The Legend of the Deathwalker

Chapter One

As the huge crowd bayed for blood, Sieben the Poet found himself staring around the vast colosseum, its mighty columns and arches, its tiers and statues. Far below on the golden sand of the arena two men were fighting for the glory of their nations. Fifteen thousand people were shouting now, the noise cacophonous like the roaring of some inchoate beast. Sieben lifted a scented handkerchief to his face, seeking to blot out the smell of sweat that enveloped him from all sides.

The colosseum was a marvellous piece of architecture, its columns shaped into statues of ancient heroes and gods, its seats of finest marble covered by cushions of down-filled green velvet. The cushions irritated Sieben, for the colour clashed with his bright blue silken tunic inset with shards of opal on the puffed sleeves. The poet was proud of the garment, which had cost a suitably enormous amount of money from the best tailor in Drenan. To have it beggared by a poor choice of seat covering was almost more than he could stand. Still, with everyone seated, the effect was muted. Servants moved endlessly through the crowd, bearing trays of cool drinks, or sweetmeats, pies, cakes, savoury delicacies. The tiers of the rich were shaded by silken coverings, also in that dreadful green, while the very rich sat in red-cushioned splendour with slaves fanning them. Sieben had tried to change his seat and sit among the nobility, but no amount of flattery nor offers of bribes could purchase him a place.

To his right Sieben could just see the edge of the God-King's balcony, and the straight backs of two of the Royal Guards in their silver breastplates and white cloaks. Their helms, thought the poet, were particularly magnificent, embossed with gold and crested with white horsehair plumes. That was the beauty of the simple colours, he thought, black, white, silver and gold were rarely upstaged by upholstery — no matter what the colour.

'Is he winning?' asked Majon, the Drenai ambassador, tugging at Sieben's sleeve. 'He's taking a fearful battering. The Lentrian has never been beaten, you know. They say he killed two fighters last spring, in a competition in Mashrapur. Damn, I bet ten gold raq on Druss.'

Sieben gently lifted the ambassador's fingers from his sleeve, brushing at the bruised silk, and forced his gaze away from the wonders of the architecture to focus briefly on the combat below. The Lentrian hit Druss with an uppercut, then a right cross. Druss backed away, blood seeping from a cut over his left eye. 'What odds did you get?' asked Sieben.

The slender ambassador ran his hand over his close-cropped silver hair. 'Six to one. I must have been mad.'

'Not at all,' said Sieben smoothly, 'it was patriotism that drove you. Look, I know ambassadors are not well paid, so I will take your bet. Give me the token.'

'I couldn't possibly. . I mean he's being thrashed out there.'

'Of course you must. After all Druss is my friend, and I should have wagered on him out of loyalty.' Sieben saw the glint of avarice in the ambassador's dark eyes.

'Well, if you are sure.' The man's slim fingers darted into the pearl-beaded leather pouch at his side, producing a small square of papyrus bearing a wax seal and the amount wagered. Sieben took it and Majon waited with hand outstretched.

'I didn't bring my purse with me,' said Sieben, 'but I will hand over the money tonight.'

'Yes, of course,' said Majon, his disappointment obvious.

'I think I'll take a walk around the colosseum,' said Sieben. 'There is so much to see. I understand there are art galleries and shops on the levels below.'

'You don't show much concern for your friend,' said Majon.

Sieben ignored the criticism. 'My dear ambassador, Druss fights because he loves to fight. Generally one saves one's concern for the poor unfortunates he faces. I will see you later at the celebrations.'

Easing himself from his seat Sieben climbed the marble steps, making his way to the official gambling booth. A gap-toothed cleric was sitting inside the recess. Behind him stood a soldier, guarding the sacks of money already wagered. 'You wish to place a wager?' asked the cleric.

'No, I am waiting to collect.'

'You have bet on the Lentrian?'

'No. I bet on the winner. It's an old habit,' he answered, with a smile. 'Be so good as to have sixty gold pieces available — plus my original ten.'

The cleric chuckled. 'You bet on the Drenai? It will be a cold day in Hell before you see a return on that investment.'

'My, I do think I sense a drop in the temperature,' Sieben told him with a smile.

In the heat of the arena the Lentrian champion was tiring. Blood was seeping from his broken nose and his right eye was swollen shut, but even so his strength was prodigious. Druss moved in, ducking beneath a right cross and thundering a blow to the man's mid-section; the muscles of the Lentrian's stomach were like woven steel. A punch smashed down on to Druss's neck and he felt his legs buckle. With a grunt of pain he sent an uppercut into the taller man's bearded chin and the Lentrian's head snapped back. Druss hammered an overhand right that missed its mark, cracking against the man's temple. The Lentrian wiped blood from his face — then hit Druss with a thundering straight left, followed by a right hook that all but spun Druss from his feet.

The crowd was baying now, sensing the end was close. Druss tried to move in and grapple — only to be stopped by a straight left that jarred him to his heels. Blocking a right he fired home another uppercut. The Lentrian swayed but did not fall. He countered with a chopping blow that took Druss behind the right ear. Druss shrugged it off. The Lentrian's strength was fading, the punch lacked speed and weight.

Now was the moment! Druss waded in, sending a combination of punches to the Lentrian's face: three straight lefts followed by a right hook that exploded against the man's chin. The Lentrian spun off balance, tried to right himself — then fell face first to the sand.

