The Legend of the Deathwalker

Chapter Five

The riots lasted three days, beginning in the poorest section and spreading fast. Troops were called in from surrounding areas, cavalry charging into the rioters. The death toll rose, and by the end of the third day some four hundred people were reported killed, and hundreds more injured.

The Games were suspended during the troubles, the athletes advised to remain in their quarters, the surrounding area patrolled by soldiers. As darkness fell Druss stared gloomily from the upstairs window, watching the flames leap from the burning buildings of the western quarter.

'Madness,' he said as Sieben moved alongside him.

'Majon was telling me they caught the crossbow man and hacked him to pieces.'

'And yet the killing still goes on. Why, Sieben?'

'You said it yourself: madness. Madness and greed. Almost everyone had money on Klay, and they feel betrayed. Three of the gambling houses have been burned to the ground.' Outside a troop of cavalry cantered along the wide avenue, heading for the riot area.

'What is the news of Klay?' asked Druss.

'There is no word, but Majon told me he has many friends among the physicians. And Klay is a rich man, Druss; he can afford the best.'

'I would have died,' said Druss softly. 'A knife was flashing towards my eye. In that moment I could do nothing. His hand moved like lightning, poet. I have never seen anything like it. He plucked the blade from the air.' Druss shook his head. 'I still do not believe it. Yet moments later a coward's bolt had smashed him to the ground. He'll not walk again, Sieben.'

'You can't say that, old horse. You are no surgeon.'

'I know his spine was smashed. I have seen that injury a score of times. There's no coming back from it. Not without. .' He fell silent.

'Without what?'

Druss moved away from the window. 'A Nadir shaman came to me — just before the fight. He told me of magical gems to heal any wound.'

'Did he also try to sell you a map to a legendary diamond mine?' asked Sieben, with a smile.

'I'm going out,' said Druss. 'I need to see Klay.'

'Out? Into that chaos? Come on, Druss, wait till morning.'

Druss shook his head.

'Then take a weapon,' Sieben urged. 'The rioters are still looking for blood.'

'Then they had better stay away from me,' snarled Druss, 'or I'll spill enough of it to drown them all!'

The grounds were deserted and the gates open. Druss paused and stared at the broken statue lying on the lawn. It looked as if the legs had been shattered by hammers. The neck was sheared away, the head lying on the grass, its stone eyes staring unseeing at the black-bearded warrior standing in the gateway.

Druss gazed around him. The flower-beds had been uprooted, the lawn churned into mud around the statue. He strode to the front door, which was open. No servants greeted him as he moved through to the training area. There was no sound. The sand circles were empty of fighters, the fountains silent. An old man came in sight, carrying a bucket of water; he was the servant who had looked after the beggar boy. 'Where is everyone?' asked Druss.

'Gone. All gone.'

'What of Klay?'

'They moved him to a hospice in the southern quarter. The scum-sucking bastards!'

Druss wandered back into the main building. Couches and chairs had been smashed, the curtains ripped down from the windows. A portrait of Klay had been slashed through, and the place smelt of stale urine. Druss shook his head in puzzlement. 'Why would the rioters do this? I thought they loved the man.'

The old man set down the bucket, righted a chair and slumped down. 'Oh aye, they loved him, until his back broke. Then they hated him. People had wagered their life savings on him. They heard he was involved in a drunken brawl and that all bets were dead. Their money gone, they turned on him. Turned on him like animals! After all he'd won for them — done for them. You know,' he said, glancing up, his ancient face flushed with anger, 'the hospice they carried him to was built from money donated by Klay. Many of the people who came here and screamed abuse had been helped by him in the past. No gratitude. But the worst of them was Shonan.'

'Klay's trainer?'

'Pah!' spat the old man. 'Trainer, handler, owner? Call him what you will, but I call him a blood-sucking parasite. Klay's gone now — and so has his wealth. Shonan even says that this house belongs to him. Klay, it seems, had nothing. Can you believe that? The bastard didn't even pay for the carriage that took Klay to the hospice. He will die there penniless.' The old man laughed bitterly. 'One moment he was the hero of the Gothir — loved by all, flattered by all. Now he is poor, alone and friendless. By the gods, it makes you think, doesn't it?'

'He has you,' said Druss. 'And he has me.'

'You? You're the Drenai fighter, you hardly knew him.'

'I know him and that is enough. Can you take me to him?'

'Aye, and gladly. I'm finished here now. I'll gather my gear and meet you at the front of the house.'

Druss strolled through to the front lawn. A group of about a dozen athletes were coming through the gate and the sound of laughter pricked Druss's anger. At the centre of the group was a bald-headed man wearing a gold torque studded with gems. They stopped by the statue and Druss heard a young man say, 'By Shemak, that monstrosity cost over 3,000 raq. Now it is just rubble.'

'What's past is past,' said Gold Torque.

'So what will you do now, Shonan?' asked another.

The man shrugged. 'Find another fighter. It will be hard, mind, for Klay was gifted. No doubt about that.'

The old man moved alongside Druss. 'Doesn't their grief move you to tears? Klay supported them all. See the young blond one? Klay paid off his gambling debts no more than a week ago. Just over a thousand raq. And this is the way they thank him!'

'Aye, they're a shoddy bunch,' said Druss. Striding across the lawn, he approached Shonan.

The man grinned at Druss. 'How fall the mighty,' he said, pointing to the statue.

'And the not so mighty,' said Druss, his fist thundering into the man's face and catapulting him from his feet. Several of the athletes surged forward but Druss glared at them — and they stopped in their tracks. Slowly they backed away and Druss moved to the fallen Shonan. Both the man's front teeth had been smashed through his lips, and his jaw was hanging slack. Druss ripped the gold torque from his neck and tossed it to the old man. 'This might pay a bill or two at the hospice,' he said.

'It will that,' agreed the old man. The athletes were still standing close by. Druss pointed to the young man with long blond hair.

'You, come here.' The man blinked nervously, but then stepped forward.

'When this piece of offal wakes, you tell him that Druss is going to find him again. You tell him that I expect Klay to be looked after. I expect him to be back in his own house, with his own servants, and with money enough to pay them. If this is not done I will come back and kill him. And after that I will find you, and I will rip your pretty face from your skull. You understand me?' The young man nodded and Druss swung to the others. 'I have marked all you maggots in my mind. If I find that Klay wants for anything I shall come looking for each of you. Make no mistake: if Klay suffers one more ounce of indignity you will all die. I am Druss and that is my promise.'

Druss walked away from them, the old man alongside him. 'My name is Carmol,' said the servant, with a broad grin. 'And it is a pleasure to meet you again!'

