The Legend of the Deathwalker

Chapter Four

Druss finished his meal and pushed away the wooden platter. The meat had been good — lean and tender, covered with savoury spices and a rich, dark gravy. Yet despite the quality of the meal he had barely tasted it. His thoughts remained confused, and melancholy. Meeting Klay had not helped. Damn it, he liked the man!

Druss lifted his tankard and swallowed half the contents. The ale was thin, but refreshing, and brought back memories of his youth and the beer brewed in the mountains. He had grown to manhood among common folk; men and women of simple pleasures who worked from first light to dusk, and lived for their families, battling to put enough bread on the table. Often on summer evenings they would gather in the communal hall and drink ale, sing songs and swap stories. Not for them the great questions of politics, the compromises, the betrayals of ideals. Life was hard, yet uncomplicated.

He had been torn from that life when the renegade Collan led an attack on the village, slaughtering the men and the older women, and taking the young girls captive to be sold as slaves.

Among them had been Druss's wife, Rowena, his love and his life. He had been felling trees, high in the timber-line, when the attack took place. He had returned to the ruins of the village and set off after the killers, and he had found them.

Druss slew many of the raiders, and freed the girls, but Rowena was not with them; Collan had taken her to Mashrapur and sold her to a Ventrian merchant. In order to earn money for passage to Ventria, Druss had become a fighter in the sand circles of Mashrapur. And moment by bone-crunching moment the young farmer had changed, his natural strength and ferocity honed until he became the most feared fighter in the city.

At last he journeyed on, in the company of Sieben and the Ventrian officer Bodasen, joining in the Ventrian Wars and fast earning a deadly reputation. The Silver Slayer, they called him, for his deeds with the shining double-headed axe, Snaga.

Druss fought in a score of battles, and hundreds of skirmishes. Many times he was wounded, yet always he emerged triumphant.

When, after many years, he found Rowena and brought her home, he truly believed that his wanderings and his battles were blood-dreams of the past. Rowena knew differently. Day by day Druss grew more morose. He was no longer a farmer, and could find no pleasure in tilling the earth or tending his cattle. A little more than a year had passed when he journeyed to Dros Delnoch to join a militia force formed to counter raids by Sathuli tribesmen. Six months later, with the Sathuli forced back into the mountains, he returned home with fresh scars and fond memories.

Closing his eyes, he recalled Rowena's words on the night he returned from the Sathuli campaign. Sitting on the goatskin rug before a log fire, she had reached out and taken his hand. 'My poor Druss. How can a man live for war? It is so futile.'

He had seen the sorrow in her hazel eyes, and struggled to find an answer. 'It is not the fighting alone, Rowena. It is the comradeship, the fire in the blood, the facing of fear. When danger threatens I become. . a man.'

Rowena sighed. 'You are what you are, my love. But it saddens me. There is great beauty here — bringing food from the earth, watching the sun rise over the mountains and the moon's reflection dancing upon the lakes. There is contentment, and joy. Yet it is not for you. Tell me, Druss, why did you cross the world for me?'

'Because I love you. You are everything to me.'

She had shaken her head. 'If that were true you would have no desire to leave me and go wandering in search of war. Look around you at the other farmers. Do they rush off to battle?'

Druss rose and strode to the window, pushing the shutters wide and staring out at the distant stars. 'I am not like them any more. I do not know if ever I was. I am a man fitted for war, Rowena.'

'I know,' she said sadly. 'Oh, Druss, I know. .' Draining his tankard now, Druss caught the eye of a blonde serving-maid. 'Another!' he called out, waving the tankard in the air.

'Just a moment, sir,' she answered him. The tavern was almost full, the atmosphere bright and noisy. Druss had found a booth in the corner of the room, where he could sit with his back to the wall and watch the crowd. Usually he enjoyed the gently chaotic rhythms of a tavern, the mix of laughter, conversation, the clattering of plates, the clinking of tankards, the shuffling of feet and the scraping of chairs. But not tonight.

The maid brought him a second tankard of ale; she was a buxom girl, full-breasted and wide-hipped. 'Did you enjoy your meal, sir?' she asked, leaning forward with her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers stroked up into his short-cropped, dark hair. Rowena often did the same thing, when he was tense or angry. Always it soothed him. He smiled at the girl.

'It was a meal fit for a king, lass. But I didn't enjoy it as I should. Too many weighty problems that I haven't the brain to solve.'

'You need to relax in the company of a woman,' she said, her fingers now stroking his dark beard.

Taking her hand, he gently moved it away from his face. 'My woman is a long way from here, girl. But always she is close to my heart. And pretty as you are, I'll wait to enjoy her company.' Dipping into the pouch at his belt, Druss drew out two silver pieces. 'The one is for the meal, the second for you.'

'You are very kind. If you change your mind. .'

'I won't.'

As she moved away, Druss felt a cold draught upon his cheek.

In that instant all sound died away. Druss blinked. The serving-maid was standing statue-still — her wide skirt, which swished as she walked, motionless. All around him the diners and revellers were frozen in their places. When Druss flicked his gaze to the fire, the tongues of flame were no longer dancing between the logs but standing steady, the smoke above them hanging solid in the chimney. And the normal smells of a tavern, roasted meats, wood-smoke, and stale sweat — had disappeared, to be replaced by the sickly-sweet odour of cinnamon and burning sandalwood.

A small Nadir dressed in a tunic of goat's hair stepped into sight, weaving his way through the silent revellers. He was old, but not ancient, his thinning black hair greasy and lank. Swiftly he crossed the room and seated himself opposite Druss. 'Well met, axeman,' he said, his voice soft, almost sibilant.

Druss looked deep into the man's dark, slanted eyes and read the hatred there. 'Your magic will need to be very strong to stop me reaching across and snapping your scrawny neck,' he said.

The old man grinned, showing stained and broken teeth. 'I am not here to bring you harm, axeman. I am Nosta Khan, shaman to the Wolfshead tribe. You aided a young friend of mine, Talisman; you fought alongside him.'

'What of it?'

'He is important to me. And we Nadir like to repay our debts.'

'I have no need of repayment. There is nothing you can offer me.'

Nosta Khan shook his head. 'Never be too sure, axeman. Firstly, would it surprise you to know that even now there are a dozen men waiting outside, armed with clubs and knives? Their purpose is to prevent you fighting the Gothir Champion. They have been told to cripple you if they can, and kill you if they must.'

'It seems everyone wants me to lose,' said Druss. 'Why do you warn me? And don't insult me with talk of repayment. I can see the hatred in your eyes.'

The shaman was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was rich with both malice and a sense of regret. 'My people need you, axeman.'

Druss gave a cold smile. 'It cost you to say that, did it not?'

