The Legend of the Deathwalker

Chapter Eight

Talisman sat alone on the parapet, cross-legged, arms outstretched, eyes closed and face upwards to the blazing sun. There were so many ambitions he had longed to achieve, the foremost of them to ride into the city of Gulgothir beside the Uniter; to see the Gothir humbled, their high walls brought down and their army in ruins. Anger flooded him and for a while he allowed the richness of the emotion to rage within his veins; then, slowly, he calmed himself. What he had told Nosta Khan was true. The Battle for the Shrine would unite the tribes as never before. Even were he to die here — which was probable — the effect would be to speed the day of the Uniter.

He had told the tribal leaders that victory was impossible. This also was true. Yet a general who fought with defeat in mind would surely lose. Slowing his breathing and calming his heart, Talisman floated above the sense of rage and frustration. Two armies were about to meet. Put aside thoughts of numbers, and examine the essentials. He saw again Fanlon's panelled study back at the Bodacas Academy, and heard the old soldier's voice whisper across the years. 'The responsibility for a martial host lies in one man. He is its spirit. If an army is deprived of its morale, its general also will lose heart. Order and confusion, bravery and cowardice, are qualities dominated by the heart. Therefore the expert at controlling his enemy frustrates him, and then moves against him. Aggravation and harassment will rob the enemy of his heart, making him fearful, affecting his ability to plan.'

Talisman pictured Gargan and once again anger flickered. He waited for it to pass. The Lord of Larness had failed against him once, when all the odds were in his favour. Can I make him do so again, wondered Talisman?

The man was full of hate, yet still a mighty general and a warrior of courage — and when calm he was not stupid. The secret then was to steal away his calm, allowing his hatred to swamp his intellect.

Opening his eyes, Talisman rose and stared out to the west. From here he could see where the enemy would camp, at the foot of the dry hills, where there would be shade for their horses in the afternoon. Would they surround the Shrine? No. They would have Lancers patrol the area.

Sitting on the wall, he gazed in at the buildings and walls of the Shrine. There was the resting-place of Oshikai, with its flat roof, a two-storied dwelling beside it with ten rooms, built for pilgrims. Beyond that there was the fallen ruin of an old tower. Three of the twenty-foot walls surrounding the buildings were still strong, but this west-facing barrier with its long V-shaped crack was the weak spot — this was where the main attack would come. Gargan would send archers to pin down the defenders, and foot soldiers armed with trench tools to tear at the crack, opening it out. Then sheer force of numbers would carry the Gothir inside.

Talisman walked down the stone steps and along the base of the wall, halting below the damaged section. Given enough men and enough time he could repair it — or at worst, reinforce it with rocks from the fallen tower.

Men and time. The Gods of Stone and Water had robbed him of both.

Through the gates rode Kzun and his Lone Wolves. Talisman stripped off his shirt, dropping it to the dust, then once more climbed the steps to the parapet. Quing-chin followed with the Fleet Ponies contingent, then Lin-tse and his Sky Riders. The last to arrive was Bartsai of the Curved Horn. The Nadir warriors sat on their ponies in silence, their eyes on Talisman on the wall above them.

'I am Talisman,' he said. 'My tribe is Wolfshead, my blood Nadir. These lands are ruled by the Curved Horn. Let the leader Bartsai join me upon this wall.' Bartsai lifted his leg over the pommel of his saddle and jumped to the ground; he walked up the steps to stand beside Talisman. Drawing his knife, Talisman drew the blade across the palm of his left hand. Blood welled from the wound. Holding out his arm, he watched as the red drops fell to the ground below. 'This is my blood which I give to the Curved Horn,' he said. 'My blood and my promise to fight unto death for the bones of Oshikai Demon-bane.' For a moment longer he stood in silence; then he called the other leaders forward. When they had joined him he gazed down on the waiting riders. 'At this place far back on the river of time Oshikai fought the Battle of the Five Armies. He won and he died. In the days to come the Nadir will speak of our struggle as the Battle of the Five Tribes. They will speak of it with pride in their hearts. For we are warriors, and the sons of men. We are Nadir. We fear nothing.' His voice rose. 'And who are these men who ride against us? Who do they think they are? They slaughter our women and our children. They pillage our holy places.' Suddenly he pointed at a rider of the Curved Horn. 'You!' he shouted. 'Have you ever killed a Gothir warrior?' The man shook his head. 'You will. You will slash your sword into his throat, and his blood will pour out on to the land. You will hear his death scream, and see the light fade from his eyes. So will you. And you! And you! Every man here will get the chance to pay them back for their insults and their atrocities. My blood — Nadir blood — stains the earth here. I shall not leave this place until the Gothir are crushed or withdrawn. Any man who cannot make the same oath should leave now.' Not one of the riders moved.

Lin-tse stepped up alongside Talisman. With a curved dagger he cut his left hand, then raised it high. One by one the other leaders joined them. Kzun turned to Talisman, stretching out his bloody hand, and Talisman gripped it. 'Brothers in blood!' declared Kzun. 'Brothers unto death!'

Talisman strode to the edge of the parapet. Drawing t his sabre he looked down on the riders. 'Brothers unto |death!' he shouted. Swords hissed into the air.

'Brothers unto death!' they roared.

The blind priest sat in his quarters, listening as the roar went up. The dreams of men, he thought, revolve always around war. Battle and death, glory and pain. Young men lust for it, old men talk of it fondly. A great madness settled on him and he slowly moved around the room, gathering his papers.

Once he too had been a warrior, riding the steppes on raids, and he remembered well the heady excitement of battle. A small part of him wished he could remain with these young men, and smite the enemy. But a very small part.

There was only one real enemy in all the world, he knew. Hatred. All evil was born of this vile emotion. immortal, eternal, it swept through the hearts of men of every generation. When Oshikai and his armies had reached these lands hundreds of years before, they had found a peaceful people living in the lush south lands, After Oshikai's death they had subjugated them, raiding their villages and taking their women, sowing the seeds of hatred. The seeds had grown and the southerners had fought back, becoming more organized. At the same time the Nadir had splintered into many tribes. The southerners became the Gothir, and their remembrances of past iniquities made them hate the Nadir, visiting upon them the terror of the killing raids.