Together they walked across the riot-torn city. Here and there bodies could be seen lying by the wayside, and the smell of burning buildings wafted to them on the wind.

The hospice was sited in the centre of the poorest quarter, its white walls out of place among the squalid buildings that surrounded it. The riots had begun near here, but moved on days since. An elderly priest showed them to Klay's room, which was small and clean with a single cot bed placed beneath the window. Klay was asleep when they entered and the priest brought two chairs for the visitors. The fighter awoke as Druss sat beside the bed.

'How are you feeling?' asked the Drenai.

'I've known better days,' answered Klay, forcing a smile. His face was grey beneath his tan, his eyes sunken and blue-ringed.

Druss took hold of the fighter's hand. 'A Nadir shaman told me of a place to the east where there are magical jewels to heal any wound. I leave tomorrow. If they exist, I shall find them and bring them to you. You understand?'

'Yes,' said Klay, despair in his voice. 'Magical jewels to heal me!'

'Do not give up hope,' said Druss.

'Hope is not on offer here, my friend. This is a hospice and we come here to die. Throughout this building there are people waiting for death, some with cancers, others with lung rot, still more with wasting diseases for which there are no names. There are wives, husbands, children. If such jewels exist, there are other more deserving cases than mine. But I thank you for your words.'

'They are not just words, Klay. I am leaving tomorrow. Promise me you will fight for life until my return.'

'I always fight, Druss. That's my talent. The east, you say? That is Nadir heartland, filled with robbers and thieves, and deadly killers. You wouldn't want to meet them.'

Druss chuckled. 'Trust me, laddie. They wouldn't want to meet me!'

Garen-Tsen stared down at the body of the embalmer — his face twisted in death, frozen in mid-scream, eyes wide and staring. Blood had ceased to flow from the many wounds, and the broken fingers twitched no longer.

'He was a tough one,' said the torturer.

Garen-Tsen ignored the man. The information gleaned from the embalmer had been far from complete; he had held something back to the end. Garen-Tsen stared at the dead face. You knew exactly where they were, he thought. Through his years of study Chorin-Tsu had finally pieced together the route taken by the renegade shaman who had originally stolen the Eyes of Alchazzar. The man had ultimately been found hiding in the Mountains of the Moon, and he was slain there. Of the Eyes there was no sign. He could have hidden them anywhere, but a number of incidents suggested they were concealed in — or near — the tomb of Oshikai Demon-bane. Miraculous healings were said to have taken place there: several blind men regained their sight; a cripple walked. In themselves these miracles meant nothing. Tombs of heroes or prophets always attracted such claims, and being Chiatze Garen-Tsen well understood the nature of hysterical paralysis or blindness. Even so, it was the only indication as to the whereabouts of the jewels. The problem remained, however, that the tomb had been surreptitiously searched on at least three occasions. No hidden jewels had been found.

'Dispose of it,' Garen-Tsen ordered the torturer and the man nodded. The University paid five gold coins for every fresh corpse — though this one was in such a wretched state he would probably receive only three.

The Chiatze minister lifted the hem of his long velvet robe and walked from the chamber. Am I clutching at leaves in the wind, he wondered? Can I send troops to Shul-sen's Valley with any surety of success?

Back in his own rooms, he emptied his mind of the problem and pored over the reports of the day. A secret meeting at the home of the Senator Borvan, an overheard criticism of the God-King in a tavern on Eel Street, a scuffle at the home of the fighter Klay. The name Druss caught his eye, and he remembered the awesome Drenai fighter. He read on, skimming through the reports and making notes. Druss's name figured once more; he had visited Klay in the hospice that morning. Garen-Tsen blinked as he read the small script. 'The subject made reference to healing jewels, which he would fetch for the fighter. .' Picking up a small silver bell, Garen-Tsen rang it twice. A servant entered and bowed.

An hour later the informant was standing nervously before Garen-Tsen's desk. 'Tell me all that you heard. Every word. Leave nothing out,' ordered Garen-Tsen. The man did so. Dismissing him the Chiatze walked to the window, staring out over the towers and rooftops. A Nadir shaman had told Druss of the jewels, and he was heading east. The Valley of Shul-sen's Tears was in the east. Chorin-Tsu's daughter was riding east with the Nadir warrior Talisman.

He rang the bell once more.

'Go to Lord Larness,' he told the servant, 'and say that I must meet with him today. Also have a warrant drawn up for the arrest of the Drenai fighter, Druss.'

'Yes, Lord. What accusation should be logged against him?'

'Assault on a Gothir citizen, leading to the man's death.'

The servant looked puzzled. 'But, Lord, Shonan is not dead; he merely lost some teeth.' Garen-Tsen's hooded eyes fastened to the man's face and the servant reddened. 'I will see to it, Lord. Forgive me.'

The haggle had reached the crucial point, and Sieben the Poet steeled himself for the kill. The horse-dealer had moved from politeness to polite disinterest, to irritation, and now he was displaying an impressively feigned anger. 'This probably just looks like a horse to you,' said the dealer, patting the beast's steel-dust flanks, 'but to me Ganael is a member of my family. We love this horse. His sire was a champion, and his dam had the speed of the east wind. He is brave and loyal. And you insult me by offering the price normally paid for a sway-backed nag?'

Sieben adopted a serious expression, and held to the man's grey-eyed gaze. 'I do not disagree with your description of this. . gelding. And were it five years younger I might be tempted to part with a little more silver. But the horse is worth no more than I have offered.'

'Then our business is concluded,' snapped the dealer. 'There are many noblemen in Gulgothir who would pay twice what I am asking of you. And I only offer you this special price because I like you, and I feel that Ganael likes you too.'

Sieben glanced up at the steel-dust and looked into the gelding's eye. 'He has a mean look,' he said.

'Spirited,' said the dealer swiftly. 'Like me, he doesn't suffer fools gladly. But he is fearless and strong. You are riding into the steppes. By Heaven, man, you will need a horse with the power to outrun those Nadir hill ponies.'

'Thirty pieces is too much. Ganael may be strong, but he is also verging on the old.'

'Nonsense. He is no more than nine. .' As the dealer spoke Sieben raised a quizzical eyebrow. '. . well, perhaps nearer ten or eleven. Even so, he has years of service left in him. His legs are strong, and there is no weakness in the hoof. And I'll re-shoe him for the steppes. How does that sound?'

'It would sound very fine — at twenty-two pieces of silver.'

'Gods, man, have you come here merely to insult me? Did you wake this morning and think, "I'll spend the day bringing an honest Gothir businessman to the threshold of heart failure?" Twenty-seven.'

'Twenty-five — and you can throw in the old mare in the furthest stall, and two saddles.'

