'Yes, sir.'
Sieben crossed the compound and quietly woke Druss. 'Follow me,' he whispered. Druss rose and the two men moved down the rampart steps and across the open ground to the Shrine. It was dark within and they stood for a moment, allowing their eyes to adjust to the faint moonlight coming through the single window. The Nadir dead had been placed against the north wall, and already the smell of death clung to the air. 'What are we doing here?' whispered Druss.
'I want the healing stones,' said Sieben. 'No more dead men under my hands.'
'We've already searched this place.'
'Yes, and I think we have already seen them. Lift the lid.' Moving to the stone coffin Druss pushed at the lid, slowly easing it to one side to make enough room for Sieben to push his arm inside. His fingers touched dry bones and the dust of decayed garments. Swiftly he moved his hand upward until he reached the skull. Closing his eyes and concentrating, he searched below the fractured jaw until his fingers touched the cold metal of Oshikai's lon-tsia. Pulling it free, he brought it out into the pale moonlight.
'Now you have a pair,' said Druss. 'So what?'
'Shaoshad came here to ask Oshikai to agree to be regenerated. Oshikai refused, unless Shul-sen could be with him. How then did he set about finding her?'
'I don't know,' said Druss, holding his patience. 'I do not understand magic.'
'Bear with me, my friend, and look at the evidence. Both Oshikai and Shul-sen wore lon-tsia. Oshikai's tomb has already been plundered, but no-one found the medallion. Why? The blind priest told me a Hide-spell had been placed upon the lon-tsia worn by Shul-sen. It is reasonable to suppose that a similar spell was cast upon that worn by Oshikai. Now, I believe Shaoshad lifted the spell on this one,' he said, holding up the lon-tsia. 'Why? In order to help him locate Shul-sen. Talisman's man, Gorkai, told me the lon-tsia of the rich were blessed with many spells. I think that in some way Shaoshad used this medallion to find the other. You follow me?'
'No, but I am hanging in,' said Druss wearily.
'Why did he not have the stones when he was caught?'
'Will you stop asking me questions for which there are no answers?' Druss snapped.
'It was rhetorical, Druss. Now don't interrupt any more. According to Gorkai, a search spell is like a tracker dog. I think Shaoshad imbued Oshikai's medallion with the power of one of the stones, and sent the other in search of Shul-sen's lon-tsia. Then he tried to follow the spirit trail. That is why he was caught between here and where we found Shul-sen's remains.'
'And where does this leave us?' asked Druss.
Sieben fished in his pocket, producing the second lon-tsia which he held close to the first. 'It leaves us with this,' he said triumphantly, clapping his hands and pushing the two medallions together.
Nothing happened . . .
'It leaves us with what?' asked Druss.
Sieben opened his hands. The two lon-tsia glittered in the moonlight and he swore. 'I was sure I was right,' he said. 'I thought if they were brought together the stones would appear.'
'I am going back to sleep,' said Druss, spinning on his heel and striding from the room.
Sieben pocketed the medallions, and was about to follow when he realized the coffin was still open. He swore again and grasped the lid, straining to drag it back into place.
'So close, my friend,' came a whispered voice, and Sieben swung to see the tiny, glowing figure of Shaoshad sitting cross-legged on the floor. 'But I did not hide the Eyes within the lon-tsia.'
'Where, then?' asked the poet. 'And why did you hide them at all?'
'They should never have been made,' said Shaoshad, his voice edged with sorrow. 'The magic was in the land, but now it is barren. It was an act of colossal arrogance. As to why I hid them - well, I knew I risked capture. There was no way I would allow the Eyes to be retaken. Even now it saddens me to know they must surface once more.'
'Where are they?'
'They are here. You were mostly right - I did use the power to locate Shul-sen's tomb, and I did indeed imbue her lon-tsia with enough power to regenerate her. Watch - and be suitably impressed!'
The two lon-tsia medallions rose up from Sieben's palm and floated across to the stone coffin, hovering just in front of the inscribed name-plate. 'Can you guess?' asked the spirit of the shaman.