When will it end, he wondered?

Slowly he packed his manuscripts, quills and ink into a canvas shoulder-bag. There was not room for all of them, and the others he hid in a box below the floorboards. Hoisting the pack to his back, he walked from the room and out into a sunlit morning he could not see.

The riders had returned to their camps and he heard footsteps approaching. 'You are leaving?' asked Talisman.

'I am leaving. There is a cave a few miles to the south. I often go there when I wish to meditate.'

'You have seen the future, old man. Can we beat them?'

'Some enemies can never be overcome,' said the priest, and without another word he walked away.

Talisman watched him go. Zhusai came to him, and wrapped a linen bandage around his wounded hand. 'You spoke well,' she said admiringly. Reaching out, he stroked his hand through her dark hair.

'You must leave this place.'

'No, I shall stay.'

Talisman gazed on her beauty then, the simple white tunic of silk shining in the sunlight, the sheen of her long, black hair. 'I wish,' he said, 'that you could have been mine.'

'I am yours,' she told him. 'Now and always.'

'It cannot be. You are pledged to the Uniter. To the man with violet eyes.'

She shrugged. 'So says Nosta Khan. But today you united five tribes and that is enough for me. I stay.' Stepping in to him, she took his hand and kissed the palm.

Quing-chin approached them. 'You wished to see me, Talisman?'

Zhusai drew away, but Talisman caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. Then he turned, and beckoned Quing-chin to follow him. 'We must slow their advance,' he said, leading the warrior to the breakfast table.

'How so?'

'If they are still two days from us they will make one more night camp. Take ten men and scout the area. Then, when they are camped, scatter as many Gothir horses as you can.'

'With ten men?'

'More would be a hindrance,' said Talisman. 'You must follow the example of Adrius — you remember your studies with Fanlon?'

'I remember,' said Quing-chin, with a wry smile. 'But I didn't believe it then.'

'Make it true now, my friend, for we need the time.'

Quing-chin rose. 'I live to obey, my general,' he said, speaking in Gothir and giving the Lancers' salute. Talisman grinned.

'Go now. And do not die on me — I need you.'

'That is advice I shall keep close to my heart,' the warrior promised.

Next Talisman summoned Bartsai. The Curved Horn leader sat down and poured himself a cup of water. 'Tell me of all the water-holes within a day's ride of here,' he said.

'There are three. Two are small seeps. Only one would supply an army.'

'That is good. Describe it to me.'

'It is twelve miles to the east, and high in the mountains. It is very deep and cold, and is full even in the driest seasons.'

'How easy is it to approach?'

Bartsai shrugged. 'As I said, it is high. There is only one path to it, snaking up through the passes.'

'Could wagons reach it?'

'Yes, though the trail would have to be cleared of large rocks.'

'How would you defend it?'

'Why would I defend it?' countered Bartsai. 'The enemy is coming here!'

'They will need water, Bartsai. It must be denied them.'

Bartsai grinned, showing broken teeth. 'That is so, Talisman. With fifty men I could hold the trail against any army.'

'Fifty cannot be spared. Pick twenty — the finest you have.'

'I will lead them myself,' said Bartsai.

'No, you are needed here. As the Gothir approach, other Curved Horn riders will come to the Shrine and they will look to you for leadership.'

Bartsai nodded. 'This is true. Seven came in last night, and I have men scouting for others.' The older man sighed. 'I have lived for almost fifty years, Talisman. And I have dreamt of fighting the Gothir. But not like this — a handful of men in a rotting shrine.'

'This is only the beginning, Bartsai. I promise you that.'

Kzun heaved another rock into place and stepped back, wiping sweat from his face with a grimy hand. For three hours he and his men had been moving stone blocks from the ruined tower and packing them against the west wall, just below the crack, creating a platform that Talisman had ordered to be twenty feet long, ten feet wide and five feet tall. It was back-breaking work, and some of his men had complained. But Kzun silenced them; he would suffer no whining before the other tribesmen.

He glanced to where Talisman was deep in conversation with the long-faced Sky Rider, Lin-tse. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He hated the work, for it reminded him of the two years he had spent in the Gothir gold-mines to the north. He shivered at the memory, remembering the day when he had been dragged in ankle-chains to the mouth of the shaft and ordered to climb down. They had not removed the chains, and twice Kzun's feet had slipped and he had hung in darkness. Eventually he had arrived at the foot of the shaft where two guards carrying torches had been waiting. One smashed a fist into Kzun's face, propelling him into the wall. 'That's to remind you, dung-monkey, to obey every order you hear. Instantly!' The fifteen-year-old Kzun had struggled to his feet and looked up into the man's bearded, ugly face. He saw the second blow coming, but could not avoid it. It split his lips and broke his nose. 'And that is to tell you that you never look a guard in the eyes. Now get up and follow.'

Two years in the dark followed, with weeping sores on his ankles where the chains bit, boils upon his back and neck, and the kiss of the whip when his weary body failed to move at the speed the guards demanded. Men died around him, their spirits broken long before their bodies surrendered to the dark. But Kzun would not be broken. Every day he chipped at the tunnel walls with his pick of iron, or a short-handled shovel, gathering up baskets of rock and hauling them back to the carts drawn by blind ponies. And every sleep time — for who could tell what was day and what was night? — he would fall to the ground upon the order and rest his exhausted body on the rock of the ever-lengthening tunnel. Twice the tunnel at the face collapsed, killing miners. Kzun was half-buried in the second fall, but dug himself clear before the rescuers came.

Most of the slave workers around him were Gothir criminals, petty thieves and house-breakers. The Nadir contingent were known as 'picked men'. In Kzun's case this meant that a troop of Gothir soldiers had ridden in to his village and arrested all the young men they could find. Seventeen had been taken. There were mines all over the mountains here, and Kzun had never seen his friends again.

