‘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.’