The dealer swung round. 'The mare? Throw in? Are you trying to bankrupt me? That mare is of the finest pedigree. She. .'

'. . is a member of the family,' put in Sieben with a wry smile. 'I can see she is strong, but more importantly she is old and steady. My friend is no rider and I think she will suit him. You will have no buyers for her — save for prison meat or glue. The price for those mounts is one half-silver.'

The dealer's thin face relaxed and he pulled at his pointed beard. 'I do happen to have two old saddles — beautiful workmanship, equipped with bags and canteens. But I couldn't let them go for less than a full silver each. Twenty-seven, and we will grip hands upon it. It is too hot to haggle further.'

'Done,' agreed Sieben. 'But I want both horses re-shod and brought to me in three hours.' From his pouch he took two silver pieces and passed them to the man. 'Full payment will be upon receipt,' he said.

After giving the dealer the address, Sieben strolled out into the market-place beyond. It was near deserted, mute testimony to the riots that had taken place here last night. A young whore approached him, stepping from the doorway of a smoke-blackened building. 'Do you seek delight, Lord?' she asked him. Sieben gazed down; her face was young and pretty, but her eyes were world-weary and empty.

'How much?'

'For a nobleman like you, Lord, a mere quarter-silver. Unless you need a bed, and that will be a half.'

'And for this you will delight me?'

'I will give you hours of pleasure,' she promised. Sieben took her hand and saw that her fingers were clean, as was the cheap dress she wore.

'Show me,' he said.

Two hours later he wandered back into the House of Lodging. Majon was sitting by the far window, composing a speech he was to make at the Royal Funeral tomorrow. He glanced up as Sieben entered, and laid aside his quill. 'We must talk,' he said, beckoning Sieben to join him.

The poet was tired, and already regretting his decision to join Druss on his journey. He sat on a padded couch and poured himself a goblet of watered wine. 'Let us make this swift, ambassador, for I need an hour's sleep before I ride.'

'Yes, the ride. This is not seemly, poet. The Queen's funeral is tomorrow and Druss is an honoured guest. To ride out now is an insult of the worst kind. Especially following the riots — which began over Druss, after all. Could you not wait for a few days at least?'

Sieben shook his head. 'I am afraid we are dealing here with something you don't understand, ambassador. Druss sees this as a debt of honour.'

'Do not seek to insult me, poet. I well understand the notion. But Druss did not ask for this man's help, and therefore is in no way responsible for his injury. He owes him nothing.'

'Amazing,' said Sieben. 'You prove my point exactly. I talk of honour and you speak of transactions. Listen to me. . a man was crippled trying to help Druss. Now he is dying and we cannot wait any longer. The surgeon told Druss that Klay has perhaps a month to live. Therefore we are leaving now, as soon as the horses are delivered.'

'But it is all nonsense!' roared Majon. 'Magical jewels hidden in a Nadir valley! What sane man would even consider such. . such a fanciful tale? I have been researching the area you plan to visit. There are many tribes raiding in those parts. No convoys passed through there — unless heavily guarded. There is one particular group of raiders known as Chop-backs. How do you like the sound of that? You know how they got their name? They smash the lower spines of their prisoners and leave them out on the steppes for the wolves to devour.'

Sieben drained his wine, and hoped his face had not shown the terror he felt. 'You have made your point, ambassador.'

'Why is he really doing this?'

'I have already told you. Druss owes the man a debt — and he would walk through fire to repay it.'

As Sieben rose, Majon also stood. 'Why are you going with him? He is not the brightest of men, and I can. . just.. understand his simplistic view of the world. But you? You have wit and rare intelligence. Can you not see the futility of this venture?'

'Yes,' admitted Sieben. 'And it saddens me that I can, for it merely highlights the terrible flaws of what you call intelligence.'

Back in his room, Sieben bathed and then stretched himself out on his bed. The delights the whore had promised had proved to be ephemeral and illusive. Just as all the delights of life Sieben had ever sampled. Lust followed by a gentle sorrow for all that had been missed. The ultimate experience, like the myth of the ultimate woman, was always ahead.

Why are you going with him?

Sieben loathed danger, and trembled at the thought of approaching fear. But Druss, for all his faults, lived life to the full, relishing every breath. Sieben had never been more alive than when he had accompanied Druss on his search for the kidnapped Rowena, in the storm when the Thunderchild had been hurled and tossed like a piece of driftwood, or in the battles and wars when death had seemed but a heartbeat distant.

They had returned in triumph to Drenan, and there Sieben had composed his epic poem, Druss the Legend. It was now the most widely performed saga in all the Drenai lands, and had been translated into a dozen languages. The fame had brought riches, the riches had bought women, and Sieben had fallen back with astonishing speed into a life of idle luxury. He sighed now and rose from the bed. Servants had laid out his clothes — leggings of pale blue wool, and soft thigh-length riding-boots of creamy beige. His puff-sleeved shirt was of blue silk, the wrists slashed to reveal grey silk inserts decorated with mother of pearl. A royal blue cape completed the ensemble, fastened at the neck with a delicate braided chain of gold. Once dressed, he stood before the full-length mirror and looped his baldric over his shoulder. From it hung four black sheaths, each housing an ivory-hilted throwing-knife.

Why are you going with him? It would be fine if he could say, 'Because he is my friend.' Sieben hoped there was at least a semblance of truth in that. The reality however was altogether different. 'I need to feel alive,' he said, aloud.

'I have purchased two mounts,' said Sieben, 'a fine thoroughbred for myself and a cart-horse for you. Since you ride with all the grace of a sack of carrots, I thought it would be fitting.'

Druss ignored the jibe. 'Where did you get the pretty knives?' he asked, pointing at the ornate leather baldric slung carelessly over Sieben's shoulder.

'Pretty? These are splendidly balanced weapons of death.' Sieben slid one from its sheath. The blade was diamond-shaped and razor-sharp. 'I practised with them before I bought them. I hit a moth at ten paces.'

'That could come in handy,' grunted Druss. 'Nadir moths can be ferocious, I'm told.'

'Ah, yes,' muttered Sieben, 'the old jokes are the best. But I should have seen that one staggering over the horizon.'

Druss carefully packed his saddle-bags with supplies of dried meat, fruit, salt, and sugar. Fastening the straps, he dragged a blanket from the bed and rolled it tightly before tying it to the saddle-bags. 'Majon is not best pleased that we are leaving,' said Sieben. 'The Queen's interment is tomorrow, and he fears the King will take our departure at this juncture as an insult to his dearly departed.'

'Have you packed yet?' asked Druss, swinging the saddle-bag to his shoulder.