'Indeed it did,' admitted the little man. 'But I would swallow burning coals for my people, and telling a small truth to a Round-eye is a pain I can live with.' He grinned again. 'An ancestor of yours aided us in the past. He hated the Nadir; yet he helped my grandfather in a great battle against the Gothir. His heroism brought us closer to the days of the Uniter. He was known as Angel, but his Nadir name was Hard-to-kill.'

'I've never heard of him.'

'You Round-eyes disgust me! You call us barbarians, yet you know not the deeds of your own ancestors. Pah! Let us move on. My powers are not limitless, and soon this stinking tavern will return with all its foul noise and stench. Angel was linked to the Nadir, Druss. Linked by blood, held by destiny. So are you. I have risked my life in many Fever-dreams, and always your face floats before me. I do not know, as yet, what role you have to play in the coming drama. It may be small, though I doubt it. But whatever it is, I know where you must be in the coming days. It is necessary that you travel to the Valley of Shul-sen's Tears. It is five days' ride to the east. There is a Shrine there, dedicated to the memory of Oshikai Demon-bane, the greatest of Nadir warriors.'

'Why would I wish to go there?' asked Druss. 'You say it is necessary, but I do not think so.'

The shaman shook his head. 'Let me tell you of the Healing Stones, axeman. There is said to be no wound they cannot mend. Some even claim they can raise the dead. They are hidden at the Shrine.'

'As you can see,' said Druss, 'I have no wound.'

The little man averted his eyes from Druss's gaze, and a secretive smile touched his weatherbeaten features. 'No, you have not. But much can happen in Gulgothir. Have you forgotten the men who wait? Remember, Druss, five days' ride due east, in the Valley of Shul-sen's Tears.'

Druss's vision swam and the noise of the tavern covered him once more. He blinked. The tavern maid's skirt swished as she walked. Of the shaman there was no sign.

Draining the last of his ale, Druss pushed himself to his feet. According to the shaman a dozen men waited outside; rogues hired to prevent him fighting Klay. He gave a deep sigh and moved to the long trestle bar. The tavern-keeper, fat of belly and red of face, approached him. 'Another ale, sir?'

'No,' said Druss, placing a silver coin on the bar. 'Loan me your club.'

'My club? I don't know what you mean.'

Druss smiled and leaned forward conspiratorially. 'I've never met a tavern-keeper yet, friend, who did not keep a weighted club at hand. Now, I am the Drenai fighter, Druss, and I am told there is a gang outside — waiting for me. They seek to stop my fight with Klay.'

'I've got money on that,' muttered the innkeeper. 'Now look, lad, why don't you just come with me and I'll take you downstairs to the ale cellar? There's a secret door that will allow you to sneak past them all.'

'I don't need a secret door,' said Druss patiently. 'I need to borrow your club.'

'One day, lad, you might realize that it is more sensible to avoid trouble. No-one is invincible.' Reaching down, he produced an eighteen-inch truncheon of black metal which he laid on the bar. 'The outer casing is iron,' he said, 'but the inner is lead. Return it when you are done.' Druss hefted the weapon; it was twice as heavy as most short swords. Sliding it up the right sleeve of his shirt he eased himself through the crowd. As he opened the door, he saw several big men standing outside. Dressed in shabby tunics and leggings, they looked like beggars. Switching his gaze to the right he saw a second group gathered close by. They stiffened as he appeared and for a moment no-one moved. 'Well, lads,' said Druss, with a broad grin. 'Who wants to be first?'

'That would be me,' answered a tall man with a shaggy beard. He had wide, powerful shoulders, and despite his grimy clothing was no beggar, Druss knew. The skin of his neck was white and clean, as were his hands. And the knife he carried was of Ventrian steel; weapons like that did not come cheap. 'I can tell by your eyes that you're frightened,' said the knife-man, as he moved in. 'And I can smell your fear.'

Druss stood very still and the man suddenly leapt forward, his knife flashing towards Druss's shoulder. With his left forearm Druss blocked the thrust, and in the same movement sent a left hook exploding against the man's chin; he hit the cobbles face first and did not move. Opening his fingers, Druss allowed the truncheon to slide from his sleeve. Figures darted from the shadows and he charged into them, turning his shoulder into the first and cannoning him from his feet. The truncheon hammered left and right, hurling men from their feet. A knife-blade grazed the top of his shoulder. Grabbing the wielder by his tunic he head-butted the man — smashing his nose and cheekbone — then spun him into the path of two more attackers. The first fell clumsily, landing on his own knife; as the blade tore into his side his screams rent the air. The second backed away. But more men gathered: eight fighters, all with weapons of sharp steel. Druss knew they were no longer thinking of crippling him; he could sense their hatred, and the blood-lust surging within them.

'You're dead meat, Drenai!' he heard one of them shout as the group edged forward.

Suddenly a voice boomed out. 'Hold on, Druss, I'm coming.'

Druss glanced to his left to see Klay charging from the mouth of a nearby alley. As the giant Gothir hurtled into them the men, recognizing him, scattered and ran. Klay walked over to Druss. 'Such an exciting life you lead, my friend,' he said, with a broad grin.

Something bright flashed towards Druss's face and in that one terrifying moment he saw so many things: the moonlight shining on the dagger-blade, the thrower, a look of triumph on his dirty face — and Klay's hand snaking out with impossible speed, catching the hurled knife by the hilt to stop the blade mere inches from Druss's eye.

'I told you, Druss, speed is everything,' said Klay.

Druss let out a long, deep breath. 'I don't know about that, laddie, but you saved my life and I'll not forget it.'

Klay chuckled. 'Come on, my friend, I need to eat.' Throwing his arm around Druss's shoulder, he turned towards the tavern. In that moment a black-feathered crossbow bolt slashed across the open ground to plunge into the back of the Gothir Champion. Klay cried out and collapsed against Druss. The axeman staggered under the weight, then saw the bolt low in the fighter's back. Gently he lowered him to the ground. Scanning the shadows for signs of the attacker, he saw two men running away. One carried a crossbow and Druss longed to give chase, but he could not leave the wounded Klay.

'Lie still — I'll fetch a surgeon.'

'What's happened to me, Druss? Why am I lying down?'

'You've been struck by a crossbow bolt. Lie still!'

'I cannot move my legs, Druss. .'

The interrogation room was cold and damp, fetid water leaving a trail of slime on the greasy walls. Two bronze lanterns on one wall put out a flickering light, but no heat. Seated at a crudely fashioned table, upon which he could see bloodstains both old and new, Chorin-Tsu waited patiently, gathering his thoughts. The little Chiatze said nothing to the guard, a burly soldier in a grubby leather tunic and torn breeches, who stood with arms folded by the door. The man had a brutal face and cruel eyes. Chorin-Tsu did not stare at him, but gazed about the room with clinical detachment. Yet his thoughts remained with the guard. I have known many good, ugly men, he thought, and even a few handsome, evil men. Yet one had only to look at this guard to recognize his brutality — as if his coarse and vile nature had somehow reached up from within and moulded his features, swathing his eyes in pockets of fat, set close together above a thick pock-marked nose and thick, slack lips.