Then, during a shift, a workman preparing support timbers broke the tip of his file. With a curse he strode back down the tunnel, seeking a replacement. Kzun picked up the tip; it was no longer than his thumb. Every sleep time for days and days he slowly filed away at the clasps of his ankle-chain. There was always noise in the tunnels, the roaring of underground rivers, the snoring of sleepers whose lungs were caked with dirt and dust. Even so Kzun was careful. Finally, having worked evenly on both clasps, the first gave way. Feverishly Kzun filed the second. This too fell clear. Rising, he made his way back down the tunnel to where the tools were stored. It was quieter here, and a man wearing chains would have been heard by the guards in the small chamber by the shaft. But Kzun was wearing no chains. Selecting a short-handled pick, he hefted it clear of the other tools and padded silently to the guards' chamber. There were two men inside; they were playing some kind of game, involving bone dice. Taking a deep breath Kzun leapt inside, swinging his pick into the back of the first man — the iron point driving through the rib-cage and bursting from his chest. Releasing the weapon, Kzun drew the dying man's knife and hurled himself across the table at the second guard. The man surged to his feet, scrabbling for his own knife, but he was too late. Kzun's weapon punched into his neck, down past the collar-bone and into his heart.

Swiftly Kzun stripped the man, then climbed into his clothes. The boots were too big, and he hurled them aside.

Moving to the shaft, he began to climb the iron rungs set into the stone. The sky was dark above him, and he saw the stars shining clear. A lump came to his throat then. Climbing more slowly, he reached the lip of the shaft and warily looked out. There was a cluster of buildings beyond, where they milled the ore, and a barracks for the guards. Scrambling clear, Kzun walked slowly across the open ground. The smell of horse came to him on the night breeze, and he followed it to a stable.

Stealing a fine horse, he rode from the settlement and out into the clean, sweet air of the mountains.

Returning to his village, he found that no-one recognized him as the young man taken only two years before. He had lost his hair, and his skin and face had the pallor of the recently dead. The teeth on the right side of his mouth had rotted away, and his once powerful body was now wolf-lean.

The Gothir had not come for him. They took no names of the Nadir 'picked men', nor had any record of which village they had raided to capture him.

Now Kzun heaved another slab of old stone into place and stepped back from the new wall. It was just under four feet high. A beautiful woman appeared alongside him, carrying a bucket of water in which was a copper ladle. She bowed deeply, and offered him a short scarf of white linen. 'It is for the head, Lord,' she said, formally.

'I thank you,' he replied, not smiling for fear of showing his ruined teeth. 'Who are you?' he asked, as he tied the scarf over his bald head.

'I am Zhusai, Talisman's woman.'

'You are very beautiful, and he is most fortunate.'

She bowed again and offered him a ladle of water. He drank deeply, then passed the bucket to his waiting men. 'Tell me, how is it that Talisman knows so much of the ways of the Gothir?'

'He was taken by them as a child,' answered Zhusai. 'He was a hostage. He was trained at the Bodacas Academy — as were Quing-chin and Lin-tse.'

'A janizary. I see. I have heard of them.'

'He is a great man, Lord.'

'Only a great man would deserve someone like you,' he said. 'I thank you for the scarf.'

With a bow she moved away and Kzun sighed. One of his men made a crude comment, and Kzun rounded on him. 'Not one more word, Chisk, or I will rip your tongue from your mouth!'

'How do you read the other leaders?' asked Talisman.

Lin-tse let the question hang for a moment, marshalling his thoughts. 'The weakest of them is Bartsai. He is old. He doesn't want to die. Quing-chin is as I remember him, brave and thoughtful. I am grateful to Gargan. Had he not been marching here with his army I would have been forced to kill Quing-chin. It would have scarred my soul. Kzun? The man has a demon within him. He is unhinged, Talisman, but I think he will stand tall.'

'And what of Lin-tse?'

'He is as you knew him. My people call me the Man with Two Souls. I do not think it is true, but the years at Bodacas changed me. I now have to try to be Nadir. It is worse for Quing-chin. He killed my best fighter — and refused to take his eyes. I would not have done that, Talisman, but I would have wished to. You understand?'

'I understand,' said Talisman. 'They took from us.But we also took from them. We will put it to good use here.'

'We will die here, my friend,' said Lin-tse softly. 'But we will die well.'

'Brothers unto death,' said Talisman. 'And perhaps beyond. Who knows?'

'Now what orders do you have for me, general?'

Talisman looked into Lin-tse's dark, brooding eyes. 'It is important that we begin this venture with a victory — no matter how small. Gargan will come with the main van of the army. Ahead will be several companies of Lancers. They will reach us first, and I want you and your Sky Riders to bloody them. Bartsai tells me there is a narrow pass twelve miles west. When the Lancers reach it, attack them — not head on, but with arrows. Then run — back through the pass. You will have most of today and early tomorrow to prepare your surprises. Bring back spoils if you can.'

Lin-tse nodded. 'You are thinking of Fecrem and the Long Retreat.'

'I am indeed. As I said, a victory is important. What is vital, however, is that you take no unnecessary risks. If there are more than three companies, do not engage them. Your thirty men are irreplaceable.'

Lin-tse rose. 'I will do my utmost, general.'

'Of that I have no doubt. You have the coolest head, Lin-tse. That is why I chose you for this mission.'

Lin-tse's expression did not change. Without a word he strode away. Gorkai stepped forward. 'He is a hard man, that one,' he observed.

'A man of stone,' agreed Talisman. 'Where is Zhusai?'

'She went into the Shrine to pray.'

Talisman followed and found her standing by the stone sarcophagus. It was cool in the shadowed chamber and he stood for a moment, watching her. She turned towards him and smiled. 'It is so quiet here,' she said.

'I saw you give the scarf to Kzun. Why did you do it?'

'He is a dangerous man, and one who might. . question your orders.'

'A man that gold could not buy — and you won him with a piece of linen. You are a surprising woman, Zhusai.'

'There is nothing I would not do for you, Talisman. You will forgive me for being forward, but time is precious, is it not?'

'It is,' he admitted, moving to her side. She took his hand and held it to her breast.

'Have you been with a woman?' she asked him.

'No.'

