The Legend of the Deathwalker

Chapter Two

The house on the Street of Weavers was an old grey stone Gothir building, two storeys under a roof of red terracotta tiles. However, the rooms inside had been redesigned after the fashion of the Chiatze. No square or rectangular rooms remained, the walls now flowed in perfect curves: ovals or circles, or circles upon ovals. Doors and door frames followed these lines; even the heavy, square-framed Gothir windows, so bleak and functional from the outside, had been decorated on the interior frames with exquisitely sculpted circular covers.

In the small central study Chorin-Tsu sat cross-legged on an embroidered rug of Chiatze silk, his deep brown eyes staring unblinking at the man kneeling before him. The newcomer's eyes were dark and wary, and though he was kneeling — as was customary in the presence of one's host — his body was tense, and ready. He reminded Chorin-Tsu of a coiled snake, very still but ready to strike. Talisman flicked his gaze to the rounded walls, the reliefs of sculpted, lacquered wood and the delicate paintings in their lacquered frames. His gaze flowed over the works of art, never pausing to examine them. Swiftly he returned his attention to the little Chiatze. Do I like you? wondered Chorin-Tsu, as the silence lengthened. Are you a man to be trusted? Why did destiny choose you to save your people? Without blinking Chorin-Tsu studied the young man's face. He had a high brow, which often denoted intelligence, and his skin was closer to the gold of the Chiatze than the jaundiced yellow of the Nadir. How old was he? Nineteen? Twenty? So young! And yet he radiated power, strength of purpose. You have gained experience beyond your years, thought the old man. And what do you see before you, young warrior? A wrinkled ancient — a lantern whose oil is almost gone, the flame beginning to stutter? An old man in a room of pretty pictures! Well, once I was strong like you, and I had great dreams also. At the thought of those dreams his mind wandered briefly, and he came to with a start and found himself staring into Talisman's jet-black eyes. Fear touched him fleetingly — for now the eyes were cold and impatient.

'Be so kind as to show me the token,' said Chorin-Tsu, speaking in the southern tongue, his voice barely above a whisper. Talisman reached into his tunic and produced a small coin stamped with the head of a wolf. He offered it to the old man, who took it with trembling fingers, leaning forward to examine it. Talisman found himself staring at the small white braid of hair on the crown of Chorin-Tsu's otherwise shaven head. 'It is an interesting coin, young man. Sadly, however, anyone can possess such a piece,' said the embalmer, his breath wheezing from him. 'It could have been taken from the true messenger.'

Talisman gave a cold smile. 'Nosta Khan told me you were a mystic, Chorin-Tsu. You should, therefore, have little difficulty judging my integrity.'

There were two shallow clay cups of water set upon a silk rug. The young Nadir reached for one, but the old man waved a hand and shook his head. 'Not yet, Talisman. Forgive me, but I shall tell you when to drink, As to your point, Nosta Khan was not speaking of psychic powers. I was never a true mystic. What I have been, all my life, Talisman, is a student. I have studied my craft, I have examined the great sites of history, but most of all I have studied men. The more I studied the race, the better I understand its foibles. But the curious thing about study, when conducted with an open mind, is that it makes one smaller. But, forgive me, philosophy is not a Nadir preoccupation.'

'Being savages, you mean?' answered the Nadir, without rancour. 'Perhaps I should therefore leave the answer to the priest-philosopher Dardalion, who said, "Every question answered leads to seven other questions. Therefore to a student the gathering of knowledge merely increases the awareness of how much more there is still to know." Will that suffice, Master Embalmer?'

Chorin-Tsu masked his surprise, and bowed deeply. 'Indeed it will, young man. And I pray you will forgive this old one for such rudeness. These are heady days and I fear my excitement is affecting my manners.'

'I take no offence,' said Talisman. 'Life is harsh upon the steppes. There is little opportunity for a contemplative existence.'

The old man bowed again. 'I do not wish to compound my rudeness, young sir, but I find myself intrigued as to where a Nadir warrior would come upon the words of Dardalion of the Thirty.'

'It is said that a little mystery adds spice to a relationship,' Talisman told him. 'However, you were talking about your studies.'

Chorin-Tsu found himself warming further to the young man. 'My studies also involve astrology, numerology, the casting of runes, the reading of palms, the fashioning of spells. And yet there remain so many things to baffle the mind. I shall give you an example.' From his belt he pulled an ivory-handled throwing-knife, which he pointed towards a round target set on the wall some twenty paces away. 'When I was younger I could hurl this blade into the golden centre of that target. But now — as you see — my fingers are gnarled and bent. Do it for me, Talisman.' The young Nadir caught the tossed blade. For a moment he weighed it in his hand, feeling the balance. Then he drew back his arm and let fly. The silver steel shimmered in the lantern light, and flashed across the room to lance home into the target. It missed the gold by a finger's breadth. 'The target is covered with small symbols. Go and tell me the symbol that the blade pierced,' ordered Chorin-Tsu.

Talisman rose and walked across the room. The target had been decorated with curious Chiatze hieroglyphs, traced in gold paint. He did not recognize most of them. But the knife-blade had pierced an oval, at the centre of which was a delicately drawn talon, and this image he understood. 'Where did it strike?' called Chorin-Tsu. Talisman told him.

