wagons reach it?'

  'Yes, though the trail would have to be cleared of large rocks.'

  'How would you defend it?'

  'Why would I defend it?' countered Bartsai. 'The enemy is coming here!'

  'They will need water, Bartsai. It must be denied them.'

  Bartsai grinned, showing broken teeth. 'That is so, Talisman. With fifty men I could hold the trail against any army.'

  'Fifty cannot be spared. Pick twenty - the finest you have.'

  'I will lead them myself,' said Bartsai.

  'No, you are needed here. As the Gothir approach, other Curved Horn riders will come to the Shrine and they will look to you for leadership.'

  Bartsai nodded. 'This is true. Seven came in last night, and I have men scouting for others.' The older man sighed. 'I have lived for almost fifty years, Talisman. And I have dreamt of fighting the Gothir. But not like this - a handful of men in a rotting shrine.'

  'This is only the beginning, Bartsai. I promise you that.'

  Kzun heaved another rock into place and stepped back, wiping sweat from his face with a grimy hand. For three hours he and his men had been moving stone blocks from the ruined tower and packing them against the west wall, just below the crack, creating a platform that Talisman had ordered to be twenty feet long, ten feet wide and five feet tall. It was back-breaking work, and some of his men had complained. But Kzun silenced them; he would suffer no whining before the other tribesmen.

  He glanced to where Talisman was deep in conversation with the long-faced Sky Rider, Lin-tse. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He hated the work, for it reminded him of the two years he had spent in the Gothir gold-mines to the north. He shivered at the memory, remembering the day when he had been dragged in ankle-chains to the mouth of the shaft and ordered to climb down. They had not removed the chains, and twice Kzun's feet had slipped and he had hung in darkness. Eventually he had arrived at the foot of the shaft where two guards carrying torches had been waiting. One smashed a fist into Kzun's face, propelling him into the wall. 'That's to remind you, dung-monkey, to obey every order you hear. Instantly!' The fifteen-year-old Kzun had struggled to his feet and looked up into the man's bearded, ugly face. He saw the second blow coming, but could not avoid it. It split his lips and broke his nose. 'And that is to tell you that you never look a guard in the eyes. Now get up and follow.'

  Two years in the dark followed, with weeping sores on his ankles where the chains bit, boils upon his back and neck, and the kiss of the whip when his weary body failed to move at the speed the guards demanded. Men died around him, their spirits broken long before their bodies surrendered to the dark. But Kzun would not be broken. Every day he chipped at the tunnel walls with his pick of iron, or a short-handled shovel, gathering up baskets of rock and hauling them back to the carts drawn by blind ponies. And every sleep time - for who could tell what was day and what was night? – he would fall to the ground upon the order and rest his exhausted body on the rock of the ever-lengthening tunnel. Twice the tunnel at the face collapsed, killing miners. Kzun was half-buried in the second fall, but dug himself clear before the rescuers came.

  Most of the slave workers around him were Gothir criminals, petty thieves and house-breakers. The Nadir contingent were known as 'picked men'. In Kzun's case this meant that a troop of Gothir soldiers had ridden in to his village and arrested all the young men they could find. Seventeen had been taken. There were mines all over the mountains here, and Kzun had never seen his friends again.

  Then, during a shift, a workman preparing support timbers broke the tip of his file. With a curse he strode back down the tunnel, seeking a replacement. Kzun picked up the tip; it was no longer than his thumb. Every sleep time for days and days he slowly filed away at the clasps of his ankle-chain. There was always noise in the tunnels, the roaring of underground rivers, the snoring of sleepers whose lungs were caked with dirt and dust. Even so Kzun was careful. Finally, having worked evenly on both clasps, the first gave way. Feverishly Kzun filed the second. This too fell clear. Rising, he made his way back down the tunnel to where the tools were stored. It was quieter here, and a man wearing chains would have been heard by the guards in the small chamber by the shaft. But Kzun was wearing no chains. Selecting a short-handled pick, he hefted it clear of the other tools and padded silently to the guards' chamber. There were two men inside; they were playing some kind of game, involving bone dice. Taking a deep breath Kzun leapt inside, swinging his pick into the back of the first man - the iron point driving through the rib-cage and bursting from his chest. Releasing the weapon, Kzun drew the dying man's knife and hurled himself across the table at the second guard. The man surged to his feet, scrabbling for his own knife, but he was too late. Kzun's weapon punched into his neck, down past the collar-bone and into his heart.