'Then there is much for us both to discover.' Drawing her to him, he touched his lips to hers. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils, the taste of her mouth swamped his senses. He felt dizzy and weak, and drew back from her. 'I love you, my Talisman,' she whispered.

For just those fleeting seconds he had forgotten the perils that awaited them both. Now realization struck him like a fist. 'Why now?' he asked, pulling away.

'Because that is all there is,' she said. Swinging to the sarcophagus, she ran her hand over the iron plate. 'Oshikai Demon-bane, Lord of War,' she read. 'He was beset by enemies when he wed Shul-sen. And they had so little time, Talisman. They were together only four years. But great was their love. Ours will be as great. I know it. I feel it, here in this place. And if we die we shall walk hand in hand through the Void. I know this too.'

'I do not want you to die,' he said. 'I wish I had never brought you here. I wish it with all my heart.'

'And I am glad you did. You will win, Talisman. Your cause is just. The evil comes from the Gothir.'

'It is a touching sentiment, Zhusai. And one which I wish were true. Sadly, the good do not always conquer. I must go, for there is much to do.'

'When you have done all that you can, and the night grows long, come to me, Talisman. Will you do that?'

'I will come to you,' he promised.

The sky was black with crows and vultures as Druss and Sieben came over a ridge and down into a shallow valley. Below them were some forty goathide tents. Bodies were strewn everywhere, under a writhing mass of carrion birds. Elsewhere small desert dogs tugged at rotting flesh.

'Sweet Heaven,' whispered Sieben, pulling back on the reins.

Druss touched heels to the mare and rode down the hillside. Leading their extra ponies, Sieben followed him. Vultures too fat to fly spread their wings and waddled away from the horses. The stench of death caused the horses to shy away from the scene, but the riders forced them on. At first Sieben just stared ahead, trying not to look at the bodies. There were children there, and women — some huddled together, others slain as they ran. A brown dog edged into a flapping tent, then yelped and ran away. Druss dragged on the reins.

'Why are we stopping?' asked Sieben. Druss dismounted, passing the mare's reins to the poet. Axe in hand, he strode to the tent and, ducking down, moved inside. Sieben sat on his horse and forced himself to view the scene. It was not hard to see what had happened here. The killers had attacked late in the evening, as the cook-fires were under way. The Nadir had fled in all directions, but had been cut down with ruthless efficiency. Several of the bodies had been mutilated, beheaded or dismembered.

Druss emerged from the tent and moved to the horses, lifting clear a water canteen. 'There's a woman inside,' he said. 'She's alive, but only just. She has a babe.'

Sieben dismounted and tethered the horses to a tent-pole. The Gothir mounts were skittish and nervous of the dogs and vultures, but the Nadir ponies stood by calmly. Swiftly he hobbled the horses with lengths of rawhide, then joined Druss. Inside the tent lay a naked young woman, a terrible wound in her belly and side. Blood had drenched the brightly coloured blankets on which she lay. Her eyes were open, but her mouth was hanging slack. Druss raised her head, holding the canteen to her lips; water dribbled over her chin, but she managed to swallow a little. Sieben gazed at the wound; it was deep, the blade having completely pierced her body. The babe, part hidden beneath a pile of furs, was whimpering softly. Druss picked it up, and held it to the woman's swollen breast. It began to suck, weakly at first. The woman groaned and moved her arm around the child, drawing it in to her.

'What can we do?' asked Sieben. Druss's cold eyes met his. The axeman said nothing. When Sieben reached up to stroke the woman's face, her dead eyes stared at him. The babe continued to feed.

'This one they kept for rape,' said Druss. 'What a pack of mongrels!'

'May they rot in Seven Hells,' said Sieben. The babe ceased to suck and Druss lifted it to his broad shoulder, supporting its head and gently rubbing its back. Sieben's eyes were drawn to the woman's swollen nipple. Milk and blood were seeping from it.

'Why, Druss?' he asked.

'Why what?'

'Why did they do it? What was the purpose?'

'I am not the man to ask, poet. I have seen the sack of cities, and watched good men become evil as they are fired by rage and lust and fear. I don't know why they do it. The soldiers who did this will go home to their wives and families and be good husbands and fathers. It is a mystery to me.'

Wrapping the naked babe in a blanket, he carried him out into the sunlight. Sieben followed him. 'Will they write it as a victory, do you think?' asked Sieben. 'Will they sing songs about this raid?'

'Let's hope there are some women with milk in their breasts at the Shrine,' said Druss. Sieben freed the horses and held the babe until Druss had mounted. Passing the child to the axeman, he stepped into the saddle of the gelding.

'He fed on milk and blood,' said Sieben. 'He drank from the dead.'

'But he lives,' said Druss. 'He breathes.'

The two rode on. Druss lifted the blanket over the top of the infant's head, shielding him from the bright sun. The child was asleep now. Druss could smell the newness of life upon him, the creamy scent of milk-fed breath. He thought of Rowena, and her longing for such a child to hold at her own breast.

'I will be a farmer,' he said suddenly. 'When I get home, I shall stay there. No more wars. No more vultures.'

'You believe that, my friend?' asked Sieben.

Druss felt the sinking of his heart. 'No,' he said.

They rode on across the burning steppes for another hour, then transferred the saddles to the two Nadir ponies. The baby awoke and cried for a while. Druss tried to calm him, then Sieben took him. 'How old is he, do you think?' the poet asked.

'Perhaps a month. Two — I don't know.'

Sieben swore and Druss laughed. 'Anointed you too, has he?'

'During my short, eventful life I have learned many things, Druss, old horse,' he said, holding the babe at arm's length. 'But I never thought I would have to worry about urine stains on silk. Will it rot the fabric, do you think?'

'We can only hope not.'

'How does one stop them crying?'

'Tell him one of your stories, poet. They always put me to sleep.'

Sieben cradled the babe close, and began to sing a gentle song about the Princess Ulastay and her desire to wear stars in her hair. He had a good voice, strong and melodic. The Nadir child rested its head against his chest and was soon asleep. Towards dusk they saw a dust-cloud ahead, and Druss led them off the trail and into a small gully. Two companies of Lancers rode by above them, heading west, their armour bright, the helms gleaming red in the fading sunshine. Sieben's heart was hammering fast. The babe murmured in his arms, but the sound did not carry above the drumming of hoofbeats.