A black rat scurried across the room and the guard jumped, then kicked at it, missing wildly. The creature vanished into a hole by the far corner of the wall. 'Bastard rats!' hissed the guard, embarrassed that he had allowed himself to be startled in front of the prisoner. 'You obviously like 'em. Good! You'll be living with them soon enough. Have 'em running all over you then, biting your skin, leaving their little fleas to suck your blood in the dark.'

Chorin-Tsu ignored him.

Garen-Tsen's arrival was sudden, the door whispering open. In the lantern light the Minister's face glowed with a sickly yellow sheen, and his eyes seemed unnaturally bright. Chorin-Tsu offered no greeting. Nor, as should have been Chiatze custom in the presence of a Minister, did he rise and bow. Instead he sat, his expression calm and impassive.

Dismissing the guard, the Minister sat down opposite the little Chiatze embalmer. 'My apologies for the inhospitable surroundings,' said Garen-Tsen, speaking in Chiatze. 'It was necessary for your safety. You did wonderfully well with the Queen. Her beauty has never been so radiant.'

'I thank you, Garen-Tsen,' answered Chorin-Tsu coolly. 'But why am I here? You promised I would be freed.'

'As indeed you will be, countryman. But first let us talk. Tell me of your interest in Nadir legends.'

Chorin-Tsu stared at the slender Minister, holding his gaze. It was all a game now, with only one ending. I am to die, he thought. He're, in this cold, miserable place. He wanted to scream his hatred at the monster before him, to rage and show defiance. The strength of feeling surprised him, going against all Chiatze teaching, but not a trace of his inner turmoil showed upon his face as he sat very still, his expression serene. 'All legends have a basis in fact, Garen-Tsen. I am a student of history and it pleases me to study.'

'Of course. But your studies have been focused in recent years, have they not? You have spent hundreds of hours in the Great Library, studying scrolls concerning Oshikai Demon-bane and the Legend of the Stone Wolf. Why is that?'

'I am indeed gratified by your interest — though puzzled as to why a man of your status and responsibilities should concern himself with what is, after all, no more than a hobby?' countered Chorin-Tsu.

'The movements and interests of all foreign nationals are scrutinized. But my interest goes beyond such mundane matters. You are a scholar, and your work deserves a wider audience. I would be honoured to hear your views on the Stone Wolf. But since time is pressing, perhaps it would be best if you merely outlined your findings concerning the Eyes of Alchazzar.'

Chorin-Tsu gave an almost imperceptible bow of his head. 'Perhaps it would be better to postpone this conversation until we are both sitting in more comfortable apartments.'

The Minister leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his long chin. When he spoke his voice was cold. 'Spiriting you away will be both costly and dangerous, countryman. How much is your life worth?'

Chorin-Tsu was surprised. The question was vulgar, and considerably beneath any high-born Chiatze. 'Far less than you would think, but far more than I can afford,' he replied.

'I think you will find that the price is well within your reach, Master Embalmer. Two jewels, to be precise,' said Garen-Tsen. 'The Eyes of Alchazzar. It is my belief that you have located their hiding-place. Am I wrong?'

Chorin-Tsu remained silent. He had known for many years that death would be his only reward, and had believed himself prepared for it. But now, in this cold, damp place his heart began to beat in panic. He wanted to live! Looking up, he met the reptilian gaze of his countryman. Keeping his voice steady, he said, 'Let us, for the sake of argument, assume that you are correct. In what way would sharing this information prove of benefit to this humble embalmer?'

'Benefit? You will be free. You have the sacred word of a Chiatze nobleman — is that not enough?'

Chorin-Tsu took a deep breath and summoned the last of his courage. 'The word of a Chiatze nobleman is indeed sacred. And in the presence of such a man I would not hesitate to surrender my knowledge. Perhaps you should send for him, so that we may conclude our conversation.'

Garen-Tsen's colour deepened. 'You have made the most unfortunate error, for now you will have to make the acquaintance of the Royal Torturer. Is this what you truly desire, Chorin-Tsu? He will make you speak; you will scream and babble, weep and beg. Why put yourself through such agony?'

Chorin-Tsu considered the question carefully. All his long life he had cherished Chiatze teaching, most especially the laws governing the subjugation of self to the rigours of an iron etiquette. This alone was the foundation of Chiatze culture. Yet here he sat seeking an answer to a question no true Chiatze would dream of asking. It was obnoxious and invasive — indeed the kind of question only a barbarian would utter. He looked deeply into Garen-Tsen's eyes. The man was waiting for an answer. Chorin-Tsu sighed and, for the first time in his life, spoke like a barbarian.

'To thwart you, you lying dog,' he said.

The ride had been long and dry, the sun beating down on the open steppes, the strength-sapping heat leaving both riders and ponies near to exhaustion. The rock pool was high in the hills, beneath an overhang of shale and slate. Few knew of its existence, and once Talisman had found the dried bones of a traveller who had died of thirst less than fifty feet from it. The pool was no more than twenty feet long and only twelve wide. But it was very deep, and the water winter-cold. After tending to the ponies and hobbling them, Talisman threw off his jerkin and tugged his shirt over his head. Dust and sand scraped against the skin of his arms and his shoulders. Kicking off his boots he loosed his belt, stepped out of his leggings and walked naked to the pool's edge. The sun beat down upon his skin, and he could feel the heat of the rock beneath his feet. Taking a deep breath, he launched himself out over the sparkling water in an ungainly dive that sent up a glittering spray. He surfaced and swept his sleek black hair back from his face.

Zhusai sat, fully clothed, by the poolside. Her long, black hair was soaked with sweat, her face streaked with dust, and her pale green silk tunic — a garment of bright, expensive beauty back in Gulgothir — was now travel-stained and dirt-streaked.

'Do you swim, Zhusai?' he asked her. She shook her head. 'Would you like me to teach you?'

'That is most kind of you, Talisman. Perhaps on another occasion.'

Talisman swam to the poolside and levered himself to the rock beside her. Kneeling, she leaned over the edge, cupping her hands to the water and dabbing her fingers to her brow and cheeks. In the two days they had been together Zhusai had not initiated a conversation. If Talisman spoke she would respond, with typical Chiatze politeness and courtesy. Replacing her wide straw hat to her head, she sat in the stifling heat without complaint, her eyes averted from him.

'It is not difficult to swim,' he said. 'There is no danger, Zhusai, for I shall be in the pool with you, supporting you. Also it is wondrously cool.'

