The Legend of the Deathwalker

Chapter Six

Just before midnight Talisman entered the tomb of Oshikai Demon-bane. While Gorkai stood guard outside the door, the Nadir warrior crept inside and placed four small pouches on the ground before the coffin. From the first he poured a small amount of red powder; then, with his index finger, he formed it into a circle no bigger than his palm. Faint moonlight shining through the open window made his task more easy. From the second pouch he took three long dried leaves, which he rolled into a ball and placed in his mouth, under his tongue. The taste was bitter and he almost gagged. Taking a tinder-box from the pocket of his goatskin tunic, he struck a flame and held it to the red powder, which flared instantly with a crimson light. Smoke billowed up. Talisman breathed it in, then swallowed the ball of leaves.

He felt faint, dizzy, and as if from a great distance he heard the sound of soft music, then a sigh. His vision blurred, then cleared. Upon the walls of the shrine there were flickering lights that made his eyes water. He rubbed them with finger and thumb, and looked again. Shimmering in place beneath the pegs on the wall was the armour of Oshikai Demon-bane — the breastplate with its one hundred and ten leaves of hammered gold, the winged helm of black iron, set with silver runes, and the dread axe, Kolmisai. Talisman slowly scanned the chamber. Beautiful tapestries decorated the walls, each showing an incident from the life of Oshikai — the hunt for the black lion, the razing of Chien-Po, the flight over the mountains, the wedding to Shul-sen. This last was a spectacular piece, a host of ravens carrying the bride to the altar while Oshikai stood waiting with two demons beside him.

Talisman blinked and battled to hold his concentration against the waves of narcotics coursing through his blood. From the third pouch he took a ring of gold, and from the fourth a small finger-bone. As Nosta Khan had commanded, he slid the ring over the bone and placed it before him. With his dagger he made a narrow cut in his left forearm, allowing the blood to drip upon the bone and the ring. 'I call to thee, Lord of War,' he said. 'I humbly ask for your presence.'

At first there was nothing, then a cool breeze seemed to blow across the chamber, though not a mote of dust was disturbed. A figure began to materialize over the coffin. The armour of gold flowed over him, the axe floating down to rest in his right hand. Talisman almost ceased to breathe as the spirit descended to sit cross-legged opposite him. Though broad of shoulder, Oshikai was not huge, as Talisman had expected. His face was flat and hard, the nose broad, the nostrils flared. He wore his hair tied back in a tight pony-tail, and he sported no beard or moustache. His violet eyes glowed with power, and he radiated strength of purpose.

'Who calls Oshikai?' asked the translucent figure.

'I, Talisman of the Nadir.'

'Do you bring news of Shul-sen?'

The question was unexpected and Talisman faltered. 'I. . I know nothing of her, Lord, save legends and stories. Some say she died soon after you, others that she crossed the oceans to a world without darkness.'

'I have searched the Vales of Spirit, the Valleys of the Damned, the Fields of Heroes, the Halls of the Mighty. I have crossed the Void for time without reckoning. I cannot find her.'

'I am here, Lord, to see your dreams return to life,' said Talisman, as Nosta Khan had ordered. Oshikai seemed not to hear him. 'The Nadir need to be united,' continued Talisman. 'To do this we must find the violet-eyed leader, but we do not know where to look.'

The spirit of Oshikai gazed at Talisman, then sighed. 'He will be found when the Eyes of Alchazzar are set in their rightful sockets. The magic will flow back into the land, and then he will be revealed.'

'I seek the Eyes, Lord,' said Talisman. 'They are said to be hidden here. Is this true?'

'Aye, it is true. They are close by, Talisman of the Nadir. But you are not destined to find them.'

'Then who, Lord?'

'A foreigner will take them. More than this I will not tell you.'

'And the Uniter, Lord. Can you not tell me his name?'

'His name will be Ulric. Now I must go. I must keep searching.'

'Why do you search, Lord? Is there no Paradise for you?'

The spirit stared at him. 'What Paradise could there be without Shul-sen? Death I could bear, but not this parting of souls. I will find her, though it take a dozen eternities. Fare you well, Talisman of the Nadir.'

Before Talisman could speak the figure was gone. The young Nadir warrior rose unsteadily and backed to the door.

Gorkai was waiting in the moonlight. 'What happened in there? I heard you speak, but there was no answer.'

'He came, but he could not help me. He was a soul in torment, seeking his wife.'

'The witch, Shul-sen. They say she was burned alive, her ashes scattered to the four winds and her spirit destroyed by sorcery.'

'I have never heard that story,' said Talisman. 'Among others we were taught that she crossed the sea to a land where there was no nightfall, and there she lives for ever in the hope that Oshikai will find her.'

'It is a prettier tale,' admitted Gorkai, 'and both would explain why the Lord of War cannot find her. What will we do now?'