A sound like rolling thunder went up, booming around the packed arena. Druss took a deep breath and stepped back, acknowledging the cheers. The new Drenai flag, a white stallion on a field of blue, was hoisted high, fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Striding forward, Druss halted below the Royal balcony and bowed to the God-King he could not see.

Behind him two Lentrians ran out and knelt beside their fallen champion. Stretcher-bearers followed and the unconscious man was carried from the arena. Druss waved to the crowd, then walked slowly to the dark mouth of the tunnel which led through to the bathhouses and rest areas for the athletes. The spear-thrower Pellin stood grinning at the tunnel entrance. 'Thought he had you there, mountain man.'

'It was close,' said Druss, spitting blood from his mouth. His face was swollen and several teeth had been loosened. 'He was strong. I'll say that for him.'

The two men walked on down the tunnel, emerging into the first bathhouse. The sound from the arena was muted here, and around a dozen athletes were relaxing in die three heated pools of marble. Druss sat down beside the first. Rose petals floated on the steamy surface of the water, their fragrance filling the room. The runner, Pars, swam across to him. 'You look as if a herd of horses has run across your face,' he said.

Leaning forward Druss placed a hand on top of the man's balding head and propelled him down beneath the surface. Pars swam clear and surfaced several yards away; with a sweep of his hand he drenched Druss. Pellin, stripped now of his leggings and tunic, dived into the pool.

Druss peeled off his leggings and slid into the warm water. The relief to his aching muscles was instant and for some minutes he swam around the pool then he hauled himself clear. Pars joined him. 'Stretch yourself out and I'll knead the aches away,' he said. Druss moved to a massage table and lay face down, where Pars robbed oil into his palms and began to work expertly on the muscles of his upper back.

Pellin sat down close by, towelling his dark hair, then draping the white cloth over his shoulders. 'Did you watch the other contest?' he asked Druss.

'No.'

'The Gothir man, Klay, is awesome. Fast. Strong chin. That plus a right hand that comes down like a hammer. It was all over in less than twenty heartbeats. Never seen the like, Druss. The Vagrian didn't know what hit him.'

'So I heard,' Druss grunted as Pars's fingers dug deep into the swollen muscles of his neck.

'You'll take him, Druss. What does it matter that he's bigger, stronger, faster, and better-looking?'

'And fitter,' put in Pellin. 'They say he runs for five miles every day on the mountains outside the city.'

'Yes, I forgot fitter. Younger, too. How old are you, Druss?' asked Pars.

'Thirty,' grunted Druss.

'An old man,' said Pellin, with a wink at Pars. 'Still, I'm sure you'll win. Well. . fairly sure.'

Druss sat up. 'It is good of you youngsters to be so supportive.'

'Well, we are a team,' said Pellin. 'And since you deprived us of Grawal's delightful company we've sort of adopted you, Druss.' Pars began to work on Druss's swollen knuckles. 'More seriously, Druss, my friend,' said the runner, 'your hands are badly bruised. Back home we'd use ice to bring the swelling down. I should soak them in cold water tonight.'

'There's three days before the final. I'll be fine by then. How did you fare in your race?'

'I finished second — and so will contest the final at least. But I'll not be in the first three. The Gothir man is far better than I, as are the Vagrian and the Chiatze. I cannot match their finish.'

'You might surprise yourself,' said Druss.

'We're not all like you, mountain man,' observed Pellin. 'I still find it hard to believe that you could come to these Games unprepared and fight your way to the final. You really are a legend.' Suddenly he grinned. 'Ugly, old and slow — but still a legend,' he added.

Druss chuckled. 'You almost fooled me there, laddie. I thought you might be showing some respect for me.' He lay back and closed his eyes.

Pars and Pellin strolled away to where a servant stood holding a pitcher of cold water. Seeing them coming, the man filled two goblets. Pellin drained his and accepted a refill, while Pars sipped his slowly. 'You didn't tell him about the prophecy,' said Pars.

'Neither did you. He'll find out soon enough.'

'What do you think he'll do?' asked the bald runner.

Pellin shrugged. 'I have only known him for a month — but somehow I don't think he'll want to follow tradition.'

'He'll have to!' insisted Pars.

Pellin shook his head. 'He's not like other men, my friend. That Lentrian should have won — but he didn't. Druss is a force of nature, and I don't think politics will affect that one jot.'

'I'll wager twenty gold raq you are wrong.'

'I'll not take that bet, Pars. You see, I hope for all our sakes that you are right.'

From a private balcony high above the crowd, the giant, blond fighter Klay watched Druss deliver the knockout blow. The Lentrian carried too much weight on his arms and shoulders, and though it gave him incredible power the punches were too slow. . easy to read. But the Drenai made it worthwhile. Klay smiled.

'You find the man amusing, my Lord Klay?' Startled, the fighter swung round. The newcomer's face showed no expression, no flicker of muscle. It is like a mask, thought Klay — a golden Chiatze mask, tight and unlined. Even the jet-black hair, dragged back into the tightest of pony-tails, was so heavily waxed and dyed that it seemed false — painted on to the over-large cranium. Klay took a deep breath, annoyed that he could have been surprised on his own balcony, and angry that he had not heard the swish of the curtains, nor the rustle of the man's heavy ankle-length robe of black velvet.

'You move like an assassin, Garen-Tsen,' said Klay.

'Sometimes, my Lord, it is necessary to move with stealth,' observed the Chiatze, his voice gentle, melodic. Klay looked into the man's odd eyes, slanted as spear points. One was a curious brown, flecked with shards of grey; the other was as blue as a summer sky.