'Good, good. Come and rejoin me, my boy.'

'I have passed your test?'

'One of them. Here is the second. Drink from one of the cups.'

'Which one contains the poison?' asked Talisman.

Chorin-Tsu said nothing and Talisman stared at the cups. 'Suddenly I am not thirsty.'

'Yet you must drink,' Chorin-Tsu insisted.

'Tell me the purpose of the game, old one. Then I shall decide.'

'I know you can throw a knife, Talisman, this I have seen. But can you think'} Are you worthy to serve the Uniter — to bring him to our people? As you rightly surmise, one of the cups contains a deadly poison. Death will follow if it even touches your lips. The other contains nothing but water. How will you choose?'

'There is insufficient information,' said Talisman.

'You are wrong.'

Talisman sat quietly, his mind working at the problem. He closed his eyes, recalling every word spoken by the old man. Leaning forward he lifted the left-hand cup, twirling it in his fingers; then the right. Both were identical. Transferring his gaze to the rug he gave a rare smile. It was embroidered with the same set of symbols as the target. And below the left-hand cup was the oval and the talon. Lifting the cup, he tasted the water. It was sweet and cool.

'Good, you are observant,' said Chorin-Tsu. 'But is it not amazing that you should have thrown the knife to the exact symbol, when there were twelve others to strike?'

'How did you know I would strike it?"

'It was written thus in the stars. Nosta Khan knew it also. He knew it through his Talent, whereas I knew it through study. Now, answer me this: What is the third test?'

Talisman took a deep breath. 'The talon was the mark of Oshikai Demon-bane, the oval the symbol of his wife, Shul-sen. When Oshikai wished to wed Shul-sen her father set him three tasks, the first was one of marksmanship, the second concerned intelligence, the third. . required a sacrifice. Oshikai had to slay a demon, who had been his friend. I know no demons, Chorin-Tsu.'

'As with all myths, my boy, they serve a purpose beyond the richness of the tales. Oshikai was a reckless man, given to great rages. The demon was merely a part of himself, the wild and dangerous side of his personality. Shul-sen's father knew this, and wanted Oshikai to pledge himself to love her till the end of his days — never to harm her, never to put her aside for another.'

'What has this to do with me?'

'Everything.' Chorin-Tsu clapped his hands together. The door opened and a young Chiatze woman entered. She bowed to both men, then knelt and touched her head to the floor at Chorin-Tsu's feet. Talisman gazed at her in the candlelight. She was exquisitely beautiful, with raven-dark hair and wide, almond-shaped eyes. Her mouth was full, her figure trim within a white silk blouse and long satin skirt.

'This is Zhusai, my grand-daughter. It is my wish that you take her with you on your quest. It is also the wish of Nosta Khan, and your father.'

'And if I refuse?'

'No more will be said. You will leave my home and journey back to the tents of your people.'

'And my quest?'

'Will continue without my aid.'

'I am not ready for a wife. I have dedicated my life to the pursuit of revenge and the Day of the Uniter. But even were I to consider marriage, then as the son of a chieftain it would be my right to choose my own woman. It would certainly be my wish that she be Nadir. I have great respect for the Chiatze — but they are not my people.'

Chorin-Tsu leaned forward. 'Leaders have no rights; that is one of the great secrets of leadership. However, you miss the point, young man. Zhusai is not to be your wife. She is pledged to the Uniter; she will be the Shul-sen to his Oshikai.'

'Then I do not understand,' admitted Talisman, relieved. 'What sacrifice is required of me?'

'Do you accept Zhusai into your custody? Will you protect her with your life?'

'If that is required, so be it,' promised Talisman. 'Now what is the sacrifice?'

'Perhaps there will be none. Zhusai, show our guest to his room.' The young woman bowed once more, then rose silently and led Talisman from the chamber.

At the end of a short corridor Zhusai opened a door and stepped inside. Rugs were set around the room, and blankets had been spread upon the floor. There were no chairs, nor ornaments. 'This is your room,' she said.

'Thank you, Zhusai. Tell me, have you ever been into the desert?'

'No, Lord.'

'Does the prospect of our journey cause you concern? We will be travelling through hostile lands and there will be many dangers.'

'There is only one danger I fear, Lord,' she said.

'And that is?' As he asked the question he saw a gleam appear in her eyes, and a tightening of the muscles of her face. In that moment the quiescent, agreeable Chiatze girl-child disappeared, replaced by a hard-eyed woman. Then, just as suddenly, the girl-mask fell back into place.

'It is best not to speak of fears, Lord. For fear is akin to magic. Good night. Sleep well.'

The door closed behind her.

Sieben's laughter was rich, the sound filling the room, and the Drenai ambassador reddened. 'I think you'll find that this is no subject for humour,' he said coldly. 'We are talking here about international diplomacy, and the whims of individuals have no place in it.' The poet sat back and studied the ambassador's thin face. His steel-coloured hair was carefully combed and delicately perfumed, his clothes immaculate — and very costly. Majon wore a white woollen cloak, and a blue silk tunic edged with gold. The ambassador's fingers toyed with his crimson neck scarf and the ceremonial brooch — a silver horse rearing — that denoted his rank. The man was angry, and allowing it to show. This, Sieben decided, was a calculated insult. Diplomats were masters of oily charm, their expressions endlessly amiable when dealing with superiors. 'Do you disagree?' asked Majon.