'We will see what tomorrow brings,' said Talisman, striding off to the rooms Gorkai had found for them. There were thirty small chambers set within the main building, all constructed for the use of pilgrims. Zhusai had spread her blankets on the floor beneath the window, and pretended to be asleep as Talisman entered. He did not go to her, but pulled up a chair and sat staring out at the stars. Unable to bear the silence any longer, she spoke.

'Did the spirit not come to you?' she asked.

'Aye, he came.' Slowly he told her the full story of Oshikai's search for Shul-sen, and of the two legends told of her passing.

Zhusai sat up, holding the blanket around her. 'There are other stories of Shul-sen — that she was thrown from a cliff high on the Mountains of the Moon; that she committed suicide; that she was turned into a tree. Every tribe has a different tale. But it is sad that he cannot find her.'

'More than sad," said Talisman. 'He said that without her there could be no Paradise.'

'How beautiful,' she said. 'But then he was Chiatze, and we are a people who understand sensitivity.'

'I have found in my life that people who boast of their sensitivity are sensitive only to their own needs, and utterly indifferent to the needs of others. However, I am in no mood to argue the point.' Taking up his blanket, he lay down beside her, and slept. His dreams, as always, were filled with pain.

The lash cut deep into his back, but he did not cry out. He was Nadir, and no matter how great the pain he would never show his suffering to these gajin — these round-eyed foreigners. The whip he had been forced to make himself, the leather wound tightly around a wooden handle, then sliced into thin strips each tipped with a small pellet of lead. Okai counted each stroke to the prescribed fifteen. As the last slashing swipe lanced across his bleeding back, he allowed himself to slump forward against the stake. 'Give him five more,' came the voice of Gargan.

'That would exceed the regulations, my Lord,' answered Premian. 'He has received the maximum allowed for a cadet of fifteen.' Okai could scarce believe that Premian had spoken up for him. The House Prefect had always made clear his loathing of the Nadir boys.

Gargan spoke again. 'That regulation is for human beings, Premian, not Nadir filth. As you can see, he has not suffered at all.-Not a sound has he made. Where there is no sense, there is no feeling. Five more!'

'I cannot obey you, my Lord.'

'You are stripped of your rank, Premian. I had thought better of you.'

'And I of you, Lord Gargan.' Okai heard the lash fall to the floor. 'If one more blow is laid upon this young man's back I shall report the incident to my father at the palace. Fifteen strokes was bad enough for a misdemeanour. Twenty would be savage beyond belief.'

'Be silent!' thundered Gargan. 'One more word and you will suffer a similar punishment, and face expulsion from this academy. I'll not tolerate disobedience, nor insubordination. You!' he said, pointing at a boy Okai could not see. 'Five more lashes if you please.'

Okai heard the whisper of the lash being swept up from the floor, and tried to brace himself. Only when the first blow fell did he realize that Premian had been holding back. Whoever now held the lash was laying on with a vengeance. At the third stroke a groan was torn from him, that shamed him even more than the punishment, but he bit down hard on the leather belt between his teeth and made no further sound. Blood was running freely down his back now, pooling above the belt of his leggings. At the fifth stroke a great silence fell upon the hall. Gargan broke it. 'Now, Premian, you may go and write to your father. Cut this piece of offal down.'

Three Nadir boys ran forward, untying the ropes that bound Okai. Even as he fell into their arms he swung to see who had wielded the whip, and his heart sank. It was Dalsh-chin, of the Fleet Ponies tribe.

His friends half carried him to the infirmary, where an orderly applied salve to his back and inserted three stitches into a deeper cut on his shoulder. Dalsh-chin entered and stood before him. 'You did well, Okai,' he said, speaking in the Nadir tongue. 'My heart swelled with pride for you.'

'Why then did you make me cry out before the gajin?

'Because he would have ordered five more had you not, and five more still. It was a test of will, and one which might have killed you.'

'You stop talking in that filthy language,' said the orderly. 'You know it is against the rules, and I won't have it!'

Dalsh-chin nodded, then reached out and laid his hand on Okai's head. 'You have a brave heart, young one,' he said, in the southern tongue. Then he turned and strode from the room.

'Twenty lashes for defending yourself,' said his closest friend Zhen-shi. 'That was not just.'

'You cannot expect justice from gajin,' Okai told him. 'Only pain.'

'They have stopped hurting me,' said Zhen-shi. 'Perhaps it will be better for all of us from now on.'

Okai said nothing, knowing that they had stopped hurting his friend because Zhen-shi ran errands for them, cleaned their boots, bowed and scraped, acted like a slave. As they mocked him he would smile, and bob his head. It saddened Okai, but there was little he could do. Every man had to make his own choices. His own was to resist them in every way, and yet to learn all that they could teach. Zhen-shi had not the strength for this course; he was soft, and remarkably gentle for a Nadir boy.