'I have a servant doing it,' said Sieben, 'even as we speak. I hate these bags, they crumple the silk. No shirt or tunic ever looks right when produced from one of these grotesqueries.'

Druss shook his head in exasperation. 'You're bringing silk shirts into the steppes? You think there will be many admirers of fashion among the Nadir?'

Sieben chuckled. 'When they see me, they'll think I'm a god!'

Striding to the far wall Druss gathered up his axe, Snaga. Sieben stared at the awesome weapon, with its glittering butterfly blades of shining silver steel, and its black haft fashioned with silver runes. 'I detest that thing,' he said, with feeling.

Leaving the bedroom, Druss walked out into the main lounge and through to the entrance hall. The ambassador Majon was talking to three soldiers of the Royal Guard, tall men in silver breastplates and black cloaks. 'Ah, Druss,' he said smoothly. 'These gentlemen would like you to accompany them to the Palace of Inquisition. There's obviously been a mistake, but there are questions they would like to ask you.'

'About what?'

Majon cleared his throat and nervously swept a hand over his neatly groomed silver hair. 'Apparently there was an altercation at the house of the fighter Klay, and someone named Shonan died as a result.'

Druss laid Snaga on the floor, and dropped the saddlebags from his shoulder. 'Died? From a punch to the mouth? Pah! I don't believe it. He was alive when I left him.'

'You will come with us,' said a guard, stepping forward.

'Best that you agree, Druss,' said Majon soothingly. 'I am sure we can. .'

'Enough talk, Drenai,' said the guard. 'This man is wanted for murder, and we're taking him.' From his belt the guard produced a set of manacles and Druss's eyes narrowed.

'I think you might be making a mistake, officer,' said Sieben. But his words came too late as the guard stepped forward — straight into Druss's right fist, which cannoned from his jaw. The officer pitched to his right, his head striking the wall, dislodging his white-plumed helm. The other two guards sprang forward. Druss felled the first with a left hook, the second with a right uppercut.

One man groaned, then all was still. Majon spoke, his voice trembling. 'What have you done? You can't attack Royal Guards!'

'I just did. Now, are you ready, poet?'

'Indeed I am. I shall fetch my bags and then I think it best we quit this city with all due speed.'

Majon slumped to a padded chair. 'What will I tell them when they. . wake?'

'I suggest you give them your discourse on the merits of diplomacy over violence,' said Sieben. Gently he patted Majon's shoulder, then ran to his apartments and gathered his gear.

The horses were stabled at the rear. Druss tied his saddle-bags into place, then clumsily hauled himself into the saddle. The mare was sixteen hands and, though sway-backed, was a powerful beast. Sieben's mount was of similar size but, as he had told Druss, the horse was a thoroughbred, steel-grey and sleek.

Sieben vaulted to the saddle and led the way out into the main street. 'You must have hit that Shonan awfully hard, old horse.'

'Not hard enough to kill him,' said Druss, swaying in the saddle and grabbing the pommel.

'Grip with your thighs, not your calves,' advised Sieben.

'I never liked riding. I feel foolish perched up here.'

There were a number of riders making for the Eastern Gate, and Druss and Sieben found themselves in a long convoy threading through the narrow streets. At the gates soldiers were questioning each rider and Sieben's nervousness grew. 'They can't be looking for you already, surely?' Druss shrugged.

Slowly they approached the gates. A sentry walked forward. 'Papers,' he said.

'We are Drenai,' Sieben told him. 'Just out for a ride.'

'You need papers signed by the Exit Officer of the Watch,' said the sentry, and Sieben saw Druss tense. Swiftly he reached into his pouch and produced a small silver coin; leaning over the saddle, he passed it to the soldier.

'One feels so cooped up in a city,' said Sieben, with a bright smile. 'An hour's ride in open country frees the mind.'

The sentry pocketed the coin. 'I like to ride myself,' he said. 'Enjoy yourselves.' He waved them through and the two riders kicked their mounts into a canter and set off for the eastern hills.

After two hours in the saddle Sieben drank the last of his water and stared about him. With the exception of the distant mountains, the landscape was featureless and dry.

'No rivers or streams,' said the poet. 'Where will we find water?' Druss pointed to a range of rocky hills some miles further on. 'How can you be sure?' asked the poet. 'I don't want to die of thirst out here.'

'You won't.' He grinned at Sieben. 'I have fought campaigns in deserts and I know how to find water. But there's one trick I learned that's better than all the others.'

'And that is?'

'I bought a map of the water-holes! Now let's walk these horses for a while.'

Druss slid from the saddle and strode on. Sieben dismounted and joined him. For a time they walked on in silence.

'Why so morose, old horse?' asked Sieben, as they neared the outcrop of rocks.

'I've been thinking of Klay. How can people just turn on him like that? After all he did for them.'

'People are sometimes vile creatures, Druss, selfish and self-regarding. But the real fault is not in them, but in us for expecting better. When Klay dies they'll all remember what a fine man he was, and they'll probably shed tears for him.'

'He deserves better,' grunted Druss.

'Maybe he does,' agreed Sieben, wiping sweat from his brow with a perfumed handkerchief. 'But when did that ever matter? Do we get what we deserve? I do not believe so. We get what we can win — what we can take, whether it be employment, or money, or women, or land. Look at you! Raiders stole your wife; they had the power to take, and they took her. Sadly for them you had the power to hunt them down, and the sheer determination to pursue your love across the ocean. But you didn't win her back by luck, or by the whim of a capricious deity. You did it by force of arms. You might have failed for a hundred reasons, illness, war — the flight of an arrow, the flash of a sword-blade — a sudden storm at sea. You didn't get what you deserved, Druss, you got what you fought for. Klay was unlucky. He took a bolt that was meant for you. That was your good luck.'

'I don't argue with that,' said Druss. 'Yes, he was unlucky. But they tore down his statue, and his friends robbed and then deserted him — men he had supported, aided, protected. That's what I find hard to swallow.'

Sieben nodded. 'My father told me that a man is lucky if in his life he can count on at least two good friends. He always maintained that a man with many friends had to be either rich or stupid, and I think that is largely true. In all my life I have had only one friend, Druss, and that is you.'

'Do you not count your women?'

Sieben shook his head. 'Everything with them has always been transactional. They require something of me, I require something of them. We each supply the other. They give me the warmth of their bodies and their yielding flesh; I give them the incredible expertise of the perfect lover.'

'How can you call yourself a lover when love is never present in your encounters?'

'Don't be a pedant, Druss. I am worth the title. Even accomplished whores have told me I'm the best lover they ever had.'

'How surprising,' said Druss, with a grin. 'I'll wager they don't say that to many men.'