'I rarely disagree with politicians,' Sieben told him. 'It seems to me that the worst of you could convince me that a horse turd tastes like a honey-cake. And the best would leave me believing that I alone in all the world had failed to enjoy its flavour.'

'That is a highly insulting remark,' snapped Majon.

'I do apologize, ambassador. It was meant as a compliment.'

'Will you seek to convince him — or not? This matter is of the highest importance. I swear, by the memory of Missael, that we could be talking of war!'

'Oh, I don't doubt that, ambassador. I saw the God-King, remember?' Majon's eyes widened and he swiftly raised his hand to his mouth, holding a finger to his lips in warning. Sieben merely grinned. 'An inspired leader,' he said, with a wink. 'Any ruler who would sack a politician and raise his pet cat to ministerial rank has my support.'

Majon rose from his chair and walked to the door, opening it and peering out into the corridor. Swinging back into the room he stood before the poet. 'It is not wise to mock any ruler — most especially when in the capital city of such a man. The peoples of the Drenai and the Gothir are at peace. Long may it remain so.'

'Yet in order to ensure that peace,' said Sieben, his smile fading, 'Druss must lose against Klay?'

'Put simply, that is indeed the situation. It would not be. . appropriate. . for Druss to win.'

'I see. You have little faith, then, in the God-King's prophecy?'

Majon poured himself a goblet of wine and sipped it before answering. 'It is not a question of faith, Sieben; it is simply politics. The God-King makes a prophecy at this time every year. They come true. There are those who believe that, since his prophecies generally concern the actions of men, the men themselves ensure their accuracy. Others simply accept that their ruler is divine. However, in this instance the point is academic. He has predicted that Klay will take the gold. If Druss were to win it would be seen as an insult to the God-King, and interpreted as a Drenai plot to destabilize the administration. The consequences of such an action could be disastrous.'

'I suppose he could put his cat in charge of the army and attack Dros Delnoch. A terrifying prospect!'

'Is there a brain inside that handsome head? The army you speak of numbers more than fifty thousand men, many of them battle-hardened by war against Nadir tribes and Sathuli raiders. But that is not the point. Here in Gothir there are three main factions. One faction believes in the divine right of the Gothir to conquer the world. The other seeks to conquer the world without concerning themselves with the question of divine rights. You understand? For reasons best known to themselves, each faction hates the other. This nation stands constantly on the brink of civil war. While they are thus fighting among themselves, the Drenai are free from the appalling cost of resisting an invasion.'

'Cost? Are we talking coin here?'

'Of course we are talking coin,' said Majon, his jr-ritation flaring. 'Mobilization of men, training, new armour, swords, breastplates. Food for the recruits. And where do we find the recruits? The land. Peasants and farmers. When they are soldiers, who gathers the crops? The answer is that many fields are left unharvested. What happens to the price of grain? It soars. And, at the end, what has been achieved? The fortress will hold, and the men will go home to find their taxes have risen to pay for the war. Fifty thousand trained soldiers angry at the government.'

'You didn't mention the dead,' said Sieben softly.

'A good point. The threat of disease from corpses, the costs of burial. Then there are the cripples, who become an endless drag upon the benevolence of the state.'

'I think you have made your point, ambassador,' put in Sieben. 'Your humanity does you credit. But you mentioned three factions, and you have described only two.'

'Lastly there is the Royal Guard — ten thousand men, the elite of the Gothir army. They placed the God-King on the throne after the last Insurrection — and they keep him there. Neither of the other two factions is yet powerful enough to be guaranteed victory without the support of the Guards. Therefore everyone stands frozen, unable to move. Ideally that situation should be encouraged to continue.'

Sieben laughed. 'And meanwhile a madman sits on the throne, his reign punctuated by murder, torture and enforced suicides?'

'That is a problem for the Gothir, Sieben. Our concern is the Drenai, of which there are also close to three thousand living in Gothir lands whose lives would be forfeit if any general hostilities were announced. Merchants, labourers, physicians — aye, and diplomats. Are their lives without meaning, Sieben?'

'Smoothly done, Majon,' said Sieben, clapping his hands. 'And now we come to the horse-turd-honey-cake. Of course their lives have meaning. But Druss is not responsible for them, nor for the actions of a madman. Don't you understand, ambassador? Nothing you — or the God-King — can do will change that. Druss is not a stupid man, yet he sees life very clearly. He will go out and face Klay, and give everything he has to win. There is nothing anyone could say that would induce him to do less. Nothing at all. All your arguments here would be meaningless. Druss would say that whatever the God-King chooses to do — or not to do — is up to his own conscience. But even more than that, Druss would refuse for one very simple reason.'

'And that is?'

'It wouldn't be right.'

'I thought you said he was intelligent!' snapped Majon. 'Right, indeed! What has right to do with this? We are dealing with a. . sensitive and. . unique ruler. .'

'We are dealing with a lunatic who, if he wasn't King, would be locked away for his own safety,' responded Sieben.