Bowing her head, she closed her eyes. 'I thank you, Lord Talisman. You are indeed a considerate companion. The sun is very hot. Perhaps you should dress now — or your skin will burn.'

'No, I think I will swim again,' he told her, jumping into the pool. His understanding of the Chiatze people was limited to their methods of warfare, which were apparently ritualistic. According to Gothir reports many campaigns were conducted and won without bloodshed, armies manoeuvring across battlefields until one side or the other conceded the advantage. It helped not at all with his understanding of Zhusai. Rolling to his back, Talisman floated on the cool surface. Her good manners, he realized, were becoming hard to tolerate. He smiled, and swam to the pool's edge, hooking his arm to the warm stone.

'Do you trust me?' he asked her.

'Of course. You are the guardian of my honour.'

Talisman was surprised. 'I can guard your life, Zhusai, to the best of my ability. But no-one but you can guard your honour. It is something no man — or woman — can take. Honour can only be surrendered.'

'As you say, so must it be, Lord,' she said meekly.

'No, no! Do not agree for the sake of courtesy, Zhusai.' Her eyes met his and for a long moment she did not speak. When she did her voice was strangely different, still lilting and soft, yet with an underlying confidence that touched a chord in Talisman.

'I fear my translation of your title was not sufficiently exact. The honour you speak of is essentially a male concept, born in blood and battle. A man's word, a man's patriotism, a man's courage. Indeed, this form of honour can only be surrendered. Perhaps "guardian of my virtue" would suffice. And though we could enter a fine philosophical debate on the meaning of the word virtue, I use it in the sense that a male would apply to a woman — most especially a Nadir male. I understand that among your people a raped woman is put to death, while the rapist is merely banished.' She fell silent and averted her eyes once more. It was the longest speech he had heard from her.

'You are angry,' he said.

She bowed and shook her head. 'I am merely hot, my Lord. I fear it has made me indiscreet.'

Levering himself from the pool, he walked to the hobbled ponies and pulled a clean shirt and leggings from his saddle pack. Once dressed, he returned to the seated woman. 'We will be resting here today and tonight.' Pointing to the south section of the pool, he told her, 'There is a shelf there, and the water is no more than four feet deep. You may bathe there. So that you may have privacy, I shall walk back down the trail and gather wood for tonight's fire.'

'Thank you, Lord,' she said, bowing her head.

Pulling on his boots, Talisman looped an empty canvas bag over his shoulder. Slowly he walked back up the trail, stopping short of the crest and scanning the steppes below. There was no sign of other riders. Above the crest the heat was searing and intense. Talisman walked slowly down the hillside, pausing to gather sticks which he dropped into the bag. Desert trees and bushes grew here, their roots deep into the dry earth, their arid existence maintained by the few days of heavy rain in what passed for winter here. Fuel was plentiful and soon his bag was crammed full. He was just starting back up the slope when he heard Zhusai cry out. Throwing the bag to one side, Talisman sprinted up the trail and over the crest. Zhusai, her arms thrashing wildly, had slipped from the shelf and her head sank below the surface.

Talisman ran to the pool's edge and dived after her. Below the surface he opened his eyes to see that Zhusai, still struggling, was sinking some twenty feet below him. Bubbles of air were streaming from her mouth. Talisman dived towards her, his fingers hooked into her hair and, twisting in the water, he kicked out for the surface. At first he did not rise and panic touched him. She was too heavy. If he hung on to her they would both drown! Looking round, he saw the shelf from which she had slipped; it was no more than ten feet to his left. The surface must be close, he thought. Zhusai was a dead weight now and Talisman's breath was failing. But he hung on — and kicked out with renewed force. His head splashed clear of the water. Taking a great lungful of air, he dragged Zhusai to the shelf and heaved her body on to it. She rolled in the shallow water, face down. Talisman scrambled alongside her and, with his feet on solid rock, lifted her to his shoulder and climbed from the pool. Laying her down on her stomach he straddled her and pushed down against her back. Water bubbled from her mouth as again and again he applied pressure. Suddenly she coughed — then vomited. Talisman stood, then ran to her pony and unfastened her blanket. Zhusai was sitting up as he returned. Swiftly he wrapped the blanket around her.

'I was dying,' she said.

'Yes. But now you are alive once more.'

For a moment she was silent, then she looked up at him. 'I would like to learn to swim,' she told him.

Talisman smiled. 'Then I shall teach you — but not today.'

The sun was setting, and already it was cooler. Talisman rose and fetched the bag of wood. When he returned Zhusai had dressed in a blue tunic and leggings, and was now washing the dust from their travel-stained clothes. In a wide niche in the rock wall Talisman lit a fire above the ashes of a previous blaze. Zhusai joined him, and together they sat for some time in comfortable silence.

'Are you a student of history, like your grandfather?' he asked her.

'I have assisted him since I was eight years old, and many times since I have travelled with him to the sacred sites.'

'You have been to Oshikai's Shrine?'

'Yes, twice. It was once a temple. My grandfather believes it is by far the oldest building in all the Gothir lands. Oshikai is said to have been carried there after the Battle of the Vale. His wife was with him when he died; thereafter they named it the Valley of Shul-sen's Tears. Some visitors claim you can still hear her weeping, if you sit close to the Shrine on cold winter nights. Did you hear her weeping, Lord Talisman?'

'I have never been there,' admitted the warrior.

'Forgive me, Lord,' she said swiftly, bowing and closing her eyes. 'I fear my words, which were intended lightly, have caused offence.'

'Not at all, Zhusai. Now tell me of the Shrine. Describe it for me.'

She glanced up. 'It is three years since last I was there. I was fourteen and my grandfather gave me my woman-name, Zhusai.'

'What was your child name?'

'Voni. It means Chittering Rat in the Chiatze tongue.'

Talisman chuckled. 'It has a. . similar. . meaning in Nadir.'

'In Nadir it means Windy Goat,' she said, tilting her head and giving a smile so dazzling that it struck him between the eyes with the power of a fist. He blinked and took a deep breath. Before that smile her beauty had seemed cold and distant, leaving Talisman untroubled by their journeying together. But now? He felt curiously short of breath. When he had saved her from drowning he had not been unduly affected by her nakedness. Now, however, the memory of her golden skin shone in his mind, the curve of her hips and belly, the large dark nipples on her small breasts. He realized Zhusai was speaking to him. 'Are you well, Lord?'

'Yes,' he replied, more tersely than he had intended. Rising, he walked away from the bemused girl, moving up the trail to sit on a rock close to the crest. Her smile shone in his mind, and his body ached for her. It was as if a spell had been cast. Nervously he glanced back down to the fire where Zhusai was sitting quietly. She is not a witch, he thought; no, far from it. She was simply the most beautiful woman Talisman had ever known.