After a short rest in the infirmary, Okai walked unaided to the room he shared with Lin-tse. From the Sky Rider tribe, Lin-tse was taller than most Nadir youths, his face square and his eyes barely slanted. It was rumoured that he had gajin blood, but no-one said this to his face. Lin-tse was short of temper, and long on remembered wrongs. He stood as Okai entered. 'I have brought you food and drink, Okai,' he said. 'And some mountain honey for the wounds upon your back.'

'I thank you, brother,' replied Okai formally.

'Our tribes are at war,' said Lin-tse, 'and therefore we cannot be brothers. But I respect your courage.' He bowed, then returned to his studies.

Okai lay face down on the narrow pallet bed and tried to block the hot pain that flowed from his lacerated back. 'Our tribes are at war now, he said, 'but one day we will be brothers, and the Nadir will sweep down upon these gajin and wipe them from the face of the earth.'

'May it be so,' responded Lin-tse. 'You have an examination tomorrow, do you not?'

'Yes. The role of cavalry in punitive expeditions.'

'Then I shall question you upon the subject. It will help to shield your mind from the pain you are suffering.'

Talisman awoke just before the dawn. Zhusai still slept as silently he rose and left the room. In the courtyard below the blind Nadir priest was drawing water from the well. In the half light of the pre-dawn the man looked younger, his face pale and serene. 'I trust you slept well, Talisman?' he enquired as the Nadir approached.

'Well enough.'

'And were the dreams the same?'

'My dreams are my concern, old man, and should you wish to live to complete your history, you would be advised to remember my words.'

The priest laid down the bucket and sat on the lip of the well, his pale opal eyes glinting in the last of the moonlight. 'Dreams are never secret, Talisman, no matter how hard we try to protect them. They are like regrets, always seeking the light, always shared. And they have meaning far beyond our understanding. You will see. Here in this place the circle will be complete.'

The priest carried the bucket to a nearby table and, with a copper ladle, slowly began to fill clay water pots that hung on slender ropes from the beams of the porch. Talisman walked to the table and sat. 'What are these histories you write?' he asked.

'They mostly involve the Chiatze and the Nadir. But I have become fascinated by the life of Oshikai. Do you know the origin of the name Nadir?'

Talisman shrugged. 'In the southern tongue it means the point of greatest hopelessness.'

'In Chiatze it means the cross-roads of death,' said the priest. 'When Oshikai first led his people out of Chiatze lands a great army followed them, seeking to exterminate what they perceived as his rebel force. He met them on the plain of Chu-chien, and destroyed them. But two more armies were closing in upon him, and he was forced to lead his people across the Ice Mountains. Hundreds died, many more lost fingers and toes, arms and legs, to the terrible cold. As they cleared the frozen passes they emerged on to the terrible desert of salt beyond. The despair was almost total. Oshikai called a meeting of his Council. He told them that they were a people born in hardship and danger, and that they had now reached their nadir. From that moment he changed their name. Then he addressed the multitude, and told them that Shul-sen would lead them to water, and that a land full of promise would await them beyond the salt desert. He spoke of a dream, where the Nadir grew and prospered from shimmering sea to snow-topped peaks. That is when he gave them the verse all Nadir children learn as they suck their mothers' milk:

'Nadir we,

youth born,

axe wielders,

blood letters,

victors still.'

'What happened to Shul-sen?' asked Talisman. The priest smiled as, laying down his bucket once more, he sat at the table.

'There are so many tales, most embroidered upon, some mere fancy, others crafted with such mystical symbolism that they become meaningless. The truth, I fear, is more mundane. It is my belief that she was captured by Oshikai's enemies and slain.'

'If that were so, then he would have found her.'

'Who would have found her?'

'Oshikai. His spirit has searched for her for hundreds of years, but he has never found her. How could that be?'

'I do not know,' admitted the priest, 'but I will think on it. How is it you know these things?'

'Accept merely that I know,' answered Talisman.

'We Nadir are a secretive people, and yet also curious,' said the priest, with a smile. 'I will return to my studies and consider the question you pose me.'

'You claim to walk the many paths of the future,' said Talisman. 'Why can you not walk the single path of the past and see for yourself?'

'A good question, young man. The answer is simple. A true historian must remain objective. Anyone who witnesses a great event immediately forms a subjective view on it, for it has affected him. Yes, I could go back and observe. Yet I will not.'

'Your logic is flawed, priest. If the historian cannot observe events, he must then rely on the witness of others who, by your own words, can offer only a subjective view.'

The priest laughed aloud and clapped his hands together. 'Ah, my boy! If only we had more time to talk. We could debate the hidden circle of deceit in the search for altruism, or the lack of evidence for the non-existence of a supreme being.' His smile faded. 'But we do not have the time.'

The priest returned the bucket to the well and walked away. Talisman leaned back and watched the majesty of the dawn sun rising above the eastern peaks.