Majon rubbed his tired eyes. 'You mock politics,' he said softly. 'You sneer at diplomacy. But how do you think we hold the world at peace? I'll tell you, Sieben. Men like me travel to places like this, and we're fed those horse-turd cakes of yours. And we smile, and we say how nourishing they are. We move in the space between other men's egos, massaging them as we walk. We do this not for gain, but for peace and prosperity. We do it so that Drenai farmers, merchants, clerics and labourers can raise their families in peace. Druss is a hero; he can enjoy the luxury of living his own life and speaking his own truths. Diplomats cannot. Now will you help me to convince him?'

Sieben rose. 'No, ambassador, I will not. You are wrong in this — though I give you the benefit of the doubt as to your motives.' He walked to the door and turned. 'Perhaps you've been eating those cakes too long. Perhaps you have acquired a taste for them.'

Behind the panelled walls a servant slipped away to report the conversation.

Garen-Tsen lifted the hem of his long purple robe and stepped carefully down the worn stone steps to the dungeon level. The stench here was great, but the tall Chiatze closed his mind to it. Dungeons were supposed to stink. Prisoners dragged into such places were assailed by the gloom, the damp and the awful smell of fear. It made interrogation that much more simple.

In the dungeon corridor he paused and listened. Somewhere to his left a man was crying, the noise muffled by the heavy stone of his cell. Two guards stood by. Garen-Tsen summoned the first. 'Who weeps?' he asked.

The guard, a fat, bearded man with stained teeth, sniffed loudly. 'Maurin, sir. He was brought in yesterday.'

'I will see him after speaking to the Senator,' said Garen-Tsen.

'Yes, sir.' The man backed away and Garen-Tsen walked slowly to the interrogation room. An elderly man was seated there, his face blotched and swollen, his right eye almost shut. Blood had stained his white under-tunic.

'Good morning, Senator,' said Garen-Tsen, moving to a high-backed chair which a guard slid into position for him. He sat opposite the injured man, who glared at him balefully. 'I understand that you have decided to remain uncooperative?'

The prisoner took a deep, shuddering breath. 'I am of the royal line, Garen-Tsen. The law expressly forbids torture.'

'Ah, yes, the law. It also expressly forbids plotting to kill the King, I understand. And it frowns upon conspiracies to overthrow the rightful government.'

'Of course it does!' snapped the prisoner. 'Which is why I would never be guilty of such dealings. The man is my nephew; you think I would plan to murder my own blood kin?'

'And now you add heresy to the charges,' said Garen-Tsen mildly. 'The God-King is never to be referred to as a man.'

'A slip of the tongue,' muttered the Senator.

'Such slips are costly. Now, to matters at hand. You have four sons, three daughters, and seven grandchildren, fourteen cousins, a wife, and two mistresses. Let me be frank with you, Senator. You are going to die. The only question that remains is whether you die alone, or with your entire family.'

All colour drained from the prisoner's face — but his courage remained. 'You are a vile devil, Garen-Tsen. There is an excuse for my nephew, the King — poor boy — for he is insane. But you — you are an intelligent, cultured man. May the Gods curse you!'

'Yes, yes, I am sure they will. Shall I order the arrest of your family members? I do not believe your wife would relish the atmosphere of these dungeons.'

'What do you desire from me?'

'A document is being prepared for your signature. When it is completed, and signed by you, you will be allowed to take poison. Your family will be spared.' Garen-Tsen rose. 'And now you must excuse me. There are other traitors awaiting interrogation.'

The old man looked up at the Chiatze. 'There is only one traitor here, you Chiatze dog. And one day you will be dragged screaming to this very room.'

'That may indeed prove true, Senator. You, however, will not be here to see it.'

An hour later Garen-Tsen rose from his scented bath. A young manservant applied a hot towel to his wet body, gently rubbing away the drops of water clinging to the golden skin. A second servant brought a phial of scented oil which he massaged into Garen-Tsen's back and shoulders. When he had finished, a third boy stepped forward carrying a fresh purple robe. The Chiatze raised his arms and the robe was expertly settled in place. Two ornate slippers were laid on the rug at his feet. Garen-Tsen slipped his feet into them, and walked to his study. The ornate desk of carved oak had been freshly polished with beeswax, scented with lavender. Three inkwells had been placed there and four fresh white quill pens. Seating himself in a padded leather chair, Garen-Tsen took up a quill and a virgin sheet of thick paper and began his report.

As the noon bell was struck in the courtyard beyond, there came a tap at his door. 'Enter!' he called. A slim, dark-haired man moved to the desk and bowed.

'Yes, Oreth, make your report.'

'The sons of Senator Gyall have been arrested. His wife committed suicide. Other family members have fled, but we are hunting them now. The wife of the noble Maurin has transferred funds to a banker in Drenan: eighty thousand gold pieces. His two brothers are already in the Drenai capital.'

'You will send a message to our people in Drenan. They must deal with the traitors.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Anything else, Oreth?'

'Only one small matter, sir. The Drenai fighter, Druss. It seems he will probably attempt to win. His ambassador will try to persuade him but the fighter's friend, Sieben, maintains he will not be convinced.'

'Who do we have following the fighter?'

'Jarid and Copass.'

'I have spoken to Klay and he says the Drenai will prove a tough opponent. Very well, arrange to have him waylaid and cut. Any deep wound will suffice.'