Once they had passed, Druss headed north-east.

With the dying of the sun the air grew cooler, and Sieben felt the warmth of the child in his arms. 'I think he has a fever,' he told Druss.

'All babies are hot,' said Druss.

'Really? I wonder why.'

'They just are. By Heavens, poet, do you have to question everything?'

'I have a curious mind.'

'Then set it to work on how we are going to feed the child when he wakes. He looks a lusty infant to me, and his cries are likely to travel far. And we are unlikely to meet friends out here.'

'That's it, Druss. Always try to finish on a comforting note.'

Gargan, Lord of Larness, waited patiently as his manservant, Bren, unbuckled the heavy breastplate and removed it. The flesh around his middle had spread since last he had worn it, and the freedom of release caused him to sigh with pleasure. He had ordered new armour last month, but it was not ready when Garen-Tsen told him of the jewels, and the need for speed.

Bren unfastened the thigh-plates and greaves and Gargan sat down on a canvas chair and stretched out his legs. The nation was sliding into the pit, he thought bitterly. The emperor's madness was growing daily, and the two factions were hovering in the shadows. Civil war loomed. Madness!

And we are all caught up in it, he realized. Magical jewels indeed! The only magic that counted was contained in the swords of the Royal Guards, the shining points of the Royal lances.

What was needed now was an outside threat to pull the Gothir nation together. A war with the tribes would focus the minds of the people wonderfully. It would buy time. The Emperor had to go. The question was when, and how, and who would replace him? Until that day, Gargan would have to give the factions something else to think about.

Bren left the tent, returning with a tray of wine, butter, cheese and bread. 'The captains wish to know when you will see them, my Lord,' he said. Gargan looked up at him. The man was getting old, worn out.

'How many campaigns have you served with me?' asked Gargan.

'Twelve, my Lord,' answered Bren, cutting the bread and buttering three slices.

'Which do you remember most fondly?'

The old man paused in his preparations. 'Gassima,' he said.

Pouring the wine into a silver goblet, Bren added water and passed it to his general. Gargan sipped it. Gassima! The last civil war, almost twenty-five years ago now. Outnumbered, Gargan had led a retreat across the marshes, then swung his force and launched an attack which ought to have been suicidal. On his giant white stallion, Skall, he had thundered into the heart of the enemy camp and killed Barin in hand-to-hand combat. The war was won on that day, the civil war ended. Gargan drained his wine and handed the goblet to Bren, who refilled it.

'That was a horse, by Missael! Feared nothing. It would have charged into the fires of Hell.'

'A rnighty steed,' agreed Bren.

'Never known another like him. You know the stallion I ride now? He is of the blood of Skall, his great-grandson. But he does not have the same qualities. Skall was a prince of horses.' Gargan chuckled. 'Mounted three mares on the day he died — at the ripe age of thirty-two. I have only wept twice in my life, Bren. The first was on the death of Skall.'

'Yes, my Lord. What shall I tell the captains?'

'One hour from now. I have letters to read.'

'Yes, my Lord.' Leaving the meal on the table, Bren stepped back through the tent-flap. Gargan stood and poured a third goblet of wine; this time he added no water. The mail riders had caught up with the vanguard of the army at dusk and there were three letters for him. He opened the first, which bore the seal of Garen-Tsen. Gargan tried to focus on the spidery script. Lifting a lantern from its pole, he lowered it to the desk. His eyes were not what they were. 'Nothing is what it was,' he thought.

The letter told of the funeral of the Queen, and how Garen-Tsen had smuggled the King from the city, having him taken to the Winter Palace at Siccus. The factions were beginning to speak openly now in the Senate about 'a need for change'. Garen-Tsen urged a speedy end to the campaign, and a swift return to the capital.

The second letter was from his wife. He scanned it: four pages containing little of interest, detailing small incidents from the household and the farms. A maidservant had broken an arm, falling from a chair as she cleaned windows, a prize foal had been sold for a thousand raq, three slaves had fled the North Farm, but had been recaptured in a local brothel.

The last letter was from his daughter, Mirkel. She had given birth to a baby boy and she was calling him Argo. She hoped Gargan could see him soon.

The old soldier's eyes misted.

Argo. Finding his mutilated body had been like a knife blow to the heart, and Gargan could still feel the pain of it. He had known all along that allowing Nadir filth to attend the Academy would lead to disaster. But never had he remotely considered the possibility that it would lead to the death of his own son. And what a death to suffer!

Anger and sorrow vied in him.

The old Emperor had been a wise man, ruling well in the main. But his later years had seen a rise in confusion, a softening of his attitudes. It was for this man that Gargan had fought at Gassima. I gave you that crown, he thought. I placed it on your head. And because of you my son is dead.

Nadir janizaries! A foul and perditious idea. Why was it the old man could not see the stupidity of it? The Nadir were numberless, and dreamed only of the day when a Uniter would draw them together into one unstoppable army. And yet the Emperor had wished the sons of their chiefs to be trained in the ways of Gothir warfare. Gargan could still scarcely believe it.

The day when Okai had been the prize student was a grim one to recall. What was worse was to know that the man who walked up to the dais was the murderer of his son. He had him close then; he could have reached out and torn away his throat.

Gargan reached for the jug — and hesitated. The captain would be here soon, and strong drink was no aid to planning.

Rising from the table, he rubbed at his weary eyes and stepped outside the tent. Two guards came to attention. Gargan stared out over the camp-site, pleased with the orderly placing of tents, the neatness of the five picket lines. The ground had been well cleared around the camp-fires, dug over and wetted down, so that no spark could land upon the tinder-dry grass of the steppes.

Gargan walked on, scanning the camp for signs of disorderliness or complacency. He found none, save that one of the latrine trenches was dug in an area where the prevailing wind would carry the stench back into the camp. He noted it in his mind. Two Nadir heads had been tied to a pole outside one tent. A group of Lancers were sitting around a camp-fire close by. When Gargan strode up, the men leapt to their feet, saluting smartly.