Quing-chin emerged from his tent and into the sunlight. A tall man, with deep-set eyes and a solemn face, he stood enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. He had slept without dreams, and had woken feeling refreshed and ready for the sweet taste of revenge, his anger of yesterday replaced by a cold, resolute sense of purpose. His men were seated in a circle nearby. Quing-chin lifted his powerful arms above his head and slowly stretched the muscles of his upper back. His friend Shi-da rose from the circle and brought him his sword. 'It is sharp now, comrade,' said the smaller man, 'and ready to slice the flesh of the enemy.' The other six men in the circle rose. None were as tall as Quing-chin.

The sword-brother of Shanqui, the warrior slain by the Sky Rider champion, moved before Quing-chin. 'The soul of Shanqui waits for vengeance,' he said formally.

'I shall send him a servant to tend his needs,' quoted Quing-chin.

A young warrior approached the men, leading a dappled pony. Quing-chin took the reins from him and swung into the saddle. Shi-da handed him his long lance decorated with the dark, double twist of horse-hair that denoted a blooded warrior of the Fleet Ponies, and a black helm of lacquered wood rimmed with fur. Pushing back his shoulder-length dark hair, Quing-chin donned the helm. Then touching heels to the pony's flanks he rode from the camp, and out past the white walls of Oshikai's resting-place.

Men were already moving around the camp of the Sky Riders, setting their cook-fires, as Quing-chin rode in. He ignored them all and headed his pony towards the furthest of the eighteen tents. Outside the entrance a lance had been plunged into the ground and set atop the weapon was the head of Shanqui. Blood had dripped to the ground below it, and the flesh on the dead face was ashen grey.

'Come forth,' called Quing-chin. The tent flap was pulled open and a squat warrior stepped into view. Ignoring Quing-chin, he opened his breeches and emptied his bladder on the ground. Then he looked up at the severed head.

'Here to admire my tree?' he asked. 'See, it is blooming already.' Most of the Sky Riders had gathered around the two men now, and they began to laugh. Quing-chin waited until the sound had died down. When he spoke his voice was cold and harsh.

'It is perfect,' said Quing-chin. 'Only a Sky Rider tree would have rotting fruit upon it.'

'Ha! This tree will have fresh fruit today. So sad you will not be able to admire it.'

'Ah, but I shall. I will tend it myself. And now the time for talk is past. I shall await you in the open, where the air is not filled with the stench of your camp.'

Tugging on the reins, Quing-chin galloped his pony some two hundred paces to the north. The twenty-eight warriors of the Fleet Ponies had already gathered there, sitting their mounts in silence. Within moments the thirty Sky Riders rode out, forming a line opposite Quing-chin and his men.

The squat Sky Rider, long lance in hand, heeled his pony forward, then swung to the right and galloped some fifty yards before savagely hauling on the reins. Quing-chin rode his pony between the lines of the two tribes, then turned and raised his lance. The squat warrior levelled his lance and kicked his mount into a run, charging at Quing-chin. The Fleet Ponies leader remained motionless as his opponent closed the gap between them. Closer and closer came the Sky Rider, until at the last possible moment Quing-chin jerked the reins and barked out a command. His pony bunched its muscles and sprang to the right. In the same heartbeat Quing-chin lifted his lance over his pony's head and rammed it to the left. The move was intended to spear the opposing rider through side and belly, but the Sky Rider had dragged back on his reins more swiftly than Quing-chin had anticipated, and the lance slammed into the neck of his opponent's pony which stumbled and fell, dragging Quing-chin's lance from his hand. The Sky Rider was thrown clear and spun in the air to land heavily on his back. Quing-chin leapt from his mount and ran forward, drawing his sword. The Sky Rider rolled to his feet, still groggy from the fall, but even so he drew his own blade and blocked the first cut. Quing-chin closed in, his left foot lashing out into the Sky Rider's unprotected knee. The Sky Rider jumped back and half fell. Quing-chin followed in, sending his sword in a vicious cut that ripped open the other man's jerkin and sliced up across his left cheek, tearing the flesh and sending a spray of blood into the air. The Sky Rider screamed in pain and attacked. Quing-chin blocked a belly thrust, spun on his heel and hammered his left elbow into the Sky Rider's blood-covered face. The man was hurled from his feet, but he scrambled up as Quing-chin closed in; he was fast, and sent a lightning thrust at Quing-chin's face. The taller man swayed aside, the blade slicing his ear lobe. His own sword flashed out in a neck cut that was too low, the blade cleaving into the Sky Rider's left shoulder. The squat warrior stumbled forward, but swung just in time to block a second blow aimed at his neck. The two warriors circled one another more warily now, respect growing between them. Quing-chin had been surprised by the man's speed, and the Sky Rider, blood pouring from the wounds to his shoulder and face, knew he was in desperate trouble.