'It might not be so simple, Lord. The man was engaged in a fracas recently and thrashed several robbers. It may be necessary to kill him.'

'Then kill him. There are far more important matters needing my attention, Oreth. I have little time for consideration of such tiny problems.' Lifting his quill, Garen-Tsen dipped it into an inkwell and began once more to write.

Oreth bowed and backed away.

Garen-Tsen continued to work for almost a full hour. The words of the Senator, however, continued to echo through his mind. 'And one day you will be dragged screaming to this very room.' Such an event was — at present — extremely likely. As of this moment Garen-Tsen was perched on the very top of the mountain. The hold, however, was precarious, for his position of eminence depended entirely upon a madman. Laying aside his quill, he contemplated the future. So far, mainly through his own efforts, both rival factions remained in balance. Such harmony could not be maintained for much longer — not with the King's illness proceeding at such a terrifying rate. Soon his insanity would become too difficult to control and a blood-bath would surely follow. Garen-Tsen sighed.

'On top of the mountain,' he said aloud. 'It is not a mountain at all, but a volcano waiting to erupt.'

At that moment the door opened and a middle-aged soldier stepped inside. He was powerfully built, and wore the long, black cloak of the Royal Guard. Garen-Tsen's odd-coloured eyes focused on the man. 'Welcome, Lord Gargan. How may I be of service?'

The newcomer moved to a chair and sat heavily. Removing his ornate helm of bronze and silver, he laid it on the desk top. 'The madman has killed his wife,' he said.

Two Royal Guards led Chorin-Tsu into the grounds of the palace. Two more came behind, carrying the trunk in which lay the objects and materials necessary to the trade of the embalmer. The old man's breath was wheezing from him as he hurried to keep up. He asked no questions.

The guardsmen led him through the servants halls, and up a richly carpeted stairway into the warren of royal apartments. Skirting the fabled Hall of Concubines the Guards entered the Royal Chapel, bowing before the golden image of the God-King. Once through the rear of the chapel they slowed, as if to make less noise, and Chorin-Tsu took this opportunity to regain his breath. At last they came to a double-doored private chamber. Two men were waiting outside; one was a soldier with a forked beard the colour of iron, the second was the purple-garbed First Minister, Garen-Tsen. He was tall and wand-thin, and his face bore no expression.

Chorin-Tsu bowed to his countryman. 'May the Lords of High Heaven grant you blessings,' said Chorin-Tsu, speaking in Chiatze.

'It is unseemly and discourteous to use a foreign language in the Royal Chambers,' admonished Garen-Tsen, in the Southern tongue. Chorin-Tsu bowed once more. Garen-Tsen's long fingers tapped at the second knuckle of his right hand. Then he folded his arms, his index finger touching his bicep. Chorin-Tsu read the sign language: Do what is required and you will live!

'My apologies, Lord,' said Chorin-Tsu. 'Forgive your humble servant.' Bringing his hands together he bowed even lower than before, touching his thumbs to his chin.

'Your skills are needed here, Master Embalmer. No-one else will enter this room until you have completed your. . craft. You understand?'

'Of course, Lord.' The guardsmen placed Chorin-Tsu's trunk by the door. Garen-Tsen opened the door just wide enough for the elderly Chiatze to enter, dragging the trunk behind him.

Chorin-Tsu heard the door close behind him, then gazed around the apartments. The rugs were of the finest Chiatze silk, as were the hangings around the royal bed. The bed itself had been exquisitely carved, then gilded. Every item in the room spoke of riches and the extremes of wealth only monarchs could afford.

Even the corpse..

She was hanging by her arms from golden chains attached to rings in the ceiling above the bed, and blood had drenched the sheets below her. Chorin-Tsu had seen the Queen only twice before — once during the parade at her wedding, and then, two weeks ago, when the Fellowship Games began. In her new role as Bokat, Goddess of Wisdom, she had blessed the opening ceremony. Chorin-Tsu had seen her closely then. Her eyes had seemed vacant, and she slurred the words of the Blessing. Now he moved to a chair and sat, staring at the still body.

The old man sighed. Just as at the Games Ceremony, the Queen was wearing the Helm of Bokat, a golden headpiece with flaring wings and long cheek-guards. Chorin-Tsu was not well versed in Gothir myths, but he knew enough. Bokat was the wife of Missael, the God of War. Their son, Caales, future Lord of Battle, sprang fully grown from his mother's belly.

But that was not the myth that inspired this insanity. No. Bokat had been captured by the enemy. The Gods of the Gothir had gone to war, the world burning from the flame arrows of Missael. Bokat had been taken by one of the other gods, and hung from chains outside the Magical City. Her husband, Missael, was warned that if he attacked she would be the first slain. He had taken his bow and shot her through the heart, then he and his companions rushed forward, scaling the walls and slaying all within. When the battle was over he drew the arrow from his wife's breast, and kissed the wound. It healed instantly and she awoke, and took him in her arms.

Here in this room someone had tried to duplicate the myth. The blood-covered arrow was lying on the floor. Wearily Chorin-Tsu climbed to the bed, loosening the bolts that held the golden chains to the slender wrists of the dead Queen. The body fell to the bed, the helm rolling clear and striking the floor with a dull clang. The Queen's blond hair fell free, and Chorin-Tsu noticed that the roots were a dull, mousy brown.