'Yes!' said Sieben, moving forward and retrieving the floating medallions. Holding them up before the engraved word Oshikai, he pressed them side on into the two i indentations. Both lon-tsia disappeared. A violet glow radiated from within the coffin. Sieben rose and peered inside. Two jewels now rested in the eye-sockets of the skull of Oshikai Demon-bane. Reaching inside, he drew them out; both were the size of sparrow's eggs.
'Tell no-one you have them,' warned Shaoshad, 'not even Druss. He is a great man, but he has no guile. If the Nadir find out they will kill you for them; therefore do not use their powers too obviously. When treating the wounded, stitch them and bandage them as before, then concentrate on the healing. You will not need to produce the jewels. If you keep them hidden on your person, the power will still flow through you.'
'How will I know how to heal?'
Shaoshad smiled. 'You do not need to know - that is the beauty of magic, poet. Simply place your hands over the wound and think it healed. Once you have done this you will understand more.'
'I thank you, Shaoshad.'
'No, poet, it is I who thank you. Use them wisely. Now replace the lid of the coffin.'
Sieben took hold of the stone and, as he did so, glanced down. Just for a moment he saw the lon-tsia of Oshikai gleaming among the bones, then it faded. Dragging the lid back into place, he turned to Shaoshad. 'He wears it once more,' said the poet.
'Aye, as it should be, hidden again by a Hide-spell. No-one will plunder it. The other has returned to the resting-place of Shul-sen.'
'Can we win here?' asked Sieben, as the shaman's image began to fade.
'Winning and losing is entirely dependent on what you are fighting for,' answered Shaoshad. 'All men here could die, yet you could still win. Or all men could live, and you could lose. Fare you well, poet.'
The spirit vanished. Sieben shivered, then thrust his hands in his pocket, curling his fingers around the stones.
Returning to the hospital, he walked silently among the ranks of wounded men. In the far corner a man groaned and Sieben moved to his side, kneeling beside the blanket on which he lay. A lantern flickered brightly on the wall, and by its light Sieben looked at the man's gaunt face. He had been stabbed in the belly, and though Sieben had stitched the outer flap of the wound the bleeding was deep and internal. The man's eyes were fever-bright. Sieben gently laid a hand on the bandages and closed his eyes, seeking to concentrate. For a moment nothing happened; then bright colours filled his mind, and he saw the torn muscles, the split entrails, the pooling blood within the wound. In that instant he knew every muscle and fibre, the attachments, the blood routes, the sources of pain and discomfort. It was as if he was floating inside the wound. Blood flowed from a gaping gash in a twisting purple cylinder . . . but as Sieben gazed at it, the gash closed and healed. Moving on he sealed other cuts, his mind flowing back from the depths of the wound, healing as he went. At last he reached the outer stitches and here he stopped. It would be wise to let the man feel the pull of the stitches when he woke, he thought. If any wound was utterly healed, the secret of the stones would be out.
The warrior blinked. 'It is taking me a long time to die,' he said.
'You are not going to die,' Sieben promised him. 'Your wound is healing, and you are a strong man.'
'They pierced my guts.'
'Sleep now. In the morning you will feel stronger.'
'You speak the truth?'
'I do. The wound was not as deep as you believe. You are healing well. Sleep.' Sieben touched the man's brow; instantly his eyes closed and his head lolled to one side.
Sieben made his way to every wounded man one by one. Most were sleeping. Those who wer
e awake he spoke softly to, and healed. At the last he came to Nuang. As he floated within the old man's injuries he found himself drawn to the heart, and here he found a section so thin it was almost transparent. Nuang could have died at any time, he realized, for his heart - under strain - could have torn itself apart like wet paper. Sieben concentrated on the area, watching it thicken. The arteries were hard, the inner walls choked and narrow; these he opened and made supple.
Withdrawing at last, he sat back. There was no feeling of weariness in him, rather a sense of exultation and rare delight.
Niobe was asleep in another corner of the room. Placing the jewels in a pouch he hid them behind a water cask, moved to Niobe and lay down beside her, feeling her warmth against him. Drawing a blanket over them both, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. She moaned and rolled in to him, whispering a name that was not his. Sieben smiled.
She awoke then, and raised herself up on one elbow. 'Why you smile, po-et?' she asked him.
'Why not? It is a fine night.'
'You wish to make love?'
'No, but I would appreciate a hug. Come close.'