Quing-chin darted forward to feint a cut to the throat. The Sky Rider's sword swept across to block but his speed betrayed him. The block was too fast. Quing-chin's blade plunged into the man's upper chest, but at the moment of impact the Sky Rider hurled himself backwards so that Quing-chin's sword penetrated no more than two inches before the blade was ripped clear. The Sky Rider fell, rolled and staggered to his feet.

'You are very skilled,' he said. 'I shall be proud to add your head to my tree.' His left arm was hanging useless now, blood streaming over his hand and dripping to the ground. In that instant Quing-chin experienced a moment of regret. Shanqui had been an arrogant, boastful young man, who had challenged this warrior and had died for it. And now, according to Nadir custom, Quing-chin would send this man's soul to serve him for eternity. He sighed.

'I too feel pride,' he said. 'You are a man among men. I salute you, Sky Rider.'

The Sky Rider nodded. . then ran forward into the attack. Quing-chin swayed aside from the desperate thrust, slamming his own blade into the man's belly and up through the heart. The Sky Rider fell against him, his head falling to Quing-chin's shoulder as the dying man's knees gave way. Quing-chin caught him as he fell and lowered him to the ground. With a shuddering sigh the Sky Rider died.

This was the moment. Kneeling beside the body, Quing-chin drew his knife. The two lines of riders waited, but Quing-chin rose. 'I will not take this man's eyes,' he said. 'Let his friends bear him away for burial.'

Shi-da leapt from his pony and ran to him. 'You must, brother! Shanqui must have the eyes in his hand, or he will have no servant in the Netherworld!'

A Sky Rider nudged his pony forward, then dismounted alongside Quing-chin. 'You fought well, Dalsh-chin,' he said.

The Fleet Ponies warrior turned at the sound of his childhood name, and looked into the sorrowful eyes of the Sky Rider. Lin-tse had changed little in the two years since they had left the Bodacas Academy; he was broader in the shoulder now, and his head had been shaved clean save for a short braid of dark hair at the crown. 'It is good to see you again, Lin-tse,' he said. 'It saddens me that it should be on such an occasion.'

'You talk like a Gothir,' said Lin-tse. 'Tomorrow I will come to your camp. And when I have killed you I will take your eyes, and give them to my brother. You will serve him until the stars are ground to dust.'

Back at his own tent, Quing-chin stripped off his bloodstained jerkin and knelt upon the ground. In the two years since he had left the Bodacas Academy he had fought to re-establish his Nadir roots, aware that his own people felt he was somehow tainted by his years among the Gothir. He had denied it, even to himself, but today he knew that it was true.

Outside he heard the riders returning with the head of Shanqui, but he remained in the tent, his thoughts sombre. The rituals of the revenge-duel differed from tribe to tribe, but the principles remained the same. Had he cut out the eyes of the Sky Rider and placed them in the dead hand of Shanqui, then the spirit of the Sky Rider would have been bonded to Shanqui for eternity. The belief was that the Sky Rider would be blind in the Void, unless Shanqui loaned him the use of his eyes. This would ensure obedience. Now Quing-chin had broken the ritual. And to what purpose? Tomorrow he must fight again. If he won, another warrior would challenge him.

His friend Shi-da entered the tent, and squatted down before him. 'You fought bravely,' said Shi-da. 'It was a good fight. But tomorrow you must take the eyes.'

'The eyes of Lin-tse,' whispered Quing-chin. 'The eyes of one who was my friend? I cannot do this.'

'What is wrong with you, my brother? These are our enemies!'

Quing-chin rose. 'I shall go to the Shrine. I need to think.'

Leaving Shi-da, he ducked under the tent-flap and stepped out into the sunshine. The body of Shanqui, wrapped in hide, had been left within yards of his tent. The right hand of the corpse had been left exposed, the fingers clawed and open. Striding to his dappled pony, Quing-chin mounted and rode to the white-walled Shrine. In what way did they poison my Nadir spirit, he wondered? Was it the books, the manuscripts, the paintings? Or perhaps the teachings concerning morality, or the endless discussions on philosophy? How can I know?

The gates were open and Quing-chin rode inside and dismounted. Leaving his pony in the shade, he strode towards the Shrine.

'We shall make them suffer, as Zhen-shi suffered,' said a voice. Quing-chin froze. Slowly he turned towards the speaker.

Talisman stepped from the shadows and approached the taller man. 'It is good to see you again, my friend,' he said.

Quing-chin said nothing for a moment, then he gripped Talisman's outstretched hand. 'You gladden my heart, Okai. All is well with you?'

'Well enough. Come, share water and bread with me.'

The two men strolled back to the shade, where they sat beneath a wooden awning. Filling two clay cups with cool water from a stone jug, Talisman passed one to Quing-chin. 'What happened in the fight this morning?' he asked. 'There was so much dust I could see nothing from the walls.'