'Stealth is necessary only when among enemies, surely?' ventured Klay.

'Indeed so. But the best of one's enemies masquerade as friends. What is it about the Drenai that amuses you?' Garen-Tsen moved past Klay to the balcony's edge, staring down into the arena below. 'I see nothing amusing. He is a barbarian, and he fights like one.' He turned back, his fleshless face framed by the high, arched collar of his robe.

Klay found his dislike of the man growing, but masking his feelings he considered Garen-Tsen's question. 'He does not amuse me, Minister. I admire him. With the right training he could be very good indeed. And he is a crowd-pleaser. The mob always love a plucky warrior. And, by Heaven, this Druss lacks nothing in courage. I wish I had the opportunity to train him. It would make for a better contest.'

'It will be over swiftly, you think?'

Klay shook his head. 'No. There is a great depth to the man's strength. It is born of his pride, and his belief in his own invincibility; you can see it in him as he fights. It will be a long and arduous battle.'

'Yet you will prevail? As the God-King has prophesied?' For the first time Klay noticed a slight change in the Minister's expression.

'I should beat him, Garen-Tsen. I am bigger, stronger, faster, and better trained. But there is always a rogue element in any fight. I could slip, just as a punch connects. I could fall ill before the bout and be sluggish, lacking in energy. I could lose concentration, and allow an opening.' Klay gave a wide smile, for the Minister's expression was now openly worried.

'This will not happen,' he said. 'The prophecy will come true.'

Klay thought carefully before answering. 'The God-King's belief in me is a source of great pride. I shall fight all the better for it.'

'Good. Let us hope it has the opposite effect on the Drenai. You will be at the banquet this evening, my Lord? The God-King has requested your presence. He wishes you to sit alongside him.'

'It is a great honour,' answered Klay, with a bow.

'Indeed it is.' Garen-Tsen moved to the curtained doorway, then he swung back. 'You know an athlete named Lepant?'

'The runner? Yes. He trains at my gymnasium. Why?'

'He died this morning, during questioning. He looked so strong. Did you ever see signs of weakness in his heart? Dizziness, chest pain?'

'No,' said Klay, remembering the bright-eyed garrulous boy and his fund of jokes and stories. 'Why was he being questioned?'

'He was spreading slanders, and we had reason to believe he was a member of a secret group pledged to the assassination of the God-King.'

'Nonsense. He was just a stupid boy who told bad-taste jokes.'

'So it would appear,' agreed Garen-Tsen. 'Now he is a dead boy, who will never again tell a bad-taste joke. Was he a very talented runner?'

'No.'

'Good. Then we have lost nothing.' The odd-coloured eyes stared at Klay for several seconds. 'It would be better, my Lord, if you ceased to listen to jokes. In cases of treason there is guilt by association.'

'I shall remember your advice, Garen-Tsen.'

After the Minister had departed Klay wandered down to the Arena gallery. It was cooler here, and he enjoyed walking among the many antiquities. The gallery had been included on the Arena plans at the insistence of the King — long before his diseased mind had finally eaten away his reason. There were some fifty stalls and shops here, where discerning buyers could purchase historical artefacts or beautifully made copies. There were ancient books, paintings, porcelain, even weapons.

People in the gallery stopped as he approached, bowing respectfully to the Gothir Champion. Klay acknowledged each salutation with a smile, and a nod of his head. Though huge, he moved with the easy grace of the athlete, always in balance and always aware. He paused before a bronze statue of the God-King. It was a fine piece, but Klay felt the addition of lapis lazuli for the pupils too bizarre in a face of bronze. The merchant who owned the piece stepped forward. He was short and stout, with a forked beard and a ready smile. 'You are looking very fine, my Lord Klay,' he said. 'I watched your fight — what little there was of it. You were magnificent.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'To think your opponent travelled so far only to be humiliated in such a fashion!'

'He was not humiliated, sir, merely beaten. He had earned his right to face me by competing against a number of very good fist-fighters. And he had the misfortune to slip on the sand just as I struck him.'

'Of course, of course! Your humility does you great credit, my Lord,' said the man, smoothly. 'I see you were admiring the bronze. It is a wonderful work by a new sculptor. He will go far.' He lowered his voice. 'For anyone else, my Lord, the price would be one thousand in silver. But for the mighty Klay I could come down to eight hundred.'

'I have two busts of the Emperor; he gave them to me himself. But thank you for your offer.'

Klay moved away from the man and a young woman stepped before him. She was holding the hand of a fair-haired boy of around ten years of age. 'Pardon me, Lord, for this impertinence,' she said, bowing deeply, 'but my son would dearly like to meet you.'

'Not at all,' said Klay, dropping to one knee before the boy. 'What is your name, lad?'

'Atka, sir,' he replied. 'I saw all your fights so far. You are. . you are wonderful.'

'Praise indeed. Will you watch the final?'

'Oh, yes, sir. I shall be here to see you thrash the Drenai. I watched him too. He almost lost.'

'I don't think so, Atka. He is a tough man, a man of rock and iron. I wagered on him myself.'

'He can't beat you though, sir. Can he?' asked the boy, his eyes widening as doubt touched him.

Klay smiled. 'All men can be beaten, Atka. You will just have to wait a few days and see.'