Garen-Tsen entered, and the two men spoke in sign.

'The God-King tried to save her. When the bleeding would not stop he panicked and sent for the Royal Physician.'

'There is blood everywhere,' said Chorin-Tsu. 'I cannot perform my arts upon her in these conditions.'

'You must! No-one will be allowed to know of this. .' Garen-Tsen's fingers hesitated. . 'this stupidity.'

'The physician is dead, then?'

'Yes.'

'As I will be when my work is done.'

'No. I have arranged for you to be smuggled from the palace. You will flee to the south and Dros Delnoch.'

'I thank you, Garen-Tsen.'

'I will have a chest left outside these apartments. Place all the. . soiled linen within it.''How long will you need to prepare her?' he concluded, aloud.

'Three hours, perhaps more.'

'I shall return then.'

The Minister left the room and Chorin-Tsu sighed. The man had lied to him; there would be no escape to the south. Putting the thought from his mind, Chorin-Tsu moved to the trunk by the door and began to remove the jars of embalming fluid, the cutters and the scrapers, setting them out neatly on a table by the bed.

A gilded panel at the rear of the apartment slid open. Chorin-Tsu dropped to his knees, averting his gaze — but not before he had seen the gold paint on the royal face, and the dried blood on his lips from when he had kissed the wound on his wife's breast.

'I shall awaken her now,' said the God-King. Moving to the body he knelt and pressed his lips to hers. 'Come to me, sister-wife. Open your eyes, Goddess of the Dead. Come to me, I command you!'

Chorin-Tsu remained on his knees, eyes closed. 'I command you!' shouted the God-King. Then he began to weep and for long moments the sobbing continued. 'Ah,' he said suddenly. 'She is teasing me, she is pretending to be dead. Who are you?'

Chorin-Tsu jerked as he realized the King was addressing him. Opening his eyes, he looked up into the face of madness. The blue eyes shone brightly within the mask of gold; they were friendly, and gentle. Chorin-Tsu took a long slow breath. 'I am the Royal Embalmer, sire,' he said.

'Your eyes are slanted, but you are not Nadir. Your skin is gold, like my friend, Garen. Are you Chiatze?'

'I am, sire.'

'Do they worship me there? In your homeland?'

'I have lived here for forty-two years, sire. Sadly, I do not receive news from my homeland.'

'Come, talk to me. Sit here on the bed.'

Chorin-Tsu rose, his dark eyes focusing on the young God-King. He was of medium build and slender, much like his sister. His hair was dyed gold, and his skin was painted the same colour. His eyes were a remarkable blue. 'Why is she not waking? I have commanded it.'

'I fear, sire, that the Queen has. . moved to her second realm.'

'Second? Oh I see, Goddess of Wisdom, Queen of the Dead. Do you think so? When will she come back?'

'How could any mortal man predict such a happening, sire? The gods are far above mere mortals like myself.'

'I suppose that we are. I think you are correct in your assumption, Embalmer. She is ruling the dead now. I expect she will be happy. A lot of our friends are there to serve her. Many, many. Do you think that's why I sent them all there? Of course it was. I knew Bokat would return to the dead, and I sent lots of her friends ahead to welcome her. I only pretended to be angry with them.' He smiled happily and clapped his hands. 'What is this for?' he asked, lifting a long, brass instrument with a forked end.

'It is an. . aid to me, sire, in my work. It helps to. . make the object of my attentions remain beautiful always.'

'I see. It is very sharp, and wickedly hooked. And why all the knives and scrapers?'

'The dead have little use for their internal organs, sire. They putrefy. For a body to remain beautiful they must be removed.' The God-King stood and wandered to where Chorin-Tsu's chest stood open by the door. He peered inside, then lifted out a glass jar in which were stored many sets of crystal eyes.

'I think I shall leave you to your craft, Master Em-balmer,' he said brightly. 'I have many matters to attend to. There are so many of Bokat's friends who will want to follow her. I must prepare their names.'

Chorin-Tsu bowed deeply, and said nothing.

Sieben was wrong. When Majon broached the subject of the prophecy with Druss, there was no immediate refusal. The Drenai warrior listened, his face impassive, his cold, pale eyes expressionless. As the ambassador concluded, Druss rose from his chair. 'I'll think on it,' he said.

'But, Druss, there are so many considerations that. .'

'I said I'll think on it. Now leave.' The coldness of the warrior's tone cut through Majon like a winter wind.

During the late afternoon Druss, dressed casually in a wide-sleeved shirt of soft brown leather, woollen leggings and knee-length boots, walked through the city centre, oblivious to the crowds surging around him: servants buying supplies and wares for their households, men gathered around inns and taverns, women moving through the marketplaces and shops, lovers walking hand in hand in the parks. Druss weaved his way among them, his mind focused on the ambassador's plea.

When slavers had attacked Druss's village and captured the young women — Rowena among them — Druss had instinctively followed the raiders, hunting them down. That had been right! There were no moral or political questions to be addressed.