'A Sky Rider died,' said Quing-chin.

'When will such madness end?' asked Talisman sadly. 'When will our eyes be opened to the real enemy?'

'Not soon enough, Okai. Tomorrow I fight again.' He looked into Talisman's eyes. 'Against Lin-tse.'

Lin-tse sat on a rock sharpening his sword, his face impassive and his anger masked. Of all the men in the world, the lastàhe wished to kill was Dalsh-chin. Yet such was his fate, and a true man never whined when the Gods of Stone and Water twisted the knife! The whetstone slid along the sabre's edge and Lin-tse imagined the silver steel blade slicing through Dalsh-chinçs neck. He swore softly, then stood and stretched his back.

At the last there had only been four Nadir janizaries at the Academy — himselfì Dalsh-chin, the miserable Green Monkey boy, Zhen-shi, and the strange one from the Wolfshead, Okaiî Some of the others had fled, most had simply failed their examinations miserably — much to the delight of Gargan, Lord Larness. One had been hanged after killing an officer; another had committed suicide. The experiment — as Lord Larness intended — had been a failure. Yet much to the Gothir general's chagrin four Nadir youngsters had consistently passed the examinations. And one — Okai — excelled above all other students including the general's own son, Argo.

Lin-tse scabbarded his sword and walked out on to the steppes. His thoughts turned to Zhen-shi, with his frightened eyes and his nervous smile. Tormented and abused, he had fawned around the Gothir cadets, especially Argo, serving him like a slave. 'Grinning Monkey', Argo called him and Lin-tse had despised the youth for his cowardice. Zhen-shi carried few scars, but then he was everything the Gothir boys had been taught to expect of a barbarian — subservient and inferior to the civilized races.

Yet he had made a mistake — and it had cost him his life. In the end-of-year examinations he had outscored all but Okai. Lin-tse still remembered the look on Zhen-shi's face when the results were announced. At first his delight was obvious but then, as he gazed at Argo and the others, the full horror of his plight dawned on him. Grinning Monkey had beaten them all. No longer did they see him as an object of scorn or derision. Now he became a figure of hate. Little Zhen-shi had withered under their malevolent gazes.

That night Zhen-shi had plunged from the roof, his body crushed to pulp on the snow-covered cobbles below.

It was winter, the night harsh and cold, ice forming on the insides of the glass windows. Yet Zhen-shi had been dressed only in a loincloth. Hearing the scream as he fell, Lin-tse had looked out of the window and saw his scrawny body leaking blood to the snow. He and Okai had run out with scores of other boys, and stood over the corpse. The body bore the red weals of a lash on the back, buttocks and thighs. The wrists were also bleeding.

'He was tied,' said Lin-tse. Okai did not answer; he was staring up at the gable from which Zhen-shi had fallen. The rooms on that top level were reserved for the senior cadets from noble families. But the nearest window was that of Argo. Lin-tse followed Okai's gaze. The blond-haired son of Gargan was leaning on his window-sill, and gazing down with mild interest on the scene below.

' Did you see what happened, Argo?' someone shouted.

'The little monkey tried to climb the roof. I think he was drunk.' Then he leaned back and slammed shut his window.

Okai turned to Lin-tse and the two boys walked back to their room. Dalsh-chin was waiting for them. Once inside they squatted on the floor and spoke Nadir in low voices.

'Argo sent for Zhen-shi,' whispered Dalsh-chin, 'three hours ago.'

'He was tied and beaten,' said Okai. 'He could not stand pain, and therefore must have also been gagged. Otherwise we would have heard the screams. There will be an inquiry.'

'It will find,' said Lin-tse, 'that Grinning Monkey, having consumed too much alcohol in celebration of his success, fell from the roof. A salutary lesson that barbarians have no tolerance for strong drink.'

'That is true, my friend,' said Okai. 'But we will make them suffer — as Zhen-shi suffered.'

'A pleasing thought,' said Lin-tse. 'And how will this miracle be accomplisheo?'

Okai sat silently for a moment. Lin-tse would never forget what followed. Okai's voice dropped even lower: 'The re-building work on the north tower is not yet complete. The labourers will not return for three days. It is deserted. Tomorrow night we will wait until everyone is asleep, then we will go there and prepare the way for vengeance.'

Gargan, Lord of Larness, removed his helm and drew in a deep breath of hot desert air. The sun was beating down, shimmering heat hazes forming over the steppes. Twisting in the saddle, he glanced back along the column. One thousand lancers, eight hundred infantry Guardsmen and two hundred archers were moving slowly in line, dust rising in a cloud around them. Gargan tugged on the reins and cantered back along the column, past the water-wagons and supply carts. Two of his officers joined him and together they rode to the crest of a low hill where Gargan drew rein and scanned the surrounding landscape.

'We will make camp by that ridge,' said Gargan, pointing to a rocky outcrop some miles to the east. 'There is a series of rock pools there.'