Klay stood and smiled at the blushing young woman. 'He is a fine boy,' said the Champion. Taking her hand he kissed it, then moved away, pausing to study the paintings on the far wall. Many were landscapes of the desert and the mountains, others depicted young women in various stages of undress. Some were of hunting scenes, while two, which caught Klay's eyes, were of wild flowers. At the far end of the gallery was a long stall, behind which stood an elderly Chiatze. Klay made his way to the man, and studied the artefacts laid out so neatly. They were mostly small statuettes, surrounded by brooches, amulets, bracelets, bangles and rings. Klay lifted a small ivory figurine, no more than four inches tall. It was of a beautiful woman in a flowing dress. There were flowers in her hair, and in her hand she held a snake, its tail coiled around her wrist.

'This is very lovely,' he said.

The small Chiatze nodded and smiled. 'She is Shul-sen, the bride of Oshikai Demon-bane. The figurine is close to a thousand years old.'

'How can you tell?'

'I am Chorin-Tsu, Lord, the Royal Embalmer — and a student of history. I found this piece during an archaeological survey near the site of the fabled Battle of Five Armies. I am certain that is no less than nine centuries old.' Klay lifted the figurine close to his eyes. The woman's face was oval, her eyes slanted; she seemed to be smiling.

'She was Chiatze, this Shul-sen?' he asked.

Chorin-Tsu spread his hands. 'That depends, Lord, on your perspective. She was, as I told you, the wife of Oshikai, and he is considered the father of the Nadir. It was he who led the rebel tribes from the lands of the Chiatze, and fought his way to the lands now ruled by the Gothir. After his death the tribes roamed free, warring upon one another, even as now. So, if he was the first Nadir, then Shul-sen was. . what? Nadir or Chiatze?'

'Both,' said Klay. 'And beautiful too. What happened to her?'

The Chiatze shrugged, and Klay saw sorrow in the dark, slanted eyes. 'That depends on which version of historical events you happen to believe. For myself I think she was murdered soon after Oshikai's death. All the records point to this, though some stories have her sailing to a mythic land beyond the sea. If you are of romantic leanings perhaps that is the story you should cling to.'

'I tend to hold to the truth where I can,' said Klay. 'But in this case I would like to believe she lived happily somewhere. I would guess we will never know.'

Chorin-Tsu spread his hands once more. 'As a student I like to think that one day the mists will be opened. Perhaps I might find some documentary evidence.'

'If you do so, let me know. Meanwhile I shall purchase this figurine. Have it delivered to my house.'

'You wish to know the price, Lord?'

'I am sure it will be a fair one.'

'Indeed it will, sir.'

Klay turned away, then swung back. 'Tell me, Chorin-Tsu, how is it that the Royal Embalmer runs a stall of antiquities?'

'Embalming, Lord, is my profession. History is my passion. And as with all passions they must be shared to be enjoyed. Your delight in the piece brings me great pleasure.'

Klay moved on, through the gallery arch and through to the Hall of Cuisine. Two guards opened the door to the beautifully furnished dining room of the nobility. Klay had long since lost any sense of nervousness upon entering such establishments, for despite the lowliness of his birth his legend was now so great among the people that he was considered higher than most nobles. There were few diners present, but Klay spotted the Drenai ambassador, Majon, engaged in a heated discussion with a fop in a bejewelled blue tunic. The fop was tall and slim, and very handsome, his hair light brown and held in place by a silver headband adorned with an opal. Klay approached them. Majon did not at first notice the fighter, and continued to rail at his companion.

'I do think this is unfair, Sieben, after all you won. .' At that moment he saw Klay and instantly his face changed, a broad smile appearing. 'My dear chap, so good to see you again. Please do join us. It would be such an honour. We were talking about you dnly moments ago. This is Sieben the Poet.'

'I have heard your work performed,' said Klay, 'and I have read, with interest, the saga of Druss the Legend.'

The poet gave a wolfish smile. 'You've read the work, and soon you'll face the man. I have to tell you, sir, that I shall be wagering against you.'

'Then you will forgive me for not wishing you luck,' said Klay, sitting down.

'Did you watch today's bout?' asked Majon.

'I did indeed, ambassador. Druss is an interesting fighter. It seems that pain spurs him to greater efforts. He is indomitable, and very strong.'

'He always wins,' said Sieben happily. 'It's a talent he has.'

'Sieben is particularly pleased today,' put in Majon icily. 'He has won sixty gold pieces.'

'I won also,' said Klay.

'You bet on Druss?' asked Sieben.

'Yes. I had studied both men, and did not feel the Lentrian had the heart to match your man. He also lacked speed in his left, which gave Druss the chance to roll with the punches. But you should advise him to change his attacking stance. He tends to duck his head and charge, which makes for an easy target with an uppercut.'

'I'll be sure to tell him,' promised Sieben.

'I have a training ground at my house. He is welcome to use it.'

'That is a very kind offer,' put in Majon.

'You seem very confident, sir,' said Sieben. 'Does it not concern you that Druss has never lost?'

'No more than it concerns me that I have never lost. Whatever else happens, one of us will surrender that perfect record. But the sun will still shine, and the earth will not topple. Now, my friends, shall we order some food?'