But here and now it was all blurred. 'There would be honour in such a decision,' Majon had assured him. And why? Because thousands of Drenai lives would be saved. Giving in to the wishes of a madman, suffering humiliation and defeat? This was honour?

Yet to win could mean, at worst, a terrible war. Was winning a fight worth such a risk, Majon had asked. For the satisfaction of pounding a man to the ground?

Druss crossed the Park of Giants and cut to the left, through the Arch of Marble and on towards the low Valley of the Swans in which Klay's house was situated. Here were the homes of the rich, the roads lined with trees, the houses elegantly designed, the grounds boasting small lakes and fountains or beautifully sculpted statues set around winding paths which ran through immaculately tended gardens.

Everything spoke of money, enormous amounts of gold. Druss had been raised in mountain communities where homes were built of rough-cut timber sealed with clay; places where coin was as rare as a whore's honour. Now he stood gazing at palace after palace of white marble, with gilded pillars, painted frescoes, carved reliefs, each topped with red terracotta tile or black Lentrian slate.

Walking on, he sought out the home of the Gothir Champion. Two sentries stood before the high, wrought-iron gates; both men wore silver breastplates, and were armed with short swords. The house was imposing, though not as ostentatious as the other homes nearby. It was square-built with a sloping red-tile roof, and boasting no ornate columns, no frescoes, nor paint work. The home of the Champion was of simple white stone. The main door was set beneath a stone lintel, and the many windows were functional, displaying no coloured glass, no leaded figures, no ornamentation at all. Much to his own annoyance Druss found himself liking the man who owned the house, which was set amidst gardens boasting willow and beech.

There was one gesture to the dramatic. A statue of the fighter, almost twice life-size, was set upon a pedestal at the centre of a well-tended lawn. Like the house it was of white stone, unpainted and unadorned, and showed Klay with his fists raised defiantly.

For a while Druss stood on the broad avenue outside the gates. A movement in the shadows caught his eye and he saw a small boy crouched by the bole of an elm tree. Druss grinned at him. 'Waiting for a glimpse of the great man, are you?' he asked amiably. The boy nodded, but said nothing. He was painfully thin and scrawny, his eyes deep-set, his face pinched and tight. Druss fished in the small pouch at his belt, producing a silver coin which he tossed to the urchin. 'Go on with you. Buy yourself some food.'

Catching the coin the child stowed it in his ragged tunic — but remained where he was.

'You really want to see him, don't you? Even hunger can't draw you away? Come with me then, boy. I'll take you in.' The child's face brightened instantly and he scrambled forward. Standing he was even thinner than he had appeared, his elbows and knees seeming swollen larger than biceps or thighs. Beside the huge form of the Drenai fighter he appeared no more than a frail shadow.

Together they walked to the gates, where the sentries stepped forward, blocking the way.

'I am Druss. I have been invited here.'

'The beggar boy hasn't been invited,' said one of the guards. Druss stepped in close, his cold gaze locking to the man's eyes, their faces only inches apart. The guard stepped back, trying to create space between himself and Druss, but the Drenai followed him and the man's breastplate clanged against the gate. 'I invited him, laddie. You have a problem with that?'

'No. No problem.'

The sentries stepped aside, pushing open the wrought-iron gates. Druss and the boy moved slowly on. The axeman paused to gaze at the statue, then once more scanned the house and the grounds. The statue was out of place here, at odds with the natural contours of the garden. As he approached the house an elderly servant opened the main door and bowed.

'Welcome, Lord Druss,' he said.

'I am no Lord — nor would ever wish to be. This child was waiting in the shadows for a glimpse of Klay. I promised him a closer look.'

'Mmm,' said the old man. 'I think he could do with a meal first. I'll take him to the kitchen. My master is waiting for you, sir, in the training grounds at the rear of the house. Just follow the hallway; you cannot miss it.' Taking the boy by the hand the old man moved away.

Druss strode on. In the grounds behind the house there were some twenty athletes engaged in training, or sparring. The area was well designed, with three sand circles, punching-bags, weights, massage tables, and two fountains supplying running water. At the far end was a deep pool where Druss could see several men swimming. The setting was simple and he warmed to it, feeling the tension drain from him. Two men were sparring in one of the sand circles while a third, the colossal Klay, stood close by watching intently. In the fading sunlight Klay's short-cropped blond hair shone like gold. His arms were folded and Druss noted the powerful muscles of his shoulders and back, and the way his body tapered to waist and hips. Built for speed and power, thought Druss.

'Break away!' ordered Klay. As the fighters moved apart the Gothir Champion stepped into the circle. 'You are too stiff, Galas,' he said, 'and that left hand moves like a sick turtle. I think your training is out of harmony. You are building weight in your shoulders and arms, which is good for power, but you are ignoring the lower body. The most deadly punches are powered by the legs, the force flowing up through the hips and then to the shoulders and arms. When it reaches the fist the impact is like a lightning bolt. Tomorrow you will work with Shonan.' Swinging to the other man he laid a hand on his shoulder. 'You have great skill, boy, but you lack instinct. You have courage and style, but not the heart of a fighter. You see with your eyes only. Shonan tells me your spear-work is excellent. I think we will concentrate on that for the time being.' Both men bowed and moved away.