'Yes, sir,' answered Marlham, a grizzled, white-bearded career officer coming close to mandatory retirement.

'Put out a screen of scouts,' Gargan ordered. 'Any Nadir seen should be killed.'

'Yes, sir.'

Gargan swung to the second officer, a handsome young man with clear blue eyes. 'You, Premian, will take four companies and scout the marshes. No prisoners. All Nadir are to be treated as hostiles. Understand?'

'Yes, Lord Gargan.' The boy had not yet learned how to keep bis feelings from showing in his expression.

'I had you transferred to this force,' said Gargan. 'Do you know why?'

'No, Lord Gargan.'

'Because you are soft, boy,' snapped the general. 'I saw it at the Academy. The steel in you — if steel there is — has not been tempered. Well, it will be during this campaign. I mean to soak the steppes in Nadir blood.' Spurring his stallion, Gargan galloped down the hillside.

'Watch yourself, my boy,' said Marlham. 'The man hates you.'

'He is an animal,' said Premian. 'Vicious and malevolent.'

'All of that,' Marlham agreed. 'He always was a hard man, but when his son disappeared. . well, it did something to him. He's never been the same since. You were there at the time, weren't you?'

'Aye. It was a bad business,' said Premian. 'There was to be an inquiry over the death of a cadet who fell from Argo's window. On the night before the inquiry Argo vanished. We searched everywhere; his clothes were gone, as was a canvas shoulder-pack. We thought at first that he had feared being implicated in the boy's death. But that was ridiculous, for Gargan would have protected him.'

'What do you think happened?'

'Something dark,' said Premian. With a flick of the reins he moved away, returning to the rear of the column and signalling his junior officers to join him. Swiftly he told them of their new orders. The news was greeted with relief by the two hundred men under his command, for it would mean no more swallowing the dust of the column.

While the men were being issued with supplies, Premian found himself thinking back to his last days at the Academy, that summer two years ago. Only Okai remained of the original Nadir contingent, his two comrades having been sent home after failing the toughest of the pre-final examinations. Their failure had concerned Premian, for he had worked with them and knew their mastery of the subjects was no less proficient than his own. And he had passed with a credit. Only Okai remained — a student so brilliant there was no way he could fail.. Even he, however, had barely scraped a pass.

Premian had voiced his concerns to the oldest — and best — of the tutors, a former officer named Fanlon. Late at night, in the old man's study, he told Fanlon he believed the youths were unfairly dismissed.

'We speak much of honour,' said Fanlon sorrowfully, 'but in reality it is in short supply. It always was. I was not allowed to take part in the judging of their papers; the Lord Larness and two of his cronies marked them. But I fear you are correct, Premian. Both Dalsh-chin and Lin-tse were more than capable students.'

'Okai was allowed to pass. Why?' asked Premian.

'He is exceptional, that one. But he will not be allowed to graduate; they will find a way to mark him down.'

'Is there no way we can help him?'

'Tell me first, Premian, why you would wish to? You are not friends.'

'My father taught me to loathe injustice,' answered Premian. 'Is that not enough?'

'Indeed it is. Very well then, I shall help you.'

On the day of the finals, upon entering the examination room, each cadet was handed a small numbered disc taken from a black velvet sack held by the Chief Prefect, a tall, spindly youth named Jashin. Each disc was wrapped in paper to prevent the number being seen by the Prefect. It was a ritual intended to ensure no preferential treatment could be given to any student during the examinations; cadets would merely write the number of their disc at the top of their papers. At the close of the examination the gathered papers would be taken to the judges, who would mark them immediately.

Premian stood in line behind Okai, and noticed that Jashin's fist was already clenched as he delved into the bag before handing the Nadir boy his disc. Premian followed Okai into the examination room, where desks had been set out in rows.

The examination lasted three hours and involved, firstly, establishing a logistical formula and a strategy for supplying an invading army of twenty thousand men, conducting a campaign across the Ventrian Sea; and secondly, constructing a letter of advice to the commanding officer of the expedition, outlining the hazards he must expect to face during his invasion of Ventria.

Premian felt exhausted by the close, but was fairly certain he had performed well. The questions were based on a real campaign of two centuries earlier led by the legendary Gothir General, Bodacas, after whom the Academy was named. Happily, Premian had studied the campaign fairly recently.

As the cadets trooped out, Premian saw General Gargan enter the room along with the other judges. Premian avoided eye contact and sought out Fanlon. The elderly tutor poured the cadet a goblet of watered wine, and the two of them sat for a while in silence by the upper window overlooking the bay.

The afternoon wore on and finally the Keep bell sounded. Premian joined the other students streaming towards the main hall to hear the results.