The air was fresh and clean, and a slight wind whispered across the fountain pool, cooling the air as Sieben and Druss climbed the steep path to the summit of the highest hill in the Grand Park. Above them the sky was the glorious blue of late summer, dotted with thick white clouds drifting slowly from the east. Shafts of sunlight in the distance, breaking clear of the clouds, suddenly illuminated a section of the eastern mountains, turning them to deep shadowed red and gold, glowing like jewels in torchlight. And just as swiftly the wandering clouds blocked the sun, the golden rocks returning to grey. Druss gazed longingly at the mountains, remembering the smell of the pine and the song of the stream in his own high homeland. The clouds drifted on, and the sun shone down on the far mountains once more. The sight was beautiful, but Druss knew there would be no pine forests there. To the east of Gulgothir were the Nadir steppes, an enormous stretch of desert, dry, harsh and inhospitable.

Sieben sat beside the fountain, trailing his hand in the water. 'Now you can see why this is called the Hill of the Six Virgins,' he said. At the centre of the pool was a statue of six women, exquisitely carved from a single block of marble. They stood in a circle, each leaning forward and extending their arms, as if in entreaty. Behind and above them was the figure of an old man, holding a huge urn from which came the fountain, spilling out over the white statues and flowing down to the pool. 'Several hundred years ago,' continued Sieben, 'when a raiding army from the north surrounded Gulgothir, six virgins were sacrificed here to appease the Gods of War. They were ritually drowned. After that the Gods favoured the defenders, and they beat off the attack.'

Sieben smiled as he saw Druss's pale blue eyes narrow. The warrior's huge hand came up and idly tugged at his square-cut black beard — a sure sign of his growing irritation. 'You don't believe in appeasing the Gods?' asked Sieben innocently.

'Not with the blood of the innocent.'

'They went on to win, Druss. Therefore the sacrifice was worthwhile, surely?'

The axeman shook his head. 'If they believed the sacrifice would appease the Gods, then they would have been inspired to fight harder. But a good speech could have done that.'

'Supposing the Gods did demand that sacrifice, and therefore did help win the battle?'

'Then it would have been better lost.'

'Aha!' exclaimed Sieben triumphantly, 'but if it had been lost a far greater number of innocents would have been slain: women raped and murdered, babes slain in their cribs. How do you answer that?'

'I don't feel the need to. Most people can smell the difference between perfume and cow-dung; there's no need for a debate on it,'

'Come on, old horse, you're not stretching yourself. The answer is a simple one — the principles of good and evil are not based on mathematics. They are founded on the desire of individuals to do — or not to do — what is right and just, both in conscience and law.'

'Words, words, words! They mean nothing!' snapped Druss. 'The desire of individuals is what causes most evils. And as for conscience and law, what happens if a man has no conscience, and the law promotes ritual sacrifice? Does that make it good? Now stop trying to draw me in to another of your meaningless debates.'

'We poets live for such meaningless debates,' said Sieben, battling to hold back his anger. 'We tend to like to stretch our intelligence, to develop our minds. It helps to make us more aware of the needs of our fellows. You are in a sour mood today, Druss. I would have thought you would have been delirious at the thought of another fight to come, another man to bash your fists against. The Championship, no less. The cheers of the crowd, the adoration of your fellow-countrymen. Ah, the blood and the bruises and the endless parades and banquets in your honour!'

Druss swore and his face darkened. 'You know I despise all that.'

Sieben shook his head. 'Part of you might, Druss. The best part loathes the public clamour, yet how is it your every action always leads to more? You were invited here as a guest — an inspirational mascot, if you like. And what do you do? You break the jaw of the Drenai Champion — then take his place.'

'It was not my intention to cripple the man. Had I known his chin was made of porcelain, I would have struck him in the belly.'

'I am sure you would like to believe that, old horse. Just as I am sure I do not. Answer me this, how do you feel as the crowd roars your name?'

'I have had enough of this, poet. What do you want from me?'

Sieben took a deep, calming breath. 'Words are all we have to describe how we feel, what we need from one another. Without them how would we teach the young, or express our hopes for future generations to read? You view the world so simplistically, Druss, as if everything was either ice or fire. That in itself matters not a jot. But like all men with closed minds and small dreams you seek to mock what you can never comprehend. Civilizations are built with words, Druss. They are destroyed by axes. What does that tell you, axeman?'

'Nothing I did not already know. Now, are we even yet?'

Sieben's anger fell away and he smiled. 'I like you, Druss, I always have. But you have the most uncanny power to irritate me.'

Druss nodded, his face solemn. 'I am not a thinker,' he said, 'but nor am I stupid. I am a man like so many others. I could have been a farmer, or a carpenter, even a labourer. Never a teacher, though, nor a cleric. Intellectual men make me nervous. Like that Majon.' He shook his head. 'I have met a great number of ambassadors and they all seem identical: easy, insincere smiles and gimlet eyes that don't miss a thing. What do they believe in? Do they have a sense of honour? Of patriotism? Or do they laugh at us common men, as they line their purses with our gold? I don't know much, poet, but I do know that men like Majon — aye, and you — can make all I believe in seem as insubstantial as summer snow. And make me look foolish into the bargain. Oh, I can understand how good and evil can come down to numbers. Like those women in the fountain. A besieging army could say, "Kill six women and we'll spare the city." Well, there's only one right answer to that. But I couldn't tell you why I know it is right.'

'But I can,' said Sieben, his anger fading. 'And it is something, in part at least, that I learned from you. The greatest evil we can perpetrate, is to make someone else do evil. The besieging army you speak of is actually saying: "Unless you commit a small evil act, we will commit a great one." The heroic response would naturally be to refuse. But diplomats and politicians are pragmatists, Druss. They live without any genuine understanding of honour. Am I right?'

Druss smiled and clapped Sieben's shoulder. 'Aye, poet, you are. But I know that without turning a hair you could argue the opposite. So let us call an end to this.'