'Mockery does not suit you, axeman. We all have our skills. Yours is with that appalling weapon, mine is in love-making.'

'Aye,' agreed Druss. 'But it seems to me my weapon ends problems. Yours causes them.'

'Oh, very droll. Just what I need as I walk through this barren wilderness, a lecture on morals!" Sieben stroked the neck of the steel-dust gelding then stepped into the saddle. Lifting his hand he shaded his eyes. 'It is all so green. I've never seen a land that promised so much and gave so little. How do these plants survive?'

Druss did not answer. He was trying to hook his foot into the stirrup, but the mare began walking in circles. Sieben chuckled and rode alongside, taking the mare's reins and holding her steady while the axeman mounted. 'They are deep-rooted,' said Druss. 'It rains here for a full month every winter. The plants and bushes soak it in, then battle to survive for another year. It is a hard land. Harsh and savage.'

'Like the people who dwell here,' said Sieben.

'Aye. The Nadir are a fierce people.'

'Majon was telling me about a group called Chop-backs.'

'Renegades,' said Druss. 'They call them Notas, no tribe. They are outcasts, robbers and killers. We'll try to avoid them.'

'And if we can't?'

Druss laughed. 'Then you can show me your skills with the pretty knives!'

Nosta Khan sat in the shade of an overhanging rock, his scrawny left hand dipped in the cool waters of the rock pool. The sun was high overhead now, the heat beyond the shade pitiless, relentless in its power. It caused Nosta Khan no distress. Neither heat nor cold, nor pain nor sorrow could touch him now. For he was a Master of the Way — a shaman.

He had not desired this mystic path. No, as a young man he had dreamed the dreams of all Nadir warriors: many ponies, many women, many children. A short life filled with the savage joy of battle and the grunting, slippery warmth of sex.

It was not to be. His Talent had denied him his dreams. No wives for Nosta Khan, no children to play at his feet. Instead he had been taken as a boy to the Cave of Asta Khan, and there had learned the Way.

Lifting his hand from the water he touched it to his brow, closing his eyes as several drops of cold water fell to the wrinkled skin of his face.

He was seven years old when Asta took him and six other boys to the crest of Stone Hawk Peak, to sit in the blazing sunshine dressed only in breech-clouts and moccasins. The old shaman had covered their heads and faces with wet clay and told them to sit until the clay baked hard and fell clear. Each child had two reed straws through which to breathe. There was no sense of time within the clay, no sound and no light. The skin of his shoulders had burned and blistered, but Nosta had not moved. For three blazing days and three frozen nights he sat thus within that tomb of drying clay.

It did not fall clear and he had longed to lift his hands and rip it away. Yet he did not. . even when the terror gripped him. What if the wolves came? What if an enemy were close? What if Asta had left him here to die because he, Nosta, was not worthy? Still he sat unmoving, the ground beneath him soiled with his urine and excrement, ants and flies crawling over him. He felt their tiny legs upon his skin and shivered. What if they were not flies, but scorpions?

Still the child did not move. On the morning of the fourth day, as the sun brought warmth and pain to his chilled yet raw flesh, a section of the clay broke clear, allowing him to move the muscles of his jaw. Tilting his head, he forced open his mouth. The two reed straws dropped away, then a large chunk of baked clay split above his nose. A hand touched his head and he flinched. Asta Khan peeled away the last of the clay.

The sunlight was brutally bright and tears fell from the boy's eyes. The old shaman nodded. 'You have done well,' he said. They were the only words of praise he ever heard from Asta Khan.

When at last he could see, Nosta looked around him He and the old man were alone on Stone Hawk Peak 'Where are the other boys?'

'Gone. They will return to their villages. You have won the great prize.'

'Then why do I feel only sadness?' he asked, his voice a dry croak.

Asta Khan did not answer at first. He passed a water skin to the boy and sat silently as he drank his fill. 'Each man,' he said at last, 'gives something of himself to the future. At the very least the gift is in the form of a child to carry his seed onward. But a shaman is denied that pleasure.' Taking the boy by the hand, he led him to the edge of the precipice. From here they gazed down over the plains and the distant steppes. 'See there,' said Asta Khan, 'the goats of our tribe. They worry about little, save to eat, sleep and rut. But look at the goat-herder. He must watch for wolves and lions, for the flesh-eating worms of the blowfly, and he must find pastures that are safe, and rich with grass. Your sadness is born of the knowledge that you cannot be a goat. Your destiny calls for more than that.'

Nosta Khan sighed and once more splashed his face with water. Asta was long dead now, and he remembered him with little affection.

A golden lioness and three cubs came into sight on the trail. Nosta took a deep breath and focused his concentration.

The rearing rocks are part of the body of the Gods of Stone and Water, and I am one with the rocks.

The lioness moved warily forward, her great head sniffing the air. Satisfied that her family was safe she edged to the pool, the cubs gambolling behind her. The last of the cubs leapt upon the back of one of the others and commenced a play fight. The lioness ignored them and drank deeply. She was thin, her pelt patchy. When she had drunk her fill, she moved into the shade and lay beside Nosta Khan. The cubs followed her, nuzzling her teats. One scrambled over Nosta Khan's bare legs, then settled down in the old man's lap with its head resting on his thigh.

Reaching out, he laid his hand on the lioness's broad head. She did not flinch. Nosta Khan allowed his mind to float free. High above the hills he floated, scanning the folds and gullies. Less than a mile to the east he found a small family group of ochpi, wild mountain goats with short curved horns. There was a male, three females, and several young. Returning to his body, Nosta touched the lioness with his spirit. Her head came up, nostrils flaring. There was no way she could pick up the scent from this distance, with the wind against her, but Nosta Khan filled her mind with the vision of the ochpi. The lioness rose, scattering the cubs, then she loped away. At first the cubs remained where they were, but she gave a low growl and they ran after her.

With luck she would feed.

Nosta sat back, and waited. The riders would be here within the hour. He pictured the axeman, his broad, flat face and deep, cold eyes. Would that all these Southerners could be so easily manipulated, he thought, remembering his spirit meeting in the tavern. Once outside it had been so easy to mesmerize the crossbow man and command him to shoot down the Gothir fighter. Nosta recalled with pleasure the flight of the bolt, the sickening impact, and the intense shock of the crossbow man when he realized what he had done.

The threads were drawing together well now, but there was so much still to weave. Nosta rested his body and his mind, floating in half-sleep in the warmth.