And he was honour bound to take her to another man.

Chorin-Tsu had spoken of sacrifice.

Talisman knew now what it meant. .

Zhusai sat quietly by the small fire, a multi-coloured blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Talisman slept nearby, his breathing deep and steady. When one of the ponies moved in its sleep, hoof scraping on stone, Talisman stirred but did not wake. She gazed down on his face in the moonlight. He was not a handsome man, nor an ugly one. Yet you are attractive, thought Zhusai, remembering the gentle touch as he laid the blanket around her shoulders, and the concern in his eyes as she had recovered from the terrifying experience in the water. During her seven years in the company of her grandfather Zhusai had met many Nadir tribesmen. Some she had liked, others she had loathed. But all were frightening, for there was a ferocity lurking close to the surface of the Nadir personality, a terrible hunger for blood and violence. Talisman was different. He had strength, and a power not often found in one so young. But she sensed he had no love of cruelty, no lust for blood letting.

Zhusai added the last of the fuel to the fire. The night was not cold, but the little blaze was comforting. Who are you, Talisman, she wondered? Talisman was Nadir — of that there was no doubt. And he was past the age of manhood. Why then did he carry no Nadir name? Why Talisman? Then there was his speech. The Nadir tongue was guttural, with many sounds created from the back of the throat, which usually made for clumsiness when they spoke the softer language of the round-eyed Southerners. Not so with Talisman, whose speech was fluent and well modulated. Zhusai had spent many months among the Nadir as her grandfather travelled widely, examining sites of historical interest. They were a brutal people, as harsh and unyielding as the steppes on which they lived. Women were treated with casual cruelty. Zhusai sat back and considered the events of the day.

When Talisman had stripped himself and dived into the water, Zhusai had been both outraged, and wonderfully stirred. Never had she seen a man naked. His skin was pale gold, his body wolf-lean. His back, buttocks and thighs were criss-crossed with white scars: the marks of a whip. While the Nadir were cruel to women, they rarely whipped their children, and certainly not with enough force to leave the marks that Talisman bore.

There was no question about it, Talisman was an enigma.

'He will be one of the Uniter's generals,' her grandfather had told her. 'He is a thinker, yet also a man of action. Such men are rare. The Nadir will have their day of glory with men such as he.'

His zeal had confused Zhusai. 'They are not our people, Grandfather. Why should we care?'

'Their origins are the same, little one. But that is not the whole reason. The Chiatze are a rich, proud nation. We pride ourselves on our individuality and our culture. These Round-eyes are the true savages, and their evil soars far beyond our comprehension. How long before they turn their eyes to the Chiatze, bringing their wars, their diseases, their foulness to our homeland? A united Nadir nation would be a wall against their invasion.'

'They have never been united. They hate one another,' she said.

'The one who is coming, the man with violet eyes, he has the power to draw them together, to bind up the wounds of centuries.'

'Forgive my slow-wittedness, Grandfather, but I do not understand,' she said. 'If he is already coming — if it is written in the stars — why do you have to spend so much time studying, travelling and meeting with shamen? Will he not rise to power regardless of your efforts?'

He smiled and took her small hands into his own. 'Perhaps he will, Voni. Perhaps. A palm reader can tell you much about your life, past and present. But when he looks into the future he will say, "This hand shows what should be, and this hand shows what could be." He will never say, "this hand shows what will be." I have some small talent as an astrologer. I know the man with violet eyes is out there somewhere. But I also know what dangers await him. It is not enough that he has the courage, the power, the charisma. Great will be the forces ranged against him. He exists, Zhusai. One special man among the multitude. He should rise to rule. He could change the world. But will he? Or will the enemy find him first, or a disease strike him down? I cannot sit and wait. My studies tell me that somehow I will prove to be the catalyst in the coming drama, the breath of wind that births the storm.'

And so they had continued their travels and their studies, seeking always the man with the violet eyes.

Then had come the day when the vile little shaman, Nosta Khan, had arrived at their home in Gulgothir. Zhusai had disliked him from the first; there was about him an almost palpable sense of evil and malice. He and her grandfather had been closeted together for several hours, and only when he had gone did Chorin-Tsu reveal the full horror of what was to be. So great was the shock that all Chiatze training fled from her, and she spoke bluntly.

'You wish me to marry a savage, Grandfather? To live in filth and squalor among a people who value women less than they value their goats? How could you do this?'

Chorin-Tsu had ignored the breach of manners, though Zhusai could see he was stung — and disappointed by her outburst. 'The savage — as you call him — is a special man. Nosta Khan has walked the Mist. I have studied the charts, and cast the runes. There is no doubt; you are vital to this quest. Without you the days of the Uniter will pass us by.'

'This is your dream — not mine! How could you do this to me?'

'Please control yourself, grand-daughter. This unseemly display is extremely disheartening. The situation is not of my making. Let me also say this, Zhusai: I have cast your charts many times, and always they have shown you are destined to marry a great man. You know this to be true. Well, that man is the Uniter. I know this without any shade of doubt.'

Under the moon and stars, Zhusai gazed down at Talisman. 'Why could it not have been you?' she whispered.

His dark eyes opened. 'Did you speak?'

She shivered. 'No. I am sorry to have disturbed you.'

He rolled to his elbow, and saw that the fire was still burning. Then he lay down and slept once more.

When she awoke she found that Talisman's blanket, as well as her own, was laid across her. Sitting up, she saw the Nadir sitting cross-legged on the rocks some distance away, his back to her. Pushing the blankets aside, she rose. The sun was clearing the peaks, and already the temperature was rising. Zhusai stretched, then made her way to where Talisman sat. His eyes were closed, his arms folded to his chest, palms flat and thumbs interlinked. Zhusai's grandfather often adopted this position when meditating, usually when he was trying to solve a.problem. Silently Zhusai sat opposite the warrior.

'Where are you now, Talisman?' she wondered. 'Where does your restless spirit fly?'

He was a small boy who had never seen a city. His young life had been spent on the steppes, running and playing among the tents of his father's people. At the age of five he had learned to tend the goats, and to make cheese from their milk, to stretch and scrape the skins of the slaughtered animals. At seven, he could ride a small pony and shoot a bow. But at twelve he was taken from his father by men in bright armour who journeyed far beyond the steppes, all the way to a stone city by the sea.

It had been the first real shock of Talisman's life. His father, the strongest and bravest of Nadir chieftains, had sat by in silence as the round-eyed men in armour came. This man who had fought in a hundred battles had said not a word, he had not even looked his son in the eye. Only Nosta Khan had approached him, laying his scrawny hand on Talisman's shoulder. 'You must go with them, Okai. The safety of the tribe depends upon it.'