'Agreed! We will call it even.'

Druss switched his gaze to the south. Below them lay the centre of Old Gulgothir, a tightly packed and apparently haphazard jumble of buildings, homes, shops and workplaces, intersected by scores of narrow alleyways and roads. The old Keep Palace sat at the centre, like a squat, grey spider. Once the residence of kings, the Keep Palace was now used as a warehouse and granary. Druss looked to the west and the new Palace of the God-King, a colossal structure of white stone, its columns adorned with gold leaf, its statues — mostly of the King himself — crowned with silver and gold. Ornate gardens surrounded the palace, and even from here Druss could see the splendour of the royal blooms and the flowering trees. 'Have you seen the God-King yet?' asked the warrior.

'I was close to the Royal Balcony while you were toying with the Lentrian. But all I saw were the backs of his guards. It is said he has his hair dyed with real gold.'

'What do you mean toying? The man was tough, and I can still feel the weight of his blows.'

Sieben chuckled. 'Then wait until you meet the Gothir Champion, Druss. In combat the man is not human; it is said he has a punch like a thunderbolt. The odds are nine to one against you.'

'Then maybe I'll lose,' grunted Druss, 'but don't wager on it!'

'Oh, I won't be wagering a copper coin this time. I've met Klay. He is unique, Druss. In all the time I have known you I never met another man I thought could best you in combat. Until now.'

'Pah!' snorted Druss. 'I wish I had a gold raq for every tune someone has told me another man was stronger, or faster, or better, or more deadly. And where are they now?'

'Well, old horse,' answered Sieben coolly, 'they are mostly dead — slain by you in your endless quest to do what is good and pure and right.'

Druss's eyes narrowed. 'I thought you said we were even.'

Sieben spread his hands. 'Sorry. Couldn't resist it.'

The Nadir warrior known as Talisman ducked into the alleyway and loped along it. The shouts of his pursuers were muted now, but he knew he had not lost them. . not yet. Emerging into an open square, Talisman paused. There were many doors here — he counted six on each side of the square. 'This way! This way!' he heard someone shout. The moonlight shone brightly on the north and west walls as he ran to the south of the square and pressed his back against a recessed doorway. Here, in his long, black hooded cloak, he was all but invisible in the shadows. Talisman took a deep breath, fighting for calm. Absently his hand strayed towards his hip, where his long hunting-knife should have been. Silently he cursed. No Nadir warrior was allowed to carry weapons inside any Gothir city. He hated this place of stone and cobbles, with its seething masses and the resultant stench of humanity. Talisman longed for the open expanse of the Nadir steppes. Awesome mountains beneath a naked, burning sky, endless plains and valleys, where a man could ride for a year and never see another soul. On the steppes a man was alive. Not so here in this rats' nest of a city, its foul, polluted air carrying the bowel-stink of human excretions, thrown from windows to lie rotting in the alleyways, alongside other garbage and waste.

A rat scuttled over his foot but Talisman did not move. The enemy were close. Enemy? These scum from the poorest quarter of Gulgothir could hardly be considered worthy of the title. They were merely filling time in their worthless existence by hunting a Nadir tribesman through their vermin-infested streets; enjoying a transient moment of entertainment to brighten their poverty-stricken lives. He cursed again. Nosta Khan had warned him of the gangs, telling him which areas to avoid, though Talisman had barely listened. But then he had never visited a city as large as Gulgothir, and had no idea how easily a man could become lost within its warrens.

The sound of running feet came to him, and his hands clenched into fists. If they found him here they would kill him.

'Did you see where he went?' came a guttural voice.

'Nah! What about down there?'

'You three take the alley, we'll cut through Tavern Walk and meet you in the square.'

Drawing his hood around his face, leaving only his dark eyes showing, Talisman waited. The first of the three men ran past his hiding-place, then the second. But the third glanced in his direction — and spotted him. Talisman leapt forward. The man lunged with a knife, but Talisman side-stepped and hammered his fist into the attacker's face. The man stumbled back as Talisman darted to the left and sprinted into another alleyway.

'He's here! He's here!' shouted the attacker.

Ahead was a wall around eight feet high. Talisman jumped, curling his fingers over the top and scrambling up. Beyond was a moonlit garden. Dropping to the grass, he ran to a second wall, and scaled this also. On the other side was a narrow road; landing lightly he loped along it, his anger mounting. It shamed him to run from these soft, round-eyed Southerners.

He came to an intersection and cut to the north. There was no sound of pursuit, but he did not relax. He had no idea where he was, all of these foul buildings looked the same. Nosta Khan had told him to seek out the home of Chorin-Tsu, the Embalmer, which was on the Street of Weavers in the north-west quarter of the city. But where am I now? thought the tribesman.

A tall man moved from the shadows, a rust-pitted knife in his right hand. 'Got you, you little Nadir bas-tard!' he said. Talisman gazed into the man's cruel eyes and his anger rose, cold and all engulfing.

'What you have found,' said Talisman, 'is death.'

Knife-hand raised, the man ran in and stabbed down towards Talisman's neck. But Talisman swayed to the right, his left forearm sweeping up to block the attacker's wrist. In the same flowing movement his right arm came up behind the man's shoulder, then with a savage jerk he brought his weight down on the knife-arm — which snapped at the elbow. The man screamed and dropped the knife. Releasing him Talisman swept up the blade, ramming it to the hilt between the man's ribs. Dragging back on his victim's greasy hair, Talisman's dark eyes fixed on the terrified face. 'May you rot in many Hells,' whispered the Nadir, twisting the knife-blade. The mortally wounded man's mouth opened for one last scream of pain — but he died before he could draw breath.