'You are very warm,' she said, snuggling alongside him and resting her arm on his chest.
'What do you want from life?' he whispered.
'Want? What is there to want? Apart from a good man and strong babies?'
'And that is all?'
'Rugs,' she said, after thinking for a few moments. 'Good rugs. And a fire-bucket of iron. My uncle had a fire-bucket of iron; it heated the tent on the cold nights.'
'What about rings and bracelets, items of gold and silver?'
'Yes, those too,' she agreed. 'You will give these to me?'
'I think so.' Turning his head, he kissed her cheek. 'Amazing as it might seem, I have fallen in love with you. I want you with me. I will take you to my own land and buy you an iron fire-bucket and a mountain of rugs.'
'And the babies?'
'Twenty if you want them.'
'Seven. I want seven.'
'Then seven it will be.'
'If you are mocking me, po-et, I will cut out your heart.'
Sieben chuckled. 'No mockery, Niobe. You are the greatest treasure I ever found.'
Sitting up she looked around the large hospital. 'Everyone is sleeping,' she said suddenly.
'Yes.'
'I think some must have died.'
'I don't believe so,' he told her. 'In fact I am sure that is not the case - just as I am sure none will wake for several hours. So let us return to your earlier offer.'
'Now you want love-making?'
'Indeed I do. Maybe for the first time in my life.'
Master Sergeant Jomil pressed his thick fingers to the cut on his face, trying to stem the flow of blood. Sweat trickled into the shallow wound, the salt stinging him, and he cursed. 'You are slowing down, Jomil,' said Premian.
'Little bastard almost took my eye out . . . sir,' he added.
The bodies of the Nadir defenders were dragged from the rocks and laid in a line away from the pool. The fourteen Gothir dead had been wrapped in their cloaks, the bodies of the six slain Lancers tied across the saddles of their mounts, the infantry buried where they had fallen.
'By the Blood of Missael, they put up a fight, didn't they, sir?' said Jomil.
Premian nodded. 'They were fighting for pride and love of land. There is no greater motivation.' Premian himself had led the charge up the slope, while the infantry stormed the rocks. Weight of numbers had carried the day, but the Nadir had fought well. 'You'll need stitches in that face wound. I'll attend to it presently.'
'Thank you, sir,' replied Jomil, without enthusiasm.
Premian grinned at him. 'How is it that a man can face swords, axes, arrows and spears without flinching, yet be terrified of a small needle and a length of thread?'
'I get to whack the buggers with the swords and axes,' said Jomil. Premian laughed aloud, then moved to the poolside. The water was deep, clear and cool. Kneeling, he cupped his hands and drank deeply, then rising, he walked to the line of Nadir dead. Eighteen men, some of them little more than boys. Anger churned inside him: what a wasted exercise this was. What a futile little war! Two thousand highly trained Gothir soldiers marching through a wasteland to sack a Shrine.
Yet something was wrong, Premian could feel it. An invisible worry nagged at his subconscious. An infantry soldier approached him and saluted. The man had a bloody bandage around his scalp.
'Can we start cook-fires, sir?' he asked.
'Yes, but move further into the rocks. I don't want the smoke to spook the wagon horses when they arrive. It'll be hard enough getting them up the slope.'
'Yes, sir.'
Premian walked to his horse and took needle and thread from his saddle-bag. Jomil saw him and cursed under his breath. Only two hours past dawn, and already the heat was formidable, radiating from the red rocks. Premian knelt by Jomil's side and eased the flap of skin into place over his right cheekbone. Expertly he stitched the wound. 'There,' he said, at last, 'now you'll have a fine scar to bewitch the ladies.'
'I already have more than enough scars to brag of,' grumbled Jomil. Then he grinned. 'You remember that battle outside Lincairn Pass, sir?'
'Yes. You received an unfortunate wound, I recall.'
'I don't know about unfortunate. The ladies love the story about that one. Not sure why.'
'Buttock wounds are always a source of great merriment,' said Premian. 'As I recall, you were awarded forty gold crowns for bravery. Did you save any of it?'
'Not a copper of it. I spent most of it on strong drink, fat women and gambling. The rest I wasted.' Premian glanced back at the Nadir dead. 'Something bothering you, sir?' asked Jomil.