'Why? We are Wolfshead, stronger than all.'

'Because your father orders it.'

They had lifted Okai to the back of a tall horse, and the long journey began. Not all Nadir children were fully taught the tongue of the Round-eye, but Talisman had a good ear for language and Nosta Khan had spent many months teaching him the subtleties. Thus it was that he could understand the shining soldiers. They made jokes about the children they were gathering, referring to them as dung-puppies. Other than this, they were not unkind to their prisoners. Twenty-four days they travelled, until at last they came to a place of nightmare which the Nadir children gazed upon with awe and terror. Everything was stone, covering the earth, rearing up to challenge the sky; huge walls and high houses, narrow lanes, and a mass of humanity continually writhing like a giant snake through its market-places, streets, alleys and avenues.

Seventeen Nadir youngsters, all the sons of chieftains, were brought to the city of Bodacas in that late summer. Talisman-Okai remembered the ride through the city streets, children pointing at the Nadir, then baying and screeching and making gestures with their fingers. Adults too stood and watched, their faces grim. The cavalcade came to a stop at a walled structure on the outskirts of the city, where the double gates of bronze and iron were dragged open. For Okai it was like riding into the mouth of a great dark beast, and fear rose as bile in his throat.

Beyond the gates was a flat, paved training area, and Okai watched as young men and older boys practised with sword and shield, spear and bow. They were dressed identically in crimson tunics, dark breeches and knee-length boots of shining brown leather. All exercise ceased as the Nadir youngsters rode in with their escort.

A young man with blond hair stepped forward, his training sword still in his hand. 'I see we are to be given proper targets for our arrows,' he said to his comrades, who laughed loudly.

The Nadir were ordered to dismount, then led into a six-storey building and up a seemingly interminable winding stair to the fifth level. Here was a long, claustrophobic corridor leading to a large room in which, behind a desk of polished oak, sat a thick-set warrior with a forked beard. His eyes were bright blue, his mouth wide and full-lipped. A scar ran from the right side of his nose, curving down to his jawbone. His forearms too showed the scars of close combat. He stood as they entered.

'Get in two lines,' he ordered them, his voice deep and cold. The youngsters shuffled into place. Okai, being one of the smallest, was in the front line. 'You are here as janizaries. You do not understand what that means but I will tell you. The King — may he live for ever — has conceived a brilliant plan to halt Nadir raids, both now and in the future. You are here as hostages so that your fathers will behave. More than that, however, you will learn during your years with us how to be civilized, what constitutes good manners and correct behaviour. You will learn to read, to debate, to think. You will study poetry and literature, mathematics and cartography. You will also be taught the arts of war, the nature of strategy, logistics and command. In short you are to become cadets, and then officers in the great Gothir army.' Glancing up, he addressed the two officers who had led the boys into the room. 'You may go now and bathe the dust of travel from your bodies. I have a few more words to say to these. . cadets.'

As the officers departed and the door clicked shut, the warrior moved to stand directly before the boys, towering over Okai. 'What you have just heard, you dung-eating monkeys, is the official welcome to Bodacas Academy. My name is Gargan, the Lord of Larness, and most of the scars I carry come from battles with your miserable race. I have been killing Nadir scum for most of my life. You cannot be taught, for you are not human; it would be like trying to teach dogs to play the flute. This foolishness springs from the addled mind of a senile old man, but when he dies this stupidity will die with him. Until that blessed day work hard, for the lash awaits the tardy and the stupid. Now get downstairs where a cadet awaits you. He will take you to the quartermaster who will supply you with tunics and boots.'

Talisman was jerked back to the present as he heard Zhusai move behind him. He opened his eyes, and smiled. 'We must move with care today. This area is, your grandfather tells me, controlled by a Notas group called Chop-backs. I wish to avoid them if I can.'

'Do you know why they are called Chop-backs?' she asked him.

'I doubt that it is connected with the study of philanthropy,' he said, moving past her to the ponies.

'The study of philanthropy?' echoed Zhusai. 'What kind of a Nadir are you?'

'I am the dog who played the flute,' he told her, as he tightened the cinch of his saddle and vaulted to the pony's back.

They rode through most of the morning, halting at noon in a gully to rest the horses and eat a meal of cold meat and cheese. No riders had been seen, but Talisman had spotted fresh tracks, and once they had come across horse-droppings that were still moist. 'Three warriors,' said Talisman. 'They are ahead of us.'

'That is most disconcerting. Is it not possible that they are merely travellers?'

'Possible — but not likely. They are not carrying supplies, and they are making no effort to disguise their tracks. We will avoid them if we can.'

'I have two throwing-knives — one in each boot, Lord,' she said, bowing her head. 'I am skilled with them. Though, of course,' she added hurriedly, 'I have no doubt that a warrior such as yourself can easily kill three Notas.'

Talisman absorbed the information. 'I shall think on what you have said, but I hope there will be no need for bloodshed. I will try to talk my way through them. I have no wish to kill any Nadir.'

Zhusai bowed again. 'I am sure, Lord, you will devise a suitable plan.'

Talisman pulled the cork from the water canteen and took a sip, swishing the warm liquid around his mouth. According to Chorin-Tsu's map, the closest water was half a day to the east; that was where he intended to camp, though it occurred to him that the Notas were probably thinking along similar lines. He passed the canteen to Zhusai and waited while she drank. Then he took the canteen to the hobbled ponies and, wetting a cloth, cleaned the dust and sand from their nostrils. Returning to Zhusai, he squatted down before her. 'I accept your offer,' he said. 'But let us be clear: you will use your knife only upon my explicit command. You are right-handed?' She nodded. 'Then your target will be the furthest man to your left. If we meet the Notas you must draw your knife surreptitiously. Listen for the command. It will be when I say your name.'

'I understand, Lord.'

'There is one other matter we must settle. Chiatze politeness is legendary, and well suited to a world of silk-covered seats, vast libraries and a ten-thousand-year civilization. Not so here. Put from your mind thoughts of guardian and ward. We have just established our battle plan, and are now two warriors travelling together in a hostile land. From now on it would please me to have you speak less formally.'

'You do not wish me to call you Lord?'

Talisman looked into her eyes and felt his mouth go dry. 'Save that honorific for your husband, Zhusai. You may call me Talisman.'

'As you command, so be it. . Talisman.' The afternoon sun beat down upon the steppes, and the ponies plodded on, heads down, towards the distant mountains. Although the land looked flat and empty, Talisman knew there were many hidden gullies and depressions and the three Notas could be in any one of a hundred different hiding-places. Narrowing his eyes, Talisman scanned the shimmering heat-scorched landscape. There was nothing to be seen. Loosening his sabre, he rode on.