'Bury them,' said Gargan. 'They are attracting flies and mosquitoes.'

'Yes, sir!' they chorused.

Gargan returned to his tent. Sitting down at the table, he took quill and ink and wrote a short letter to Mirkel, congratulating her and stating his hope and his intention to be with her soon. 'Take good care of little Argo,' he wrote. 'Do not rely on wet-nurses. A child draws much from his mother's milk, taking in not only nourishment but also spirit and courage. One should never allow a babe of noble birth to suckle at a common breast. It dissipates character.'

Travelling carefully, using dry gullies and low terrain, Quing-chin and his nine riders avoided the Gothir patrols. As darkness fell they were hidden to the south of the Gothir encampment. His friend, Shi-da, crept alongside him as he knelt behind a screen of dry bushes, scanning the camp.

The night breeze was picking up, blowing from the south-east. Shi-da tapped Quing-chin's shoulder. 'It is done, my brother.'

Quing-chin settled back on his haunches. The breeze was picking up. 'Good.'

'When?' asked Shi-da, eagerness showing on his young face.

'Not yet. We wait until they settle for the night.'

'Tell me of Talisman,' said Shi-da, settling down alongside him. 'Why is he the chosen one? He is not as strong as you.'

'Strength of body counts for nothing in a general,' said Quing-chin. 'He has a mighty heart, and a mind sharper than a dagger.'

'You also have a great heart, my brother.'

Quing-chin smiled. The boy's hero-worship was a source of both irritation and delight. 'I am the hawk, he is the eagle. I am the wolf, he is the tiger. One day Talisman will be a war leader among the Nadir. He will lead armies, little brother. He has a mind for. .' He hesitated. There was no Nadir word for logistics. 'A mind for planning,' he said, at last. 'When an army marches it must be supplied. It needs food and water and, just as important, it needs information. It takes a rare man to be able to plan for all eventualities. Talisman is such a man.'

'He was at the Academy with you?'

'Yes. And at the last he was the Honour Student, beating all others.'

'He fought them all?'

'In a way.' Behind them a pony whinnied and Quing-chin glanced back to where the others were hidden. 'Get back to them,' he said, 'and tell Ling that if he does not control his pony better than that I shall send him back in disgrace.'

As the boy eased himself back from the gully's crest Quing-chin settled down to wait. Fanlon had often said that a captain's greatest gift was patience — knowing when to strike, and having the nerve to wait for the right moment.

As the air cooled the wind would increase. So too would the moisture, caused by the change in temperature. All these factors combined to make good timing essential. Quing-chin looked out at the enemy camp, and felt his anger rise. They were not in defensive formation, as was required when in enemy territory. There was no outer perimeter of fortifications. They had constructed the encampment according to the regulations for a peace-time manoeuvre: five picket lines, each with two hundred horses, the tents set out in squares by regiment. How arrogant they were, these gajin. How well they understood Nadir mentality.

Three Gothir scouts came riding from the east. Quing-chin ducked down below the crest until they had passed. They were talking as they rode, and laughing. Tomorrow there would be no laughter; they would be biting upon a leather strap as the whip lashed their backs.

Quing-chin carefully made his way down the slope to where his men were waiting. Tinder and brush had been packed into a net of twine, and tied to a long rope. 'Now is the time,' he said.

Shi-da stepped forward. 'May I ride the fire?' he asked.

'No.' The boy's disappointment was intense but Quing-chin walked past him, stopping before a short, bow-legged warrior. 'You have the glory, Nien,' he said. 'Remember, ride south for at least a quarter of a mile before releasing the rope. Not too fast, then double back along the line.'

'It will be done,' said the man. Swiftly they mounted and rode to the top of the gully. Quing-chin and two others leapt from their saddles and, using tinder-boxes, lit the tinder bundle tied behind Nien's pony. Flames licked up, then roared into life.

Nien kicked his horse and set off at a slow trot across the dry grass of the steppes. Fire flickered behind him, and dark oily smoke spiralled up. The wind fanned the blaze, and soon a roaring wall of flames swept towards the Gothir camp.

'Might I enquire, sir, the purpose of this mission?' asked Premian, as he and the other ten senior officers gathered in Gargan's tent.

'You may,' said the general. 'Our intelligence reports show that a Nadir uprising is planned, and it is our duty to see that it does not happen. Reports have been gathered and compiled showing that the Curved Horn tribe have been mustering for a major raid on the lands around Gulgothir. We shall crush this tribe; it will send a message to other Nadir chieftains. First, however, we shall march to the Shrine of Oshikai and dismantle it stone by stone. The bones of their hero will be crushed to powder and scattered upon the steppes.'

The veteran Marlham spoke up. 'But surely, sir, the Shrine is a holy place to all the tribes. Will this not be seen by all the leaders as provocation?'

'Indeed it will,' snarled Gargan. 'Let them know, once and for all, that they are a slave race. Would that I could bring an army of forty thousand into the steppes. By Shemak, I would slay them all!'

Premian was tempted to speak again, but Gargan had been drinking and his face was flushed, his temper short. He was leaning on the desk, the muscles of his arms sharp and powerful in the lantern light, his eyes gleaming. 'Does any man here have a problem with this mission?'

The other officers shook their heads. Gargan straightened and moved round the desk, looming over the shorter Premian. 'How about you? As I recall you have a soft spot for these scum.'

'I am a soldier, sir. It is my duty to carry out all orders given to me by a superior officer.'

'But you don't agree with them, do you?' sneered Gargan, pushing his bearded face so close to Premian's that the officer could smell the sour taste of wine upon the other's breath.

'It is not my place to disagree with policy, sir.'

'Not my place,' mimicked Gargan. 'No, sir, it is not your place. Do you know how many tribesmen there are?'

'No, sir.'

'No, sir. Neither do I, boy. Nor does any man. But they are numberless. Can you imagine what would happen if they joined together, under one leader? They would sweep over us like a tide.' He blinked and returned to his table, sitting heavily on the canvas chair which groaned under the sudden weight. 'Like a tide,' he mumbled. Sucking in a great breath, he fought to overcome the wine in his system. 'They must be humbled. Crushed. Demoralized.'

