They climbed the narrow, twisting trail, and as they reached the crest two ancient Nadir warriors stepped out ahead of them. Both were carrying swords. A small priest in robes of faded blue appeared and he spoke to the old men, who grudgingly backed away. Druss rode on, dismounting by the spring and casting a wary eye over the group of Nadir sitting close by.
The priest approached him. ‘You are welcome at our camp, axeman,’ he said. The man’s eyes were blind, their pupils of smoky opal. Laying Snaga against a rock, Druss took the baby from Sieben and waited as the poet swung down.
‘This child needs milk,’ said Druss. The priest called out a name and a young woman came forward, moving hesitantly. Taking the child from Druss, she walked back to the group.
‘They are survivors from a Gothir raid,’ said the priest. ‘I am Enshima, a Priest of the Source.’
‘Druss,’ said the axeman. ‘And this is Sieben. We are travelling . . .’
‘To the Shrine of Oshikai,’ said Enshima. ‘I know. Come, sit with me for a while.’ He walked away to a cluster of rocks by the spring. Druss followed him, while Sieben watered the horses and refilled their canteens.
‘A great battle will be fought at the Shrine,’ said Enshima. ‘You know this.’
Druss sat down beside him. ‘I know. It does not interest me.’
‘Ah, but it does, for your own quest is linked to it. You will not find the jewels before the battle begins, Druss.’
The axeman knelt by the spring and drank. The water was cool and refreshing, but it left a bitter aftertaste on the tongue. Looking up at the blind man, he said, ‘You are a seer?’
‘For what it is worth,’ agreed Enshima.
‘Then can you tell me what this damned war is about ? I see no sense in it.’
Enshima gave a rueful smile. ‘That question presupposes there is sense to any war.’
‘I am not a philosopher, priest, so spare me your ruminations.’
‘No, Druss, you are not a philosopher,’ said Enshima amiably, ‘but you are an idealist. What is this war about? As with all wars it is about greed and fear; greed in that the Gothir are rich and desire to stay that way, and fear in that they see the Nadir as a future threat to their wealth and position. When has a war been fought over anything else?’
‘These jewels exist, then,’ said Druss, changing the subject.
‘Oh, they exist. The Eyes of Alchazzar were crafted several hundred years ago. They are like amethysts, each as big as an egg, and each imbued with the awesome power of this savage land.’
‘Why will I not find them before the battle?’ asked Druss, as Sieben came up and sat alongside.
‘Such is not your destiny.’
‘I have a friend in need of them,’ said Druss. ‘I would appreciate your help in this matter.’
Enshima smiled. ‘It gives me no pleasure to withhold help from you, axeman. But what you would ask of me I shall not give you. Tomorrow I will lead these people deep into the mountains, in the hope – vain though it may be – that I can keep them alive. You will journey to the Shrine, and there you will fight. For that is what you do best.’
‘You have any bright words of comfort for me, old man?’ asked Sieben.
The old man smiled and, reaching out, patted Sieben’s arm. ‘I was set a problem, and you helped solve it, for which my thanks. What you did, back in the death chamber, was a pure and good act, for which I hope the Source blesses you. Show me the lon-tsia.’ Sieben fished into his pocket and produced the heavy silver medallion. The old man held it up before his face and closed his wood-smoke eyes. ‘The male head is that of Oshikai Demon-bane, the female that of his wife, Shul-sen. The script is Chiatze. A literal translation would be Oshka-Shul-sen – together. But it really means spirit-entwined. Their love was very great.’
‘Why would anyone want to torture her so?’ asked Sieben.
‘I cannot answer that, young man. The ways of evil men are lost to me; I have no understanding of such barbarity. Great magic was used, in order to cage Shul-sen’s spirit.’