The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

As the noon bell was struck in the courtyard beyond, there came a tap at his door. ‘Enter!’ he called. A slim, dark-haired man moved to the desk and bowed.

‘Yes, Oreth, make your report.’

‘The sons of Senator Gyall have been arrested. His wife committed suicide. Other family members have fled, but we are hunting them now. The wife of the noble Maurin has transferred funds to a banker in Drenan: eighty thousand gold pieces. His two brothers are already in the Drenai capital.’

‘You will send a message to our people in Drenan. They must deal with the traitors.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Anything else, Oreth?’

‘Only one small matter, sir. The Drenai fighter, Druss. It seems he will probably attempt to win. His ambassador will try to persuade him but the fighter’s friend, Sieben, maintains he will not be convinced.’

‘Who do we have following the fighter?’

‘Jarid and Copass.’

‘I have spoken to Klay and he says the Drenai will prove a tough opponent. Very well, arrange to have him waylaid and cut. Any deep wound will suffice.’

‘It might not be so simple, Lord. The man was engaged in a fracas recently and thrashed several robbers. It may be necessary to kill him.’

‘Then kill him. There are far more important matters needing my attention, Oreth. I have little time for consideration of such tiny problems.’ Lifting his quill, Garen-Tsen dipped it into an inkwell and began once more to write.

Oreth bowed and backed away.

Garen-Tsen continued to work for almost a full hour. The words of the Senator, however, continued to echo through his mind. ‘And one day you will be dragged screaming to this very room.’ Such an event was – at present – extremely likely. As of this moment Garen-Tsen was perched on the very top of the mountain. The hold, however, was precarious, for his position of eminence depended entirely upon a madman. Laying aside his quill, he contemplated the future. So far, mainly through his own efforts, both rival factions remained in balance. Such harmony could not be maintained for much longer – not with the King’s illness proceeding at such a terrifying rate. Soon his insanity would become too difficult to control and a blood-bath would surely follow. Garen-Tsen sighed.

‘On top of the mountain,’ he said aloud. ‘It is not a mountain at all, but a volcano waiting to erupt.’

At that moment the door opened and a middle-aged soldier stepped inside. He was powerfully built, and wore the long, black cloak of the Royal Guard. Garen-Tsen’s odd-coloured eyes focused on the man. ‘Welcome, Lord Gargan. How may I be of service?’

The newcomer moved to a chair and sat heavily. Removing his ornate helm of bronze and silver, he laid it on the desk top. ‘The madman has killed his wife,’ he said.

Two Royal Guards led Chorin-Tsu into the grounds of the palace. Two more came behind, carrying the trunk in which lay the objects and materials necessary to the trade of the embalmer. The old man’s breath was wheezing from him as he hurried to keep up. He asked no questions.

The guardsmen led him through the servants halls, and up a richly carpeted stairway into the warren of royal apartments. Skirting the fabled Hall of Concubines the Guards entered the Royal Chapel, bowing before the golden image of the God-King. Once through the rear of the chapel they slowed, as if to make less noise, and Chorin-Tsu took this opportunity to regain his breath. At last they came to a double-doored private chamber. Two men were waiting outside; one was a soldier with a forked beard the colour of iron, the second was the purple-garbed First Minister, Garen-Tsen. He was tall and wand-thin, and his face bore no expression.

Chorin-Tsu bowed to his countryman. ‘May the Lords of High Heaven grant you blessings,’ said Chorin-Tsu, speaking in Chiatze.

‘It is unseemly and discourteous to use a foreign language in the Royal Chambers,’ admonished Garen-Tsen, in the Southern tongue. Chorin-Tsu bowed once more. Garen-Tsen’s long fingers tapped at the second knuckle of his right hand. Then he folded his arms, his index finger touching his bicep. Chorin-Tsu read the sign language: Do what is required and you will live!

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