'Yes . . . but I don't know what.'
'You expected there to be more of them, sir?'
'Perhaps a few.' Premian strolled to the line of dead warriors, then called out to a young Gothir Lancer. The man ran to his side. 'You were involved in the first attack. Which of these is the leader?' The Lancer gazed down at all the faces.
'It is hard to say, sir. They all look alike to me, vomit-coloured and slant-eyed.'
'Yes, yes,' said Premian irritably. 'But what do you remember of the man?'
'He had a white scarf over his head. Oh . . . and rotting teeth. I remember that. They were yellow and black. Vile.'
'Check the teeth of the dead,' ordered Premian. 'Find him for me.'
'Yes, sir,' replied the man, without enthusiasm.
Moving back to Jomil, he reached out, taking the man's extended hand and hauling him to his feet. 'Time to work, sergeant,' he said. 'Get the infantry out on the slope. I want all the boulders pushed from the trail. We've fourteen wagons on the way, and it will be bad enough trying to get them up the slope without needing to negotiate them through a maze of scattered rocks.'
'Yes, sir.'
The Lancer returned from his examination of the corpses. 'He's not there, sir; he must have run off.'
'Run off? A man who would leap from rock twenty feet high and launch himself into a group of Lancers? A man who could inspire his warriors to die for him? Run off? That is most unlikely. If he is not here then . . . sweet Kama!' Premian swung on Jomil. 'The wagons; he has gone after the wagons!'
'He can't have more than a handful of men,' argued Jomil. 'There are fourteen drivers, tough and armed.'
Premian ran to his horse and stepped into the saddle. Calling out to two of his officers, he ordered them to gather their companies and follow him. Kicking the horse into a run, he left the pool and galloped out on to the slope. As he breasted the rise he saw the smoke more than a mile to the south. At full gallop he pushed the gelding hard. Behind him came fifty Lancers.
It was a matter of minutes before they rounded a bend in the trail and saw the burning wagons. The horses had been cut free, and the bodies of several of the drivers could be seen with arrows jutting from their chests. Premian dragged his exhausted mount to a halt and swiftly surveyed the scene. S
moke was billowing around the area, stinging the eyes. Five wagons were burning.
Suddenly he saw a man with a blazing torch run through the smoke. He was wearing a white head-scarf. 'Take him!' bellowed Premian, kicking his horse forward. The Lancers swept out around him, riding through the oily smoke.
A small group of Nadir warriors were desperately trying to fire the remaining wagons. As the thunder of hoofbeats reached them over the roaring of the flames they dropped their torches and ran for their ponies.
The Lancers tore into them, cutting them down.
Premian swung his horse, just as something dark came launching at him from a blazing wagon. He instinctively ducked as a white-scarfed Nadir warrior cannoned into him, sending him hurtling from the saddle. They hit hard and Premian rolled, scrabbling for his sword. But the man ignored him and, taking hold of the saddle pommel, vaulted to the gelding's back. Drawing his sabre the Nadir charged the Lancers, hacking and cutting. One man fell from his mount with his throat slashed open, a second pitched to his left as the flickering blade pierced his face. A lance ripped into the Nadir's back, half lifting him from the saddle. Twisting savagely, he tried to reach the Lancer. Another soldier heeled his horse forward, cleaving his longsword into the man's shoulder. The Nadir, dying now, sent one last lunge at the sword-wielder, the blade piercing his arm. Then he sagged to his right. The gelding reared, throwing him to the ground with the lance still embedded deep in his back. He struggled to rise and groped for his fallen sabre; blood was bubbling from his mouth and his legs were unsteady. A rider closed in on him, but he lashed out, his sword cutting the horse's flanks. 'Get back from him!' shouted Premian. 'He's dying.'
The Nadir staggered and turned towards Premian. 'Nadir we!" he shouted.
A Lancer spurred his horse forward and slashed his sword down at the man. The Nadir ducked under the blow and leapt forward to grab the Lancer's cloak, dragging him down into the path of his own sabre which sliced up into the man's belly. The Lancer screamed and pitched from the saddle. Both men fell to the ground. Soldiers leapt from their mounts and surrounded the fallen Nadir, hacking and cleaving at his body.
The Legend of Deathwalker Page 33
