‘What is wrong, brother?’ asked Lin-tse.
‘I do not hate them any longer,’ Talisman told him.
‘Hate them? The Gothir? Why?’
‘Do not misunderstand me, Lin-tse. I will fight them, and – if the Gods of Stone and Water permit – I will see their towers crumble and their cities fall. But I cannot hold to hate any longer. When they killed Zhen-shi, we lusted for blood. Do you remember the terror in Argo’s eyes as we gagged him and carried him out?’
‘Of course.’
‘Now his father nurses the hatred and it hangs like a bat at his throat, ready to be passed on.’
‘But his father began it with his hatred of all Nadir,’ argued Lin-tse.
‘Precisely. And what caused it? Some Nadir atrocity back in his own youth? My dream is to see the Nadir united, every man standing tall and proud. But I will never again hate an enemy.’
‘You are tired, Okai. You should rest. They will not come again tonight.’
Talisman walked away along the ramparts. Nosta Khan had gone, and no man had seen him drop from the walls. He had tried to reach Zhusai, but had found Gorkai standing guard at her door.
Even as he thought of her, Talisman saw her walking across the compound. She was wearing a white blouse of shining silk, and silver-grey leggings. She waved and moved to him, throwing her arms around his neck.
‘We are together, now and always,’ she said.
‘Now and always,’ he agreed.
‘Come. I have perfumed oil in my room, and I will ease away your fatigue.’ Taking him by the hand, she led him back to her room.
Druss and Sieben watched them from the ramparts of the western wall. ‘Love in the midst of death,’ said Druss. ‘It is good.’
‘Nothing is good here,’ snapped Sieben. ‘The whole business stinks like a ten-week fish. I wish I had never come.’
‘They say you are a great surgeon,’ said Druss.
‘A fine seamstress, more like. Eleven men died under my hands, Druss, coughing up their blood. I cannot tell you how sick I am of it. I hate war and I hate warriors. Scum of the earth!’
‘It won’t stop you singing about it, if we survive,’ Druss pointed out.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Who is it who tells of the glory, the honour and the chivalry of war?’ asked Druss, softly. ‘Rarely the soldier who has seen the bulging entrails and the crows feasting on dead men’s eyes. No, it is the saga poet. It is he who feeds young men with stories of heroism. How many young Drenai men have listened to your poems and songs and lusted for battle?’
‘Well, that as a neat twist,’ said Sieben. ‘Poets are to blame now, are they?’
‘Not just poets. Hell’s teeth, man, we are a violent race. What I am saying is that soldiers are not the scum of the earth. Every man here is fighting for what he believes in. You knew that – before the killing started. You’ll know it again when it has stopped.’
‘It will never stop, Druss,’ said Sieben sadly. ‘Not as long as there are men with axes and swords. I think I had better get back to the hospital. How is your shoulder?’
‘Stings like the devil.’
‘Good,’ said Sieben, with a tired smile.
‘How is Nuang?’
‘Resting. The wounds were not mortal, but he won’t fight again.’
As Sieben walked away Druss stretched himself out on the ramparts. All along the wall exhausted Nadir warriors were sleeping. For many it would be the last sleep they ever enjoyed.
Maybe for me, thought Druss. Perhaps I will die tomorrow.
Perhaps not, he decided. And drifted into a dreamless sleep . . .
Gargan walked among the wounded, talking to the survivors and offering praise for their heroism. Returning to his tent, he summoned Premian. ‘I understand the Nadir are still denying us water,’ he said. ‘How many defend the pool?’
‘That is hard to say, sir. The trail up to the pool is narrow, and our men are coming under attack from warriors hidden in the rocks. No more than thirty I would say. They are led by a madman who wears a white scarf upon his head; he leapt twenty feet from a tall rock and landed on the officer’s mount, breaking its back. Then he killed the rider, wounded another and sprinted back into the rocks.’