Two riders came into view. The shaman took a deep breath and focused, as he had when the lioness came to the pool. He was a rock, eternal, unchanging, save to the slow eroding winds of time. The lead rider, a tall, slim young man with fair hair, dressed in garish silks, dis-mounted smoothly, holding firm to the reins, preventing the steel-dust gelding from reaching the cool water. 'No yet, my lovely,' he said softly. 'First we must cool you down.' The second rider, the black-bearded axeman lifted his leg over the saddle pommel and jumped down His mount was old, and more than tired. Laying his axe to the ground Druss unbuckled the saddle, hauling it clear of the mare's back. She was lathered in sweat and breathing heavily; he wiped her down with a cloth and tethered her next to the tall gelding in the partial shade of the east side of the pool. The fair one moved to the pool and stripped off his clothing, shaking off the dust and folding it neatly. His body was pale as ivory, smooth and soft. No warrior this, thought Nosta Khan as the young man dived into the water. Druss gathered his axe and moved to the shade where Nosta Khan sat. Squatting down he cupped his hands and drank, then splashed water to his thick dark hair and beard.

Nosta Khan closed his eyes and reached out to touch Druss's arm and read his thoughts. An iron grip closed around his wrist and his eyes flared open. Druss was looking directly at him.

'I have been waiting for you,' said Nosta, fighting for calm.

'I do not like men creeping up on me,' said the axeman, his voice cold. Nosta glanced down at the pool and the tension eased from him. The Spell of Concealment had not failed him, Druss had merely seen the reflection of his hand upon the water. Druss released his grip and drank once more.

'You are seeking the Healing Jewels, eh? That is good. A man should stand by his friends in their darkest moments.'

'Exactly where are they?' asked Druss. 'I do not have much time. Klay is dying.'

'I cannot tell you exactly. They were stolen several hundred years ago by a renegade shaman. He was hunted and stopped to rest at the Shrine of Oshikai; after that he was found and killed. Despite the most severe torture he refused to reveal the hiding-place. I now believe they are hidden at the Shrine.'

'Then why have you not searched for them?'

'I think he placed them within the tomb of Oshikai Demon-bane. No Nadir may defile that sacred object. Only a. . foreigner. . would desecrate it.'

'How much more are you concealing from me, little man?'

'A great deal,' admitted Nosta. 'But then there is much that you do not need to know. The only truth that is of value to you is this: the jewels will save the life of your friend, and return him to full health.'

Sieben emerged from the water and padded across the hot stones to the shade. 'Ah, made a friend, I see,' he said, as he sat beside the shaman. 'I take it this is the old man who spoke to you in the tavern?' Druss nodded and Sieben extended his hand. 'My name is Sieben. I am the poet. You may have heard of me.'

'I have not heard of you,' said Nosta, ignoring the outstretched hand.

'What a blow to one's vanity,' said Sieben, with an easy smile. 'Do you have poets among the Nadir?'

'For what purpose?' asked the old man.

'Art, joy, entertainment. .' Sieben hesitated as he saw the blank look of incomprehension on the old man's face. 'History!' he said suddenly. 'How is your history retained among the tribe?'

'Each man is taught the history of his tribe by his mother, and the history of his family by his father And the tribe's shaman knows all their histories, and the deeds of every Nadir hero.'

'You have no art, no sculptors, actors, painters?'

Nosta Khan's coal-dark eyes glittered. 'Three in five Nadir babies die in infancy. The average age of death among Nadir men is twenty-six. We live in a state of constant war, one with another, and in the meanwhile being hunted for sport by Gothir noblemen. Plague, pestilence, the constant threat of drought or famine — these are matters which concern the Nadir. We have no time for art.' Nosta Khan spat out the last word as if the taste upon his tongue was offensive.

'How excruciatingly dull,' said Sieben. 'I never felt sorry for your people — until now. Excuse me while I water the horses.'

Sieben rose and dressed. Nosta Khan swallowed down his irritation, and returned his gaze to Druss. 'Are there many like him in the South lands?'

Druss smiled. 'There are not many like him anywhere.' Reaching into his pack, he produced a round of cheese wrapped in muslin and some dried beef. He offered a portion to Nosta Khan, who refused. Druss ate in silence. Sieben returned and joined him. When they had completed the meal, Druss yawned and stretched out in the shade; within moments he was asleep.

'Why do you travel with him?' Nosta Khan asked Sieben.

'For the adventure, old horse. Wherever Druss goes one is sure to find adventure. And I like the idea of magical jewels. I'm sure there'll be a song or a story in it.'

'On that we will agree,' said Nosta Khan. 'Even now two thousand Gothir warriors are being marshalled. Led by Gargan, the Lord of Larness, they will march to the Shrine of Oshikai Demon-bane and lay siege to it, with the intention of killing everyone there, and taking the jewels as a gift to the madman who sits upon the throne. You are riding into the eye of the hurricane, poet. Yes, I am sure there will be a song in it for you.'

Nosta relished the fear that showed in the young man's soft eyes. Stretching his scrawny frame, he struggled to his feet and walked away from the pool. All was moving as he had planned, yet Nosta felt uneasy. Could Talisman marshal the Nadir troops to withstand Larness? Could he find the Eyes of Alchazzar? Closing his eyes Nosta let his spirit fly to the east, soaring over the mountains and dry valleys. Far below he saw the Shrine, its curved white walls shining like a ring of ivory. Beyond it were the tents of the Nadir guardians. Where are you, Talisman, he wondered?

Concentrating on the face of the young man, he allowed his spirit to drift down, drawn by the pull of Talisman's personality. Opening the eyes of his spirit, Nosta Khan saw the young Nadir warrior breasting the last rise before the valley. Behind him came the Chiatze woman, Zhusai. Then a third rider came in sight, leading two ponies. Nosta was surprised. Floating above this stranger he reached down, his spirit fingers touching the man's neck. The rider shivered and drew his heavy coat more closely about his powerful frame.

Satisfied, Nosta drew back. In the one instant of contact he had witnessed the attempted attack on Talisman and the girl, and Gorkai's conversion to the cause of the Uniter. It was good; the boy had performed well. The Gods of Stone and Water would be pleased.

Nosta flew on, hovering over the Shrine. Once it had been a small supply fort, its walls boasting wooden parapets but no towers. Less than twenty feet high, they had been constructed to keep out marauding tribesmen — not two thousand trained soldiers. The west-facing gates were rotting upon their hinges of bronze, while the west wall had crumbled at the centre, leaving a pile of rubble below a V-shaped crack.

Fear touched Nosta Khan with fingers of dread.

Could they hold against Gothir Guards?

And what of Druss? What role would the axeman play? It was galling to see so much, and yet know so little. Was his purpose to stand, axe in hand, upon the walls? In that moment a fleeting vision flickered in his mind: a white-haired warrior standing upon a colossal wall, his axe raised in defiance. As suddenly as it had come, it faded away.