Klay swung and saw Druss. He gave a broad smile and walked across the training area, his hand extended. A head taller than Druss, he was broader across the shoulders. His face was flat, no sharpness to the bones upon brow or cheek. It was unlikely that a blow would split the skin above or below his eyes, and his chin was square and strong. He had the face of a natural fighter. Druss shook his hand. 'This is what a training area should be,' said Druss. 'It is very fine. Well considered.'

The Gothir fighter nodded. 'It pleases me, though I wish it were bigger. No room for spear-throwing, or hurling the discus. My trainer Shonan uses a field close by. Come, I will show you our facilities.' There were four masseurs at work, skilfully kneading and stretching the muscles of tired athletes, and a bathhouse with two heated pools set back from the training area. For some time the two men wandered the grounds, then at last Klay led Druss back into the house.

The walls of Klay's study were covered with drawings and paintings of the human form, showing muscle structures and attachments. Druss had never seen the like. 'Several of my friends are physicians,' said the Gothir fighter. 'Part of their training involves the dissection of corpses, and the study of the workings of the human body. Fascinating, is it not? Most of our muscles appear to work in an antagonistic fashion. For the biceps to swell, the triceps must relax and stretch.'

'How does this help you?' asked Druss.

'It enables me to find balance,' said Klay. 'Harmony, if you will. Both muscles are vital, one to the other. Therefore it would be foolish to develop one at the expense of the other. You see?'

Druss nodded. 'I had a friend back in Mashrapur, a fighter named Borcha. He would have been as impressed as I am.'

'I have heard of him. He trained you and helped you to become a champion. After you left Mashrapur, he was the first fighter in Circle history to regain his championship. He retired six years ago, after losing to Proseccis in a bout that lasted for almost two hours.'

A servant brought a jug and filled two goblets. 'Refreshing,' observed Druss, as he drank.

'The juices of four fruits,' said Klay. 'I find them invigorating.'

'I prefer wine.'

'They say red wine feeds the blood,' agreed Klay, 'but I have always found it inhibits full training.' For several heartbeats the men sat in silence, then Klay leaned back on his couch. 'You are wondering why I invited you here, are you not?'

'I had thought it was an attempt at intimidation,' said Druss. 'Now I do not believe that.'

'That is gracious of you. I wanted you to know that I was dismayed to hear of the prophecy. It must be galling for you. I know that I always find it hateful when politics intrudes on what should be honest competition. Therefore I wanted to set your mind at rest.'

'How do you plan to do that?'

'By convincing you to fight to win. To give it your very best.'

Druss leaned back and looked hard at the Gothir Champion. 'Why is it', he asked, 'that my own ambassador urges me to an opposite course of action? Do you wish to see your King humbled?'

Klay laughed. 'You misunderstand me, Druss. I have watched you fight. You are very good, and you have heart and instinct. When I asked Shonan how he saw us both, he said, "If I had to put all my money on a fighter it would be you, Klay. But if I had to have someone fight for my life, it would be Druss." I am an arrogant man, my friend, but it is not an arrogance born of false pride. I know what I am, and I know what I am capable of. In some ways, as my physician friends tell me, I am a freak of nature. My strength is prodigious, but my speed is extraordinary. Stand up for a moment.'

Druss did so, and Klay positioned himself an arm's length away. 'I shall pluck a hair from your beard, Druss. I want you to block me, if you can.' Druss readied himself.

Klay's hand snapped forward and back, and Druss felt the sting as several hairs were torn clear. His own arm had barely moved in response. Klay returned to his couch. 'You cannot beat me, Druss. No man can. That is why you must not concern yourself with prophecies.'

Druss smiled. 'I like you, Klay,' he said, 'and if there was gold to be won for plucking hairs, I think you'd win. But we can talk about that after the final bout.'

'You will fight to win?'

'I always do, laddie.'

'By Heavens, Druss, you are a man after my own heart. No give in you, is there? Is this why they call you the Legend?'

Druss shook his head. 'I made the mistake of befriending a saga poet. Now everywhere I go he makes new stories, each more outlandish than those that came before. What astonishes me is that they are believed. The more I deny them, the more widespread is the belief they are true.'

Klay led Druss back outside into the garden training area. The other athletes had gone now, but servants had lit torches. 'I know the feeling, Druss. Denial is seen as modesty. And people like to believe in heroes. I once lost my temper during training and I struck a stone statue with the blade of my hand. Broke three bones. There are now a hundred men who claim the power of my blow shattered the statue into a thousand pieces. And there are at least twenty more who swear they saw it done. Will you stay and dine with me?'

Druss shook his head. 'There's a tavern I passed coming here. I smelt a spiced meat dish being prepared, and have had a taste for it ever since.'

'Were the windows of the place stained blue?'

'Yes. You know it?'

'It's called The Broken Sword and has the finest chef in Gulgothir. I wish I could join you, but I have business to discuss with my trainer, Shonan.'

'I would have been glad of the company. My friend, Sieben, is entertaining a lady at our quarters, and would not relish the sight of me arriving home early. Perhaps after tomorrow's final?'

'That would be pleasant.'

'By the way, you have a guest. An urchin I found waiting outside. I would be grateful if you treated him kindly, and offered him a word or two.'

'Of course. Enjoy your meal.'