Gorkai was a killer and a thief. Usually — but not exclusively — in that order. The sun beat down upon him, but not a bead of sweat shone on his flat, ugly face. The two men with him both wore wide-brimmed straw hats, protecting head and neck from the merciless heat, but Gorkai gave no thought to the heat as he waited for yet another victim. Once he had aspired to be more than a thief. He had longed to possess his own goat herd, and a string of fine ponies sired from the hardy stallions of the north passes. Gorkai had dreamt of the day when he could afford a second wife, even though he had not yet won his first. And further to this, on those evenings when his imagination took flight, he saw himself invited to sit among the Elders. All of his dreams were like remembered smoke now, merely an acrid aftertaste upon the memory.

Now he was Notas — no tribe.

As he sat in the blazing sunshine, staring out over the steppes, he had no dreams. Back at the camp the nose-slit whore who waited for him would expect some pretty bauble before bestowing upon him her favours.

'You think they turned off the trail?' asked Baski, crouching alongside him. The horses were hobbled in the gully below, and the two men were part hidden behind the overlapping branches of several sihjis bushes. Gorkai glanced at the stocky warrior beside him.

'No. They are riding slowly, conserving the strength of their ponies.'

'We attack when he comes into view?'

'You think he will be easy to take?' countered Gorkai.

Baski cleared his throat and spat, then he shrugged. 'He is one man. We are three.'

'Three? You would be wise not to consider Djung in your estimate.'

'Djung has killed before,' said Baski. 'I have seen it.'

Gorkai shook his head. 'He is a killer, yes. But we are facing a fighter.'

'We have not seen him yet. How do you know this, Gorkai?'

The older man sat back on his haunches. 'A man does not have to know birds to see that the hawk is a hunter, the pigeon his prey. You understand? The sharpness of the talons, the wicked curve of the beak, the power and speed of the wings. So it is with men. This one is careful, and wary, avoiding areas of ambush, which shows he is skilled in the ways of the raid. Also he knows he is in hostile territory, yet he rides anyway. This tells us he has courage and confidence. There is no hurry, Baski. First we observe, then we kill.'

'I bow to your wisdom, Gorkai.'

A sound came from behind and Gorkai twisted round to see Djung scrambling up the slope. 'Slowly!' hissed Gorkai, 'you are making dust!'

Djung's fat face adopted a sulky expression. 'It cannot be seen from any distance,' he said. 'You worry like an old woman.'

Gorkai turned away from the younger man. There was no need for further conversation. Djung had a gift for stupidity, an almost mystic ability to withstand any form of logic.

There was still no sign of the riders and Gorkai allowed his mind to relax. Once he had been considered a coming man, a voice for the future. Those days were far behind now, trodden into the dust of his past. When he was first banished he had believed himself unlucky, but now, with the near-useless gift of hindsight, he knew this was not so. He had been impatient, and had sought to rise too far, too fast. The arrogance of youth. Too clever to recognize its own stupidity.

He was just seventeen when he took part in the raid on the Wolfshead tribe, and it was Gorkai who captured thirty of their ponies. Suddenly rich, he had learned to swagger. At the time it seemed that the Gods of Stone and Water had smiled upon him. Looking back he saw that it was a gift laced with poison. Capturing two ponies would have helped him find a wife; ten would have gained him a place among the elite. But thirty was too many for a young man and the more he swaggered, the more he became disliked. This was hard for a young man to understand. At the midsummer gathering he made an offer for Li-shi, the daughter of Lon-tsen. Five ponies! No-one had ever offered five ponies for a virgin.

And he was rejected! The flush of remembered shame stained his cheeks even now. Before all he was humiliated, for Lon-tsen gave his daughter to a warrior who offered only one pony and seven blankets.

Angry beyond reason, Gorkai had nursed his humiliation, fanning it into a hatred so strong that when the plan came to him he saw it as a blindingly brilliant scheme to restore his shattered pride. He had abducted Li-shi, raped her, then returned her to her father. 'Now see who desires Gorkai's leavings,' he told the old man. Nadir custom was such that no other man would marry her. Nadir law decreed that her father would either have to give her to Gorkai, or kill her for bringing shame to her family.

They had come for him in the night, and dragged him before the Council. Once there he witnessed the execution of the girl, strangled by her own father, and heard the words of banishment spoken by the Elders.

Despite all the killing since, he still remembered the girl's death with genuine regret. Li-shi had not struggled at all, but had turned her eyes upon Gorkai and watched him until the light fled from her and her jaw fell slack. Guilt remained with him. A stone in the heart.

'There they are,' whispered Baski. Gorkai forced the memories away and narrowed his eyes. Still some distance away, the man was riding just ahead of the woman. This was the closest they had been. Gorkai narrowed his eyes and studied the man. A bow and quiver were looped over his saddle-horn, and a cavalry sabre was scabbarded at his waist. The man drew rein some sixty paces from Gorkai. He was young, and this surprised Gorkai; judging by the skill he had shown so far, the Notas leader had expected him to be a seasoned warrior in his thirties.

The woman rode alongside the man and Gorkai's jaw dropped. She was exquisitely beautiful, raven-haired and slender. But what shook him was the resemblance to the girl he had once loved. Surely the gods were giving him a chance to find happiness at last? The sound of rasping steel broke the silence and Gorkai swung an angry glance at Djung, who had drawn his sword.

Out on the steppes the rider swung his mount, cutting to the left. Together he and the woman galloped away.

'Idiot!' said Gorkai.

'There are three of us. Let's ride them down,' urged Baski.

'No need. The only water within forty miles is at Kail's Pool. We will find them.'

Talisman was sitting back from the fire when the three riders rode in to the camp he had prepared some two hundred yards from Kail's Pool. It was yet another rock tank, fed in part by deep wells below the strata. Slender trees grew by the poolside, and brightly coloured flowers clung to life on the soft mud of the water's edge. Zhusai had wanted to camp by the water, but Talisman had refused, and they had built their fire against a rock wall in sight of the water. The girl was asleep by the dying fire as the riders made their entrance, but Talisman was wide awake with his sabre drawn and resting on the ground before him. By his side was his hunting-bow, three arrows drawn from the quiver and plunged into the earth.

The riders paused, observing him as he observed them. In the centre was a thickset warrior, his hair close-cropped, a widow's peak extending like an arrowhead over his brow. To his right was a shorter, slimmer rider with burning eyes, and to his left was a fat-faced man wearing a fur-rimmed iron helm.

The riders waited but Talisman made no move, nor did he speak. At last the lead rider dismounted. 'A lonely place,' he said softly. Zhusai woke and sat up.

'All places are desolate to a lonely man,' said Talisman.

'What does that mean?' asked the warrior, beckoning his comrades to join him.

'Where in all the Land of Stone and Water can a Notas feel welcome?'