  Swiftly Kzun stripped the man, then climbed into his clothes. The boots were too big, and he hurled them aside.

  Moving to the shaft, he began to climb the iron rungs set into the stone. The sky was dark above him, and he saw the stars shining clear. A lump came to his throat then. Climbing more slowly, he reached the lip of the shaft and warily looked out. There was a cluster of buildings beyond, where they milled the ore, and a barracks for the guards. Scrambling clear, Kzun walked slowly across the open ground. The smell of horse came to him on the night breeze, and he followed it to a stable.

  Stealing a fine horse, he rode from the settlement and out into the clean, sweet air of the mountains.

  Returning to his village, he found that no-one recognized him as the young man taken only two years before. He had lost his hair, and his skin and face had the pallor of the recently dead. The teeth on the right side of his mouth had rotted away, and his once powerful body was now wolf-lean.

  The Gothir had not come for him. They took no names of the Nadir 'picked men', nor had any record of which village they had raided to capture him.

  Now Kzun heaved another slab of old stone into place and stepped back from the new wall. It was just under four feet high. A beautiful woman appeared alongside him, carrying a bucket of water in which was a copper ladle. She bowed deeply, and offered him a short scarf of white linen. 'It is for the head, Lord,' she said, formally.

  'I thank you,' he replied, not smiling for fear of showing his ruined teeth. 'Who are you?' he asked, as he tied the scarf over his bald head.

  'I am Zhusai, Talisman's woman.'

  'You are very beautiful, and he is most fortunate.'

  She bowed again and offered him a ladle of water. He drank deeply, then passed the bucket to his waiting men. 'Tell me, how is it that Talisman knows so much of the ways of the Gothir?'

  'He was taken by them as a child,' answered Zhusai. 'He was a hostage. He was trained at the Bodacas Academy - as were Quing-chin and Lin-tse.'

  'A janizary. I see. I have heard of the
m.'

  'He is a great man, Lord.'

  'Only a great man would deserve someone like you,' he said. 'I thank you for the scarf.'

  With a bow she moved away and Kzun sighed. One of his men made a crude comment, and Kzun rounded on him. 'Not one more word, Chisk, or I will rip your tongue from your mouth!'

  'How do you read the other leaders?' asked Talisman.

  Lin-tse let the question hang for a moment, marshalling his thoughts. 'The weakest of them is Bartsai. He is old. He doesn't want to die. Quing-chin is as I remember him, brave and thoughtful. I am grateful to Gargan. Had he not been marching here with his army I would have been forced to kill Quing-chin. It would have scarred my soul. Kzun? The man has a demon within him. He is unhinged, Talisman, but I think he will stand tall.'

  'And what of Lin-tse?'

  'He is as you knew him. My people call me the Man with Two Souls. I do not think it is true, but the years at Bodacas changed me. I now have to try to be Nadir. It is worse for Quing-chin. He killed my best fighter — and refused to take his eyes. I would not have done that, Talisman, but I would have wished to. You understand?'

  'I understand,' said Talisman. 'They took from us.But we also took from them. We will put it to good use here.'

  'We will die here, my friend,' said Lin-tse softly. 'But we will die well.'

  'Brothers unto death,' said Talisman. 'And perhaps beyond. Who knows?'

  'Now what orders do you have for me, general?'

  Talisman looked into Lin-tse's dark, brooding eyes. 'It is important that we begin this venture with a victory - no matter how small. Gargan will come with the main van of the army. Ahead will be several companies of Lancers. They will reach us first, and I want you and your Sky Riders to bloody them. Bartsai tells me there is a narrow pass twelve miles west. When the Lancers reach it, attack them - not head on, but with arrows. Then run - back through the pass. You will have most of today and early tomorrow to prepare your surprises. Bring back spoils if you can.'