A commotion began outside, and Premian heard men shouting. With the other officers he left the tent. A wall of flame was lighting the night sky, and smoke was swirling around the camp. Horses began whinnying in fear. Premian swung his gaze around the camp. The fire would sweep right over it. 'The water wagons!' he yelled. 'Harness the wagons!' Premian began to run across the camp to where the twenty wagons had been drawn up in a square. Each carried sixteen barrels. A man ran by him in panic and Premian grabbed his shoulder. 'Fetch horses for the wagons,' he said, his voice ringing with authority.

'Yes, sir,' replied the soldier, saluting. He moved away. Premian saw a group of soldiers trying to gather their belongings from a communal tent. 'Leave them,' he shouted. 'If the wagons go up, we'll all die. You three get to the picket line. Fetch horses. The rest of you start dragging these wagons into line for harness.'

The flames were licking at the edge of the camp now. Hundreds of men were trying to beat out the fires using blankets and cloaks, but Premian saw that it was pointless. Soldiers came running back, leading frightened horses. A tent caught fire. The first of the wagons was harnessed and a soldier climbed to the driving board and lashed out with the reins. The four horses leaned in to the harnesses and the wagon lurched forward.

A second wagon followed; then a third. More men came to help. Premian ran to the nearest picket line. 'Cut the rest of the horses loose,' he told a soldier standing by. 'We'll round them up tomorrow!'

'Yes, sir,' responded the man, slashing his knife through the picket rope. Premian grabbed the reins of the nearest horse and vaulted to its bare back. The beast was panicked, and reared, but Premian was an expert horseman. Leaning forward, he patted the horse's long neck.

'Courage, my beauty,' he said. Riding back to the wagons, he saw that a further six had been harnessed and were moving east away from the line of fire. More tents were ablaze now, and smoke and cinders filled the air. To the left a man screamed as his clothes caught fire. Several soldiers threw him to the ground, covering him with blankets, smothering the flames. The heat was intense now, and it was hard to breathe. Flames were licking at the last of the wagons, but two more were harnessed.

'That's it!' yelled Premian at the struggling soldiers. 'Save yourselves!'

The men mounted the last of the horses and galloped from the burning camp. Premian turned to see other soldiers running for their lives. Several stumbled and fell, and were engulfed by flames. He swung his horse — and saw Gargan walking through the smoke. The general looked bewildered and lost. 'Bren!' he was shouting. 'Bren!'

Premian tried to steer his horse to the general, but the beast would not move towards the flames. Dragging off his shirt Premian leaned forward, looping it over the horse's eyes and tying it loosely into place. Heeling the now blind stallion forward, he rode to Gargan.

'Sir! Mount behind me!'

'I can't leave Bren. Where is he?'

'He may already be clear, sir. If we stay any longer we'll be cut off!'

Gargan swore, then reached up to take Premian's outstretched hand and, with the practised ease of a skilled horseman, he swung up behind. The young officer kicked the stallion into a gallop across the burning steppes, swerving around the walls of flame that swept towards the north-west. The heat was searing, and Premian could hardly see through the smoke as the horse thundered on, its flanks scorched.

At last they outran the fire and Premian dragged the exhausted stallion to a stop. Leaping from its back, he turned and watched the camp burn.

Gargan slid down beside him. 'You did well, boy,' he said, placing his huge hand on Premian's shoulder.

'Thank you, sir. I think we saved most of the water wagons.'

The stallion's flanks were charred and blistered, and the great beast stood shivering now. Premian led him to the east, where the main body of soldiers had gathered.

Slowly, as the fire died away in the distance, men began making their way back to the camp, searching through the wreckage. By dawn all the bodies were recovered. Twenty-six men and twelve horses had died in the flames. All the tents had been destroyed, but most of the supplies had survived; the fire had passed too quickly to burn through all the sacks of flour, salt, oats and dried meat. Of the nine water wagons left behind, six had caught fire and were now useless, though most of the barrels containing the precious water were saved. Only three had split their caulks.

As the early-morning sun rose above the blackened earth of the camp-site, Gargan surveyed the wreckage. 'The fire was set in the south,' he told Premian. 'Find the names of the night sentries in that section. Thirty lashes per man.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Less destruction than we might have expected,' said the general.

'Yes, sir. Though more than a thousand arrows were lost, and around eighty lances. I'm sorry about your manservant. We found his body behind the tent.'

'Bren was a good man. Served me well. I took him out of the line when the rheumatic ruined his sword arm. Good man! They'll pay for his death with a hundred of their own.'

'We've also lost six water wagons, sir. With your permission I will adjust the daily ration to allow for the loss, and suspend the order that every Lancer must be clean-shaven daily.'

Gargan nodded. 'We'll not get all the horses back,' he said. 'Some of the younger ones will run clear back to Gulgothir.'

'I fear you are correct, sir,' said Premian.

'Ah, well. Some of 'our Lancers will have to be transferred to the infantry; it'll make them value their mounts more in the future.' Gargan hawked and spat. 'Send four companies through the pass. I want reports on any Nadir movements. And prisoners. Last night's attack was well executed; it reminds me of Adrius and the winter campaign, when he slowed the enemy army with fire.'

Premian was silent for a moment, but he saw that Gargan was staring at him, awaiting a response. 'Okai was Wolfshead, sir. Not Curved Horn. In fact, I don't believe we had any Curved Horn janizaries.'

'You don't know your Nadir customs, Premian. Four tribes guard the Shrine. Perhaps he is with them. I hope so. I would give my left arm to have him in my power.'

The moon was high above the Valley of Shul-sen's Tears, and Talisman, weary to the bone, took a last walk to the battlements, stepping carefully over sleeping Nadir warriors. His eyes were gritty and tired, his body aching with unaccustomed fatigue as he slowly climbed the rampart steps. The new wooden platform creaked under his feet. In the absence of nails the planks had been tied into place; but it was solid enough, and tomorrow it would be more stable yet, as Bartsai and his men continued their work upon it. The fighting platform constructed by Kzun and his Lone Wolves was nearing completion. Kzun had worked well, tirelessly. But the man worried Talisman. Often during the day he would walk from the Shrine compound and stand out on the steppes. And now he was not sleeping with his men, but outside back at the former Lone Wolves camp.

