The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

‘What is apples?’

‘Fruit. Er . . . like figs.’

‘Good for bowels,’ she said.

‘Exactly. But let’s move on from that, shall we? What I’m trying to say is that I like the company of many women. I am easily bored.’

‘You are not strong man,’ she said, sadness in her voice. ‘You are frightened man. Many women is easy. Make children is easy. Life with them, help to raise them, that is hard. Watch babies die . . . that is hard. I have had two husbands. Both die. Both good men. Strong. My third will be also strong. Many babies, so some will survive.’

Sieben gave a wry smile. ‘I tend towards the belief that life holds more than making strong babies. I live for pleasure, for sudden bursts of joy. For surprises. There are enough people making babies and eking out their boring lives in the harshness of deserts, or the green splendour of mountains. The world will not miss my children.’

She considered his words thoughtfully. ‘My people came over the tall mountains with Oshikai. They made babies, who grew proud and strong. They gave their blood to the land, and the land nurtured their young. For a thousand years. Now there is me. I owe it to my ancestors to bring life to the land, so that in a thousand years to come there will be those with the blood of Niobe and her ancestors. You are good lover, po-et. You bring many joy-trembles in your love-making. But joy-trembles are easy; I can do that for myself. I feel great love for you. But I will not wed frightened man. I have seen strong warrior of the Curved Horn. He has no wife. I think I will go to him.’

Sieben felt her words hit him like a blow to the belly. But he forced a smile. ‘Of course, lovely one. You go and make babies.’

‘You want shirt back?’

‘No. It suits you. You look . . . very fine.’

Without a word she left him there. Sieben shivered as a cold breeze touched his bare skin. What am I doing here, he wondered? A Nadir warrior with short hair and a pronounced widow’s peak climbed to the ramparts and, ignoring Sieben, stood staring out to the west.

‘A pleasant night,’ remarked Sieben.

The man turned and stared at him. ‘It will be a long night,’ he said, his voice deep and cold.

Sieben saw a candle-flame flickering through the window of the Shrine. ‘Still searching,’ he said.

‘Not searching,’ said the man. ‘My Lord, Talisman, and your friend are journeying to Giragast.’

‘I fear something has been lost in the translation,’ said Sieben. ‘Giragast isn’t a place, it is a myth.’

‘It is a place,’ said the man stubbornly. ‘Their bodies are lying on the cold floor, their souls have gone to Giragast.’

Sieben’s mouth was suddenly dry. ‘Are you saying they are dead?’

‘No, but they are going to the place of the dead. I do not think they will come back.’

Sieben left the man and ran to the Shrine. As the Nadir had said, Druss and Talisman were lying side by side on the dusty floor. The shaman, Nosta Khan, was sitting beside them. On top of the stone coffin was a lighted candle, marked with seven lines of black ink.

‘What is happening?’ he asked the shaman.

‘They go with Oshikai to rescue the witch, Shul-sen,’ whispered Nosta Khan.

‘Into the Void?’

‘Beyond the Void.’ Nosta Khan glanced up at him, his eyes dark and malevolent. ‘I saw you scatter the parchment to the winds. Did you also throw the knuckle-bones into the well?’

‘Yes. And I burnt the hair and buried the pouch.’

‘You gajin are soft and weak. Shaoshad deserved his punishment.’

‘He wanted to bring Oshikai and Shul-sen back to life, to unite the Nadir,’ said Sieben. ‘That does not seem so terrible a crime.’

Nosta Khan shook his head. ‘He wanted power, and fame. Oh, he could have raised the body, and perhaps even infused it with the soul of Oshikai. But the body would have needed the magic of jewels constantly; he would have been a slave to Shaoshad. Now, thanks to his arrogance, we have no jewels and the power of the land is lost to us. And gajin like you treat us as vermin. His lust for power sentenced us to five hundred years of servitude. He should have been left to rot for eternity.’