Gargan and the senior tutors stood on the raised stage at the south end of the hall as the two hundred senior cadets filed in. This time Premian looked squarely at the general, who was now wearing the full armour of his rank, gilded breastplate and the white cloak of a senior Guards officer. Behind him, set on wooden stands, were scores of shining sabres. When the cadets had taken up their positions, Gargan moved to the front of the stage.

His voice thundered out. 'One hundred and forty-six cadets have passed the final examination and will receive their sabres this day,' he said. 'A further seventeen passed with credit. One cadet gained an honour pass. Thirty-six failed, and leave this honoured place bearing the shame earned by their slothful behaviour. In the time-honoured tradition we will begin with the passes, and progress to the honour-cadet. As your disc number is called, move forward.'

One by one the cadets moved forward and handed in their discs, receiving their sabres and bowing to their tutors, before marching to the back of the hall and standing in rank.

The credit students followed. Premian was not among them, nor was Okai. Premian's mouth was dry; he was standing close to the stage and staring up at Gargan. 'Now,' said Gargan, 'we come to the Honour Student — the cream of the Academy, and a man whose martial skills will help to maintain the glory of Gothir.' Turning, he took the last sabre from the stand. Its blade was shining silver steel, its hilt embellished with gold. 'Step forward, number seventeen.'

Okai marched from the ranks and up the short wooden steps as whispers began all around the hall. Premian focused on Gargan's broad face; the man's eyes widened, and Premian saw his jaw twitch. He stood silently, staring with undisguised hatred at the young Nadir.

'There has been a mistake,' he said at last. 'This cannot be! Fetch his paper!'

There was silence in the hall as the Chief Prefect ran from the stage. Minutes passed and no-one moved or spoke. The Chief Prefect returned and handed the sheaf of papers to Gargan, who stood and studied them. Fanlon stepped forward. 'There is no question as to the handwriting, Lord Gargan,' he said softly. 'These are Okai's papers. And I see that you marked them yourself. There can be no mistake.'

Gargan blinked. Okai stepped forward, hand outstretched. Gargan stared at him, then looked down at the sabre in his own trembling hands. Suddenly he thrust the sabre at Fanlon. 'You give it to him!' he hissed. And he strode from the stage.

The elderly tutor smiled at Okai. 'This was well-merited, young man,' he said, his voice carrying to all in the hall. 'For five years you have endured much, both in physical hardship and emotional cruelty. For what it is worth — and I hope it is something — you have my respect and my admiration. I hope that when you go from here you will carry with you some fond memories. Would you like to say a few words to your fellow cadets?'

Okai nodded. Stepping forward, he stood and ran his gaze over the assembled cadets. 'I have learned much here,' he said. 'One day I will put that knowledge to good use.' Without another word he walked from the stage, and out of the hall.

Fanlon followed him from the stage and approached Premian. 'I shall appeal on your behalf and have your papers re-examined.'

'Thank you, sir. For everything. You were right about the discs. I saw Jashin's fingers were closed as he dipped his hand into the bag; he already had a disc ready for Okai.'

'Jashin will be in serious trouble,' said Fanlon. 'Lord Gargan is not a forgiving man.'

Later that day Premian was summoned to Gargan's study. The general was still in his armour, and his face was grey. 'Sit down, boy,' he said. Premian obeyed. 'I am going to ask you a question, and I put you on your honour to answer it with truth.'

'Yes sir,' answered Premian, with a sinking heart.

'Is Okai a friend of yours?'

'No, sir. We rarely speak; we have little in common. Why do you ask, sir?'

For a long moment Gargan stared at him, then he sighed. 'It does not matter. It broke my heart to see him take the sabre. However, that is of no interest to you. I called you here to tell you there has been an error in the marking. You have gained a credit pass.'

'Thank you, sir. How. . did it happen?'

'It was an honest mistake, and I hope you will accept my apologies for it.'

'Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.'

Premian had left the study and returned to his room, where at midnight he was awakened by a tapping at the door. Rising, he lifted the latch. Okai stood there; the Nadir was fully dressed for travel. 'You are leaving? But the prize-giving is not until tomorrow.'

'I have my sabre,' said Okai. 'I came to thank you. I had thought Gothir honour was all sham. I was wrong.'

'You have suffered here, Okai, but you emerged triumphant and I admire you for it. Where will you go now?'

'Back to my tribe.'

Premian held out his hand and Okai shook it. As the Nadir turned away Premian spoke: 'Do you mind if I ask a question?'

'Not at all.'

'When we were at the burial of your friend, Zhen-shi, you opened the coffin and pressed a small package into his hand. There was blood on it. I have often wondered what it was. Is it part of some Nadir ritual?'

'Yes,' said Okai. 'It gave him a servant in the next life.'

With that Okai walked away.

Three days later, after continuing complaints of a bad smell coming from behind a wall in the new section of the north tower, labourers dug out several blocks of stone. Behind them they found a rotting body, from which the eyes had been cut out.