Returning to his body Nosta took a deep, shuddering breath.

By the pool the poet was sleeping alongside the giant axeman.

Nosta sighed, and walked away into the east.

Talisman sat on the highest wall staring out over the Valley of Shul-sen's Tears. The sun was bright, and yet here a light breeze was blowing, robbing the heat of its withering power. In the distance the mountains looked like banks of dark storm-clouds hugging the horizon, and overhead two eagles were circling on the thermals. Talisman's dark eyes scanned the valley. From this southern wall of Oshikai's resting-place he could see two camps. At the first a long horse-hair standard, bearing the skull and horns of a wild ox, was planted before the largest tent. The thirty warriors of the Curved Horn tribe were sitting in the fading sunshine cooking their evening meals. Three hundred paces to the west was a second series of goat-hide tents; the standard of the Fleet Ponies was pitched there.

Out of sight on the northern side of the Shrine were two more camps, of the Lone Wolves and the Sky Riders, each guarding a compass point near the resting-place of the greatest Nadir warrior. The breeze died away and Talisman strolled down the rickety wooden steps to the courtyard, making his way to a table near the well. From here he could see where the west wall had crumbled away at the centre. Through the jagged hole he could just make out the distant tree line of the western hills.

This place is rotting away, he thought, just like the dreams of the man whose bones lie here. Talisman was fighting to control a cold, gnawing anger deep in his belly. They had arrived last night just in time to witness a sword duel between two Nadir warriors, which ended in the sudden and bloody disembowelling of a young man from the Fleet Ponies tribe. The victor, a lean warrior wearing the white fur wrist-ring of the Sky Riders, leapt upon the dying man, plunging his sword into his victim's neck, see-sawing the blade through the vertebrae, tearing the head from the shoulders. Blood-drenched, he had surged to his feet, screaming his triumph.

Talisman had heeled his pony on through the gates. Leaving Gorkai to tend the mounts, he had walked across the courtyard to stand before the Shrine entrance.

But he did not enter, he could not enter. Talisman's mouth was dry, his stomach knotted with fear. Out here in the bright moonlight his dreams were solid, his confidence unshakeable. Once through that door, however, they could disappear like wood-smoke.

Calm yourself! The Shrine has been plundered before. The Eyes will be hidden. Step inside, and pay homage to the spirit of the hero.

Taking a deep breath, he moved forward and pushed open the ancient wooden door. The dust-covered room was no more than thirty feet long, and twenty wide. Wooden pegs were hammered into the walls, but nothing hung from them now. Once Oshikai's armour had been displayed here, his breastplate and helm, and Kolmisai, the single-bladed hand-axe which had felled a hundred foes. There had been tapestries and mosaics, detailing his life and his victories. Now there were only bare and empty walls. The Shrine had been ransacked hundreds of years ago. They had, so Nosta Khan informed him, even opened the coffin and torn off the fingers of the corpse to get to the golden rings worn by Oshikai. The chamber was bleak, the stone coffin resting on a raised platform at the centre. The coffin itself was unadorned, save for a square of black iron set into the stone. Upon it, in raised letters, were the words:

Oshikai Demon-bane — Lord of War.

Talisman laid his hand on the cold stone of the coffin lid. 'I live,' he said, 'to see your dreams return. We will be united again. We will be Nadir, and the world will tremble.'

'Why do the dreams of men always lead to war?' asked a voice. Talisman spun to see that sitting in the shadows was an old blind man wearing a grey robe and cowl. He was stick-thin, and hairless. Taking hold of his staff, he levered himself to his feet and approached Talisman. 'You know,' he said, 'I have studied the life of Oshikai, sifting through the legends and the myths. He never wanted war. Always it was thrust upon him. That was when he became a terrible enemy. The dreams you speak of were mostly of finding a land of promise and plenty where his people could grow in peace. He was a great man.'

'Who are you?' asked Talisman.

'I am a priest of the Source.' As the man stepped into the beam of moonlight coming through the open western window, Talisman saw that he was Nadir. 'I live here now, writing my histories.'

'How does a blind man write?'

'Only the eyes of my body are blind, Talisman. When I write I use the eyes of my spirit.'

Talisman shivered as the man spoke his name. 'You are a shaman?'

The priest shook his head. 'I understand the Way, though my own path is different. I cast no spells, Talisman, though I can heal warts and read the hearts of men. Sadly I cannot alter them. I can walk the paths of the many futures, but do not know which will come to pass. If I could, I would open this coffin and raise the man within. But I cannot.'

'How is it that you know my name?'

'Why should I not? You are the flaming arrow, the messenger.'

'You know why I am here,' said Talisman, his voice dropping to a whisper.

'Of course. You are seeking the Eyes of Alchazzar, hidden here so many years ago.'

Talisman fingered the dagger at his belt, and silently drew it. 'You have found them?'

'I know they are here. But they were not left for me to find. I write history, Talisman; it is not for me to create it. May the Source give you wisdom.'

The old man turned away and walked to the sunlit doorway where he stood for a moment, as if waiting. Then his voice sounded once more. 'In at least three of the futures I have seen, you struck me down as I stood here, your dagger deep in my back. Why did you not do so in this one?'

'I considered it, old man.'

'Had you committed the deed you would have been dragged from this chamber, your arms and legs tied with ropes attached to the saddles of four ponies. You would have been ripped apart, Talisman. That also happened.'

'Obviously it did not, for you still live.'

'It happened somewhere,' said the old man. Then he was gone.

Talisman followed him into the light, but he had vanished into one of the buildings. Seeing Gorkai drawing water from the well, he strolled across to him. 'Where is Zhusai?'

'The woman sleeps,' said Gorkai. 'It looks as if there will be another fight today. The head of the boy who was killed now sits atop a pole at the Sky Rider camp. His comrades are determined to punish this insult.'

'Stupidity,' said Talisman.

'It seems to be in our blood. Maybe the gods cursed us.'

Talisman nodded. 'The curse came when the Eyes of Alchazzar were stolen. When they are returned to the Stone Wolf, then we shall see a new day.'

'You believe this?'

'A man must believe in something, Gorkai. Otherwise we are merely shifting grains of sand, blown by the wind. The Nadir number in their hundreds of thousands, perhaps in millions, and yet we live in squalor. All around us there is wealth, controlled by nations whose armies do not exceed twenty thousand men. Even here the four tribes guarding the Shrine cannot live in peace. Their purpose is identical — the Shrine they protect is of a man who is a hero to all Nadir — yet they stare at each other with undisguised hatred; I believe that will change. We will change it.'