Releasing the body, Talisman wiped the knife clean of blood on the man's filthy tunic and moved on into the darkness. All was silent here. Walls towered on both sides of him, decorated with lines of shuttered windows. Talisman emerged on to a wider alley, no more than sixty yards long, and saw glimmering lights from the windows of a tavern. Hiding the knife beneath his hooded cloak he walked on. The tavern door opened and a big man with a square-cut black beard stepped into sight. Talisman approached him.

'Your pardon, Lord,' said the Nadir, the words tasting like acid upon the tongue, 'but could you direct me to the Street of Weavers?'

'Laddie,' said the man, slumping drunkenly to an oak bench, 'I'd be surprised if I could find my own way home. I'm a stranger here myself and have been lost in this city maze more than once tonight. By Heaven, I don't know why anyone would want to live in such a place. Do you?'

Talisman turned away. At that moment the men who had been pursuing him came into sight, five at one end of the alley and four at the other. 'We're going to cut your heart out!' shouted the leader, a fat, balding ruffian. Talisman drew his knife as the first five attackers rushed in. Movement came unexpectedly from Talisman's left! His eyes flickered towards it. The drunken stranger had risen to his feet and appeared to be trying to move the oak bench. No, not move it, Talisman realized, but lift it! It was so incongruous and bizarre a moment that he had to jerk his eyes from the scene in order to face his attackers. They were close now — three armed with knives, two with cudgels of lead. Suddenly the heavy oak bench hurtled past Talisman like a spear. It struck the gang leader full in the face, smashing his teeth and punching him from his feet, then spun off into the others sending two of them to the ground. The remaining two men leapt over the bodies and ran in close. Talisman met the first, blade to blade, then hammered his elbow into the man's chin. The attacker fell face first to the cobbles. As he struggled to rise Talisman kicked him twice in the face; at the second kick the man groaned and slumped unconscious to the ground.

Talisman swung — but the last assailant was vainly struggling in the iron grip of the stranger, who had lifted him by neck and groin and was holding him suspended above his head. Spinning on his heel, Talisman saw the four remaining attackers edging forward from the other end of the alley. The stranger ran towards them, gave a grunt of effort and hurled his hapless victim straight into them. Three went down — but struggled to their feet. The stranger stepped forward.

'I think that's enough now, lads,' he said, his voice cold. 'So far I haven't killed anyone in Gulgothir. So gather your friends and go on about your business.' One of the men moved carefully forward, peering at the stranger. 'You're the Drenai fighter, aren't you? Druss?'

'True enough. Now be on your way, lads. The fun is over — unless you've an appetite for more?'

'Klay will beat you to a bloody pulp in the final, you bastard!' Without another word the man sheathed his knife, and turned to his comrades. Together they helped the injured from the alley, having to carry the leader who was still unconscious. The stranger turned to Talisman. 'An ugly place,' he said, with a broad grin, 'but it does have its delights. Join me in a jug?'

'You fight well,' said Talisman. Glancing round he could see the attackers milling at the mouth of the alley. 'Yes, I'll drink with you, Drenai. But not here. My feeling is they will talk amongst themselves until their courage returns — then they will attack again.'

'Well, walk with me, laddie. The Gothir gave us lodgings — which I believe are not far from here — and there's a jug of Lentrian Red that has been calling my name all evening.' Together they moved west, out on to the main avenue leading to the colosseum. The attackers did not follow.

Talisman had never been inside so luxurious a lodging, and his dark, slanted eyes soaked in the sights — the long oak-panelled staircase, the wall hangings of velvet, the ornate cushioned chairs, sculpted and gilded, the carpets of Chiatze silk. The huge warrior called Druss led him up the stairs and into a long corridor. Doors were set on both sides at every fifteen paces. The stranger paused at one of them, then pressed a bronze latch and the door slid open to reveal a richly furnished apartment. When Talisman peered in, his first sight was of a six-foot-long rectangular mirror. He blinked, for he had seen his reflection before, but never full-length nor quite so clearly. The stolen black cloak and tunic were travel-stained and dust-covered, and his jet-black eyes gazed back at him with undisguised weariness. The face he gazed upon — despite being beardless — looked far older than his eighteen years, the mouth set in a grim, determined line. Responsibility sat upon him like a vulture, eating away at his youth.

Stepping closer to the mirror, he touched the surface. it looked like glass. But glass was virtually transparent — how then did it reflect so wonderfully? Peering closer, he examined the mirror and on the bottom right edge he saw what appeared to be a scratch. Dropping to his knee he stared at it, and found that he could look through the scratch at the carpet beyond the mirror. 'They paint the glass with silver somehow,' said Druss. 'I don't know how it is done.'

Turning from the mirror, Talisman walked into the room. There were six couches covered with polished leather, several chairs, and a long, low table upon which was set a jug of wine and four silver goblets. The room was as large as the home tent of his father — and that housed fourteen! Twin doors on the far side opened on to a wide balcony, which overlooked the colosseum. Talisman padded across the lush carpets and out on to the balcony. The Great Arena was surrounded by tall brass poles, on which stood burning lamps casting a red light on the lower half of the colosseum. It was almost as if the enormous structure was on fire. Talisman wished that it was — and this entire city with it! 'Pretty, is it not?' asked Druss.

