Druss laid his huge hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘They are riding for the Valley of Shul-sen’s Tears. They seek to pillage the Shrine.’
‘They want Oshikai’s bones?’ asked the old man, incredulously.
‘How far is it to the Shrine?’ Druss asked.
‘If you take two spare mounts and ride through the night to the north-east, you will see its walls in two days,’ said Nuang. ‘But the gajin will not be far behind you.’
‘May your luck be good,’ said Druss, holding out his hand. The Nadir leader nodded, and shook hands.
Sieben moved away to where Niobe stood. ‘I hope we meet again, my lady,’ he said.
‘We will or we won’t,’ she said, and turned away from him. The poet walked to his horse and vaulted to the saddle. Druss mounted the mare and, leading two spare ponies, the two men left the camp.
Even before Nosta Khan’s arrival at the Shrine, news of the Gothir invasion had reached the four camps. A rider from the Curved Horn tribe came in, his pony lathered in sweat. Galloping to the tents of his own people, he leapt from the saddle. A cavalry group had attacked two Curved Horn villages, slaughtering men, women and children. Thousands more soldiers were heading towards the valley, he said.
The leader of the Curved Horn contingent, a middle-aged warrior named Bartsai, sent for the other leaders and they gathered at noon within his tent: Lin-tse of the Sky Riders, Quing-chin of the Fleet Ponies, and Kzun, the shaven-headed war chief of the Lone Wolves. They sat in silence as the rider told of what he had seen – a Gothir army on the march, killing all Nadir in their path.
‘It makes no sense,’ said Kzun. ‘Why have they made war upon the Curved Horn?’
‘And why is their army heading for this valley?’ put in Lin-tse.
‘Perhaps more importantly,’ said Quing-chin, ‘we should be asking ourselves what we intend to do. They are less than two days from us.’
‘Do?’ queried Bartsai. ‘What can we do? Do you see an army around you? We have fewer than one hundred and twenty men.’
‘We are the guards of the Sacred Shrine,’ said Lin-tse. ‘Numbers mean nothing. Were we but four, we should fight.’
‘You speak for yourself!’ snapped Bartsai. ‘I see no point in throwing away our lives. If there are no warriors here then the gajin will pass by the Shrine. There is nothing here for them, save the bones of Oshikai. No treasures, no plunder. Therefore we keep the Shrine safe by fleeing.’
‘Pah!’ sneered Lin-tse. ‘What more could be expected from a Curved Horn coward?’
Bartsai surged to his feet, snatching a curved dagger from his belt as Lin-tse reared up, reaching for his sabre. Quing-chin jumped between them. ‘No!’ he .shouted. ‘This is madness!’
‘I will not be insulted in my own tent,’ shouted Bartsai, glowering at the taller Lin-tse.
‘Then do not talk of flight,’ said Lin-tse, slamming his sabre back into its scabbard.
‘What else is there to talk of?’ asked Kzun. ‘I do not wish to run from gajin. Neither do I wish to throw away the lives of my men needlessly. I have no love for the Curved Horn, but Bartsai is a warrior who has ridden in many battles. He is no coward. Neither am I. What he says is true. Whatever their purpose, the gajin are looking to kill Nadir. If there are none of us here, they must move on. We should draw them further into the steppes, away from water. Their horses will die there.’
The tent-flap opened and a small man stepped inside. He was old and wizened, and wore a necklace of human finger-bones.
‘Who are you?’ asked Bartsai warily, aware from the bones that the man was a shaman.
‘I am Nosta Khan.’ Moving forward he sat between Kzun and Bartsai. Both men moved sideways, making more room for him. ‘You now know the threat facing you,’ said the shaman. ‘Two thousand Gothir warriors, led by Gargan Nadir Bane, are marching upon this holy place. What you do not know is why, but I shall tell you. They come to destroy the Shrine, to raze the walls, take the bones of Oshikai and grind them to dust.’