'Just you and I?' asked Gorkai softly.

'Why not?'

'I have still seen no man with violet eyes,' said Gorkai.

'You will. I swear it.'

When Druss awoke Nosta Khan had gone. It was approaching dusk and Sieben was sitting by the poolside, his naked feet resting in the cool water. Druss yawned and stretched. Rising, he stripped off his jerkin, boots and leggings and leapt into the pool, where the water was welcomingly cool. Refreshed, he climbed out and sat beside the poet. 'When did the little man leave?' he asked.

'Soon after you fell asleep,' Sieben told him, his voice flat.

Druss looked into his friend's face, and saw the lines of tension there. 'You are concerned about the two thousand warriors heading for the Shrine?'

Sieben bit back an angry retort. 'Concerned does not quite cover it, old horse. I see it doesn't surprise you, though.'

Druss shook his head. 'He told me he was repaying a debt because I helped his young friend. That is not the Nadir way. No, he wanted me at the Shrine because he knew there would be a battle.'

'Oh, I see, and the mighty Druss the Legend will turn the tide, I suppose?'

Druss chuckled. 'Perhaps he will, poet. Perhaps he will not. Whatever the answer, the only way I'll find the jewels is if I go there.'

'And what if there are no magical jewels? Suppose he lied about that also?'

'Then Klay will die, and I will have done my best.'

'It is all so simple for you, isn't it?' stormed Sieben. 'Black and white, light and dark, pure or evil? Two thousand warriors are going to ransack that Shrine. You won't stop them. And why should you even try? What is it about Klay that has touched you so? Other men have suffered grievous wounds before now. You have seen comrades cut down beside you for years.'

Druss stood and dressed, then he wandered to the horses and unhooked a sack of grain from the saddle pommel. From his pack he took two feed-bags and looped them over the ears of the mounts. Sieben joined him. 'They say a grain-fed horse will outrun anything fed on grass,' said Druss. 'You are a horseman, is that true?'

'Come on, Druss, answer my question, damn you! Why Klay?'

'He reminds me of a man I never knew,' answered Druss.

'Never knew! What does that mean?'

'It means that I must try to find the jewels, and I don't give a damn about two thousand Gothir whoresons, or the entire Nadir nation. Leave it there, poet!'

The clatter of hooves sounded on the trail and both men swung towards the source of the noise. Six Nadir warriors, riding in single file, approached the pool. They were dressed in goatskin tunics and wore fur-rimmed helms. Each carried a bow and two short swords. 'What do we do?' whispered Sieben.

'Nothing. Water-holes are sacred places and no Nadir will fight a battle at one. They'll merely water their horses, then leave.'

'Then what?'

'Then they'll try to kill us. But that is a problem for another time. Relax, poet, you wanted adventure. Now you'll have it.'

Druss strolled back to the shade and sat down beside the fearsome axe. The Nadir affected to ignore him, but Sieben could see them cast furtive glances in his direction. Finally the leader — a middle-aged, stocky warrior with a thin, wispy beard — came and sat opposite him.

'You are far from home,' he said, speaking haltingly in the Southern tongue.

'Yet I am at ease,' replied Druss.

'The dove is rarely at ease in the home of the hawk.'

'I am not a dove, laddie. And you are no hawk,'

The man rose. 'I think we will meet again, Round-eye.' He strolled back to his companions, vaulted to the saddle and led the riders on towards the east.

Sieben sat down beside Druss. 'Oh, well done, old horse. Always best to appease an enemy who outnumbers you three to one.'

'There was no point. He knows what he must do. As do I. You wait here with the horses; get them saddled and ready.'

'Where are you going?'

'East a little way. I want to see what sort of trap they will set.'

'Is this wise, Druss? There are six of them.'

Druss grinned. 'You think it would make it fairer if I left my axe behind?' With that he gathered up Snaga and set off up and over the rocks. Sieben watched him go, then settled down to wait. Darkness came swiftly in the mountains and he wished he had thought to gather dead-wood back along the trail. A fire would be a welcome friend in this desolate place. The moon was bright, however, and Sieben wrapped himself in his blanket and sat deep in the shadows of the rock wall. Never again, he thought. From now on I'll welcome boredom with open arms and a mighty hug!

What was it Druss had said about Klay? He reminds me of a man I never knew? Suddenly it came clear to Sieben. Druss was speaking of Michanek, the man who had loved and wed Rowena back in Ventria. * Like Druss Michanek was a mighty warrior, and a champion among the rebels opposed to Prince Gorben. And Rowena, robbed of her memory, had grown to love him, had even attempted suicide when she learned of his death. Druss had been there as Michanek faced the elite of Gorben's Immortals. Alone he had killed many, until at last even Michanek's prodigious strength failed him, sapped from his body in the gushing of blood from a score of wounds. As he died, he asked Druss to look after Rowena.

* First Chronicles of Druss the Legend

Once, when visiting Druss and his lady at their farm in the mountains, Sieben had walked with Rowena across the high meadows. He had asked her then about Michanek and she smiled fondly. 'He was like Druss in many ways, but he was also gentle and kind. I did love him, Sieben, and I know Druss finds that hard to bear. But they took my memory from me. I did not know who I was, and remembered nothing of Druss. All I knew was that this huge man loved me and cared for me. And it still saddens me to know that Druss had a part in his death.'

'He didn't know Michanek,' said Sieben. 'All he had dreamed of through those long years was finding you and bringing you home.'

'I know.'

'Given the choice between the two men, who would you have chosen?' asked Sieben suddenly.

'That is a question I never ask myself,' she told him. 'I merely know that I was fortunate to be loved by, and to love, both of them.'

Sieben had wanted to ask more, but she touched a finger to his lips. 'Enough, poet! Let us go back to the house.'

A cold wind blew around the rock pool now and Sieben wrapped his cloak more tightly about him. There was no sound, save for the wind whistling through the rocks, and Sieben felt terribly alone. Time passed with a mind-numbing lack of speed and the poet dozed several times, always waking with a start, terrified that hidden Nadir assassins were creeping up on him.

Just before the dawn, with the sky brightening, he heard the sound of hooves on stone. Scrambling to his feet he drew one of his knives, dropped it, gathered it and stood waiting. Druss came into sight leading four Nadir ponies and Sieben walked out to meet him. There was blood on Druss's jerkin and leggings. 'Are you hurt?' asked Sieben.

'No, poet. The way is now clear — and we have four ponies to trade.'

'Two of the Nadir got away?'

Druss shook his head. 'Not the Nadir, but two of the ponies broke loose and ran off.'

'You killed all six?'

'Five. One fell from the cliff as I was chasing him. Now let us be moving on.'