'You are not very friendly,' said the man, taking a step forward. The other two moved sideways, hands on their sword-hilts.

Talisman rose, leaving the sabre by his feet, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. The moon was bright above the group. Zhusai made to rise, but Talisman spoke to her. 'Remain where you are. . Zhusai,' he said. 'All will be well in a little while.'

'You seem very sure of that,' said the widow-peaked leader. 'And yet you are in a strange land, and not among friends.'

'The land is not strange to me,' Talisman told him. 'It is Nadir land, ruled by the Gods of Stone and Water. I am a Nadir, and this land is mine by right and by blood. You are the strangers here. Can you not feel your deaths in the air, in the breeze? Can you not feel the contempt that this land has for you? Notas! The name stinks like a three-day dead pig.'

The leader reddened. 'You think we chose the title, you arrogant bastard? You think we wanted to live this way?'

'Why are you talking to him?' snarled the fat-faced warrior. 'Let's be done with him!' The man's sword snaked from its leather scabbard and he ran forward. Talisman's right hand came up and back, the knife-blade slashing through the air to hammer home into the man's right eye, sinking in to the ivory hilt. The warrior ran on for two more paces, then pitched to his left, striking the ground face first. As the second warrior leapt forward, Zhusai's knife thudded into the side of his neck. Blood bubbled into his windpipe. Choking, he let go of his sword and tore the knife clear, staring down at the slender blade in shock and disbelief. Sinking to his knees he tried to speak, but blood burst from his mouth in a crimson spray. Talisman's foot flipped the sabre into the air and he caught it expertly.

'Your dead friend asked you a question,' he told the stunned leader. 'But I would like to hear the answer. Why are you talking to me?'

The man blinked, and then suddenly sat down by the fire. 'You are right,' he said. 'I can feel the contempt. And I am alone. It was not always thus. I made a mistake, born of pride and foolishness and I have paid for it these last twenty years. There is no end in sight.'

'What tribe were you?' asked Talisman.

'Northern Grey.'

Talisman walked to the fire and sat opposite the man. 'My name is Talisman and I live to serve the Uniter. His day is almost upon us. If you wish to be Nadir again, then follow me.'

The man smiled and shook his head. 'The Uniter? The hero with violet eyes? You believe he exists? And if he did, why would he take me?'

'He will take you — if you are with me.'

'You know where he is?'

'I know what will bring us to him. Will you follow me?'

'What tribe are you?'

'Wolfshead. As you will be.'

The man stared gloomily into the fire. 'All my troubles began with the Wolfshead. Perhaps they will end there.' Glancing up, he met Talisman's dark gaze. 'I will follow you. What blood oath do you require?'

'None,' said Talisman. 'As you have said it, so shall it be. What is your name?'

'Gorkai.'

'Then keep watch, Gorkai, for I am tired.'

So saying Talisman laid down his sabre, covered himself with a blanket and slept.

Zhusai sat quietly as Talisman stretched himself out, his head resting on his forearm; his breathing deepened. Zhusai could scarcely believe he would do such a thing! Nervously she glanced at Gorkai, reading the confusion in the man's expression. Moments before, this man and two others had ridden in to the camp to kill them. Now two were dead, and the third was sitting quietly by the fire. Gorkai rose and Zhusai flinched. But the Nadir warrior merely walked to the first of the corpses, dragging it away from the camp; he repeated the action with the second body. Returning, he squatted before Zhusai and extended his hand. She glanced down to see that he was holding her ivory-handled throwing-knife. Silently she took it. Gorkai stood and gathered firewood before settling down beside the fire. Zhusai felt no need of sleep, convinced that the moment she shut her eyes this killer would cut Talisman's throat, then abuse and murder her.

The night wore on, but Gorkai made no movement towards her or the sleeping Talisman. Instead he sat cross-legged, deep in thought. Talisman groaned in his sleep, and spoke suddenly in the tongue of the Gothir. 'Never!' he said.

Gorkai glanced at the woman, and their eyes met. Zhusai did not look away. Rising, Gorkai gestured her to walk with him. He did not look back but strode to the ponies and sat upon a rock. For a while Zhusai made no move to follow, then, knife in hand, she followed him.

'Tell me of him,' said Gorkai.

'I know very little.'

'I have watched you both. You do not touch; there is no intimacy.'

'He is not my husband,' she said coldly.

'Where is he from? Who is he?'

'He is Talisman of the Wolfshead.'

'Talisman is not a Nadir name. I have given him my life, for he touched upon my dreams and my needs. But I need to know.'

'Believe me, Gorkai, you know almost as much as I. But he is strong, and he dreams great dreams.'

'Where do we travel?'

'To the Valley of Shul-sen's Tears, and the tomb of Oshikai.'

'Ah,' said Gorkai, 'a pilgrimage, then. So be it.' He rose and took a deep breath. 'I too have dreams — though I had all but forgotten them.' He hesitated, then spoke again. 'Do not fear me, Zhusai. I will never harm you.' Gorkai walked back to the fire and sat. Zhusai returned to her blanket.

The dawn sun was hidden by a thick bank of cloud. Zhusai awoke with a start. She had been determined not to sleep, but at some point in the night had drifted into dreams. Talisman was up and talking to Gorkai. Zhusai opened their pack and re-kindled the fire, preparing a breakfast of salted oats and dried meat. The two men ate in silence, then Gorkai gathered the wooden platters and cleaned them in the pool. It was the work of a woman or a servant, and Zhusai knew it was Gorkai's way of establishing his place with them. Zhusai placed the platters within the canvas pack and tied it behind her saddle. Gorkai helped her mount, then handed her the reins of the other two ponies.

Talisman led the way out on to the steppes, Gorkai riding beside him. 'How many Notas raid in this area?' Talisman asked.

'Thirty,' answered Gorkai. 'We. . they call themselves Chop-backs.'

'So I have heard. Have you been to Oshikai's tomb?'

'Three times.'

'Tell me of it.'

'It is a simply carved sarcophagus set in a building of white stone. Once it was a Gothir fort, now it is a holy place.'

'Who will be guarding it now?'

Gorkai shrugged. 'Hard to say. There are always warriors from at least four tribes camped close by. A blind priest sends messages to each, telling them when they may take up their duties. He also tells them when to return to their own lands, and at such times other tribes send warriors. It is a great honour to be chosen to guard the resting place of Oshikai. The last time I was there the Green Monkey tribe patrolled the tomb. Waiting were the Northern Greys, the Stone Tigers, and the Fast Ponies.'

'How many in each group?'

'No more than forty.'

The clouds began to break, and the burning sun shone clear. Zhusai lifted a wide-brimmed straw hat from the pommel of her saddle and tied it into place. The shifting dust dried her throat, but she resisted the urge to drink.

And the trio rode on through the long day.