Gorkai strode up to join him. On Talisman's instructions, the former Notas had worked alongside Kzun's men throughout the day. 'What did you find out?' asked Talisman, keeping his voice low.

'He is a strange one,' said Gorkai. 'He never sleeps inside his tent; he takes his blankets out and spreads them under the stars. He has never taken a wife. And back in Curved Horn lands he lives alone, away from the tribe; he has no sword brothers.'

'Why then was he placed in command of the Tomb Guards?' asked Talisman.

'He is a ferocious fighter. Eleven duels he has fought — he has not been cut once. All his enemies are dead. His men hate him, but they respect him.'

'What is your evaluation?'

Gorkai shrugged, and scratched at the widow's peak on his brow. 'I don't like him, Talisman, but if I was faced with many enemies I would want him by my side.' Talisman sat down on the rampart wall and Gorkai looked at him closely. 'You should sleep.'

'Not yet. I have much to think on. Where is Nosta Khan?'

'In the Shrine. He casts spells there,' said Gorkai, 'but he finds nothing. I heard him curse a while back.'

Gorkai gazed along the wall. When first he had seen the Shrine he had thought it small, but now the walls — at sixty paces each — looked ridiculously long. 'Can we hold this place?' he asked suddenly.

'For a time,' said Talisman. 'Much depends on how many ladders the enemy have. If they are well equipped, they will sweep over us.'

'A thousand curses on all of them,' hissed Gorkai.

Talisman grinned. 'They will not have enough ladders. They would not have expected a siege. And there are no trees to hack down here to make them. We have close to two hundred men now, fifty per wall should they try to attack on all sides. We will hold them, Gorkai — at least for some days.'

'And then what?'

'We live or die,' answered Talisman, with a weary shrug.

Far away to the south-west the sky began to glow a dull, flickering red. 'What is that?' asked Gorkai.

'With luck it is the enemy camp burning,' said Talisman grimly. 'It will not slow them overmuch, but it will rob them of their complacency.*

'I hope many die.'

'Why do you stay?' asked Talisman.

Gorkai looked puzzled. 'What do you mean? Where else would I be? I am Wolfshead now, Talisman. You are my leader.'

'I may have led you to a path of no returning, Gorkai.'

'All paths lead to death, Talisman. But here I am at one with the Gods of Stone and Water. I am Nadir again, and that has meaning.'

'Indeed it does. And I tell you this, my friend, it will have more meaning in the years to come. When the Uniter leads his armies the world will tremble at the sound of the name Nadir.'

'That is a pleasant thought to take to my bed,' said Gorkai, with a smile.

Just then both men saw the figure of Zhusai emerge from the sleeping quarters. She was dressed only in a shift of white linen and she walked slowly, dreamily, towards the gates. Talisman ran down the steps, closely followed by Gorkai, and they caught up with her on the open steppes. Gently Talisman took her by the arm. Her eyes were wide open and unblinking. 'Where is my Lord?' she asked.

'Zhusai? What is wrong?' whispered Talisman.

'I am lost,' she said. 'Why is my spirit chained in the Dark Place?' A tear formed and fell to her cheek. Talisman took her in his arms and kissed her brow.

'Who speaks?' said Gorkai, taking Zhusai's hand.

'Do you know my Lord?' she asked him.

'Who are you?' asked Gorkai. Talisman released his hold and turned towards the warrior. Gorkai gestured him to silence and stepped before the woman. 'Tell me your name,' he said.

'I am Shul-sen, the wife of Oshikai. Can you help me?'

Gorkai took her hand and kissed it. 'What help do you require, my Lady?'

'Where is my Lord?'

'He is. .' Gorkai fell silent and looked to Talisman.

'He is not here,' said Talisman. 'Do you recall how you came here?'

'I was blind,' she said, 'but now I can see, and hear and speak.' Slowly she looked around. 'I think I know this valley,' she said, 'but I do not remember the buildings here. I tried to leave the Dark Place, but there are demons there. My spells have no effect. The power is gone and I cannot leave.'

'And yet you have,' said Gorkai. 'You are here.'

'I do not understand,' she said. 'Am I dreaming? Someone called me, and I awoke here. These clothes are not mine. And where is my lon-tsia? Where are my rings?'

Suddenly she jerked as if struck. 'No!' she cried. 'It is drawing me back. Help me! I cannot abide the Dark Place!' Wildly she reached out, grabbing Talisman's arm, then she went limp and fell against him. Her eyelids fluttered and Zhusai looked up at Talisman. 'What is happening, Talisman?' she asked.

'What do you remember?'

'I was dreaming. You remember? The woman in the cave? She was walking hand-in-hand with a man. Then the sun died away, and walls of black rock formed around us. . her. All light faded until the darkness was absolute. The man was gone. I. . she. . tried to find a door in the rock, but there was none. And there were moans and snarls coming from close by. That is all I can remember. Am I going mad, Talisman?'

'I do not think so, my Lady,' said Gorkai softly. 'Tell me, have you ever seen visions?'

'No.'

'Have you ever heard voices, though there was no-one near?'

'No. What are you saying?'

'I believe the spirit of Shul-sen is somehow drawn to you. I don't know why. But I do know you are not insane. I have seen spirits, and spoken with them. It was the same with my father. What we have just experienced here was no dream-walking. Your voice was different, as was your manner. You agree. Talisman?'

'This is beyond my understanding,' admitted the Nadir leader. 'What must we do?'

'I do not know what we can do,' said Gorkai. 'You told me that Oshikai is searching for his wife, and now we know that Shul-sen is also seeking him. But their world is not ours, Talisman. We cannot bring them together."

The moon vanished behind a bank of clouds, plunging the steppes to darkness. A man cried out in the distance, and Talisman saw a light hastily struck, and a lantern flickered to life outside the tent of Kzun.