'You fight there?'

'Just once more. The Gothir Champion, Klay. Then I'm going home to my farm, and my wife.' Druss passed his guest a goblet of Lentrian Red and Talisman sipped it. 'All the flags flying from so many nations. Why? Are you all planning a war?'

'As I understand it,' said Druss, 'it is the opposite. The nations are here for the Fellowship Games. They are supposed to encourage friendship between the nations, and trade.'

'The Nadir were not invited to take part,' said Talisman, turning from the window and re-entering the main room.

'Ah, well, that's politics, laddie. I neither understand nor condone it. But even if they did wish to invite the Nadir — to whom would the invite be sent? There are hundreds of tribes, mostly at war with one another. They have no centre — no leader.'

'That will change,' said Talisman. 'A leader is prophesied, a great man. The Uniter!'

'I hear there have been many so-called Uniters.'

'This one will be different. He will have eyes the colour of violet, and will bear a name no Nadir has ever chosen. He is coming. And then let your world beware!'

'Well, I wish you luck,' said Druss, sitting back on a couch and raising his booted feet to the table. 'Violet eyes, eh? That'll be something to see.'

'They will be like the Eyes of Alchazzar,' said Talisman. 'He will be the embodiment of the Great Wolf in the Mountains of the Moon.'

The door opened and Talisman spun to see a tall, handsome young man enter. His fair hair was tied back in a tight pony-tail, and he wore a cloak of crimson over a long blue tunic of opal-adorned silk. 'I hope you've left some of that wine, old horse,' the newcomer said, addressing Druss. 'I'm as dry as a lizard's armpit.'

'I must be going,' said Talisman, moving towards the door.

'Wait!' said Druss, rising. 'Sieben, do you know the whereabouts of the Street of Weavers?'

'No, but there's a map in the back room. I'll fetch it.' Sieben returned moments later and spread the map on the low table. 'Which quarter?' he asked Talisman.

'North-west.'

Sieben's slender finger traced the map. 'There it is! Beside the Hall of Antiquities.' He glanced up at Talisman. 'You leave here by the main entrance and continue along the Avenue until you come to the Statue of the War Goddess — a tall woman carrying a long spear; there's a hawk on her shoulder. You bear left for another mile until you see the Park of Poets ahead of you. Turn right and keep going until you reach the Hall of Antiquities. There are four huge columns outside, and a high lintel stone upon which is carved an eagle. The Street of Weavers is the first on the right, past the hall. Would you like me to go over it again?'

'No,' said Talisman. 'I shall find it.' And without another word the Nadir left the room.

As the door closed Sieben grinned. 'His gratitude overwhelms me. Where do you meet these people?'

'He was involved in a scuffle and I gave him a hand.'

'Many dead?' enquired Sieben.

'None, as far as I know.'

'You're getting old, Druss. Nadir, was he not? He's got a nerve walking around Gulgothir.'

'Aye, I liked him. He was telling me about the Uniter to come, a man with the Eyes of Alchazzar, whatever that means.'

'That is fairly simple to explain,' said Sieben, pouring himself a goblet of wine. 'It's an old Nadir legend. Hundreds of years ago three Nadir shamen, men of great power — reputedly — decided to create a statue to the Gods of Stone and Water. They drew magic from the land and shaped the statue, which they called Alchazzar, from the stone of the Mountains of the Moon. It was, I understand, in the form of a giant wolf. Its eyes were huge amethysts, its teeth of ivory. .'

'Get to the point, poet!' snapped Druss.

'You have no patience, Druss. Now bear with me. According to the legends the shamen drew all the magic from the land, placing it within the wolf. They did this so that they could control the destiny of the Nadir. But one of the shamen later stole the Eyes of Alchazzar and suddenly the magic ceased. Robbed of their Gods, the Nadir tribes — peaceful until then — turned upon one another, fighting terrible wars which continue to this day. There! A nice little fable to help you to sleep.'

'So what happened to the man who stole the Eyes?' asked Druss.

'I have no idea.'

'That's what I hate about your stories, poet. They lack detail. Why was the magic trapped? Why did he steal the Eyes? Where are they now?'

'I shall ignore these insults, Druss, old horse,' said Sieben, with a smile. 'You know why? Because when word got out that you were ill, your odds against Klay lengthened to twelve to one.'

'Ill? I have never been ill in my life. How did such a rumour start?'

Sieben shrugged. 'I would. . guess it was when you failed to attend the banquet in the God-King's honour.'

'Damn, I forgot about it! You told them I was sick?'

'I don't believe I said sick. . more. . injured. Yes, that was it. Suffering from your injuries. Your opponent was there and he asked after you. Such a nice fellow. Said he hoped the prophecy did not affect your style.'

'What prophecy?'

'Something about you losing the final,' said Sieben airily. 'Absolutely nothing to worry about. Anyway you can ask him yourself. He has invited you to his home tomorrow evening — and I should be grateful if you would accept.'

'You would be grateful? Do I take it there is a woman involved in this?'

'Now that you mention it, I did meet a delightful serving-maid at the palace. She seems to think I'm some kind of foreign prince.'

'I wonder how she formed that opinion,' muttered Druss.

'No idea, old lad. However, I did invite her to dine with me here tomorrow. Anyway I think you'll like Klay. He's witty and urbane, and his arrogance is carefully masked.'

'Oh, yes,' grunted Druss. 'I like him already.'