The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

‘I am too tired for love-making,’ she said tonelessly.

‘Ever the Nadir romantic,’ said Sieben. ‘Come, let me get you some water.’

‘I can fetch my own water.’

‘I am sure that you can, my lovely, but I would cherish your company.’ Taking her hand he led her to the table in the shade. Stone jugs had been filled with water and there were clay cups upon the table. Sieben filled one and passed it to her.

‘Do men serve women in your land?’ she asked.

‘One way or another,’ he agreed. Niobe drained the cup and held it out to him, and Sieben re-filled it.

‘You are strange,’ she said. ‘And you are no warrior. What will you do here, when the blood spills?’

‘With luck I won’t be here when the fighting starts. But if I am . . .’ He spread his hands. ‘I have some skill with wounds,’ he told her. ‘I will be the Fort Surgeon.’

‘I too can stitch wounds. We will need cloth for bandages, and much thread. Also needles. I will gather these things. And there must be a place for the dead, otherwise they stink, bloat, split and attract flies.’

‘How nicely phrased,’ he said. ‘Shall we talk about something else?’

‘Why for?’

‘Because the subject is . . . demoralizing.’

‘I do not know this word.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you do. Tell me, are you frightened at all?’

‘Of what?’

‘Of the Gothir.’

She shook her head. ‘They will come, we will kill them.’

‘Or be killed by them,’ he pointed out.

She shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ she said grimly.

‘You, my dear, are a fatalist.’

‘You are wrong. I am of the Lone Wolves,’ she said. ‘We were to be Eagle Wing tribe, under Nuang. Now there are not enough of us, so we will become Lone Wolves again.’

‘Niobe of the Lone Wolves, I adore you,’ he said, with a smile. ‘You are a breath of fresh air in this jaded life of mine.’

‘I will only wed a warrior,’ she told him sternly. ‘But until a good one approaches me I will sleep with you.’

‘What gentleman would spurn such a delicate advance?’ he said.

‘Strange,’ she muttered, then walked away from him.

Druss strolled across the compound. ‘Nuang says he’s tired of running. He and his people will stay here and fight.’

‘Can they win, Druss?’

‘They look like a tough bunch, and Talisman has done well with the defences.’

‘That doesn’t answer the question.’

‘There is no answer,’ Druss told him. ‘Only odds. I wouldn’t bet a half-copper on their holding for more than a day.’

Sieben sighed. ‘Naturally this does not mean we’ll do something sensible – like leave?’

‘The Gothir have no right to despoil this Shrine,’ said Druss, a cold look in his grey eyes. ‘It is wrong. This Oshikai was a hero to all the Nadir. His bones should be left in peace.’

‘Excuse me for stating the obvious, old horse, but his tomb has already been plundered and his bones hacked around. I think he’s probably past caring by now.’

‘It is not about him, it’s about them,’ said Druss, indicating the Nadir. ‘Despoiling the Shrine robs them of their heritage. Such a deed has no merit. It is born of spite and I can’t abide such things.’

‘We’re staying, then?’

Druss smiled. ‘You should leave,’ he said. ‘This is no place for a poet.’

‘That is a tempting thought, Druss, old horse. I may just do that – as soon as we sight their battle flags.’

Nuang called out to Druss and the axeman strode away. As Sieben sat at the table, sipping water, Talisman walked across to him and sat down.

‘Tell me of the friend who is dying,’ he said. Sieben explained all that he knew about the fight that had left Klay crippled, and Talisman listened gravely.

‘It is right,’ he said, ‘that a man should risk all for friendship. It shows he has a good heart. He has fought in many battles?’

‘Many,’ said Sieben bitterly. ‘You know how a tall tree attracts lightning during a storm? Well, Druss is like that. Wherever he is battles just seem to spring up around him. It really is galling.’