The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

‘No,’ said Talisman. ‘I shall find it.’ And without another word the Nadir left the room.

As the door closed Sieben grinned. ‘His gratitude overwhelms me. Where do you meet these people?’

‘He was involved in a scuffle and I gave him a hand.’

‘Many dead?’ enquired Sieben.

‘None, as far as I know.’

‘You’re getting old, Druss. Nadir, was he not? He’s got a nerve walking around Gulgothir.’

‘Aye, I liked him. He was telling me about the Uniter to come, a man with the Eyes of Alchazzar, whatever that means.’

‘That is fairly simple to explain,’ said Sieben, pouring himself a goblet of wine. ‘It’s an old Nadir legend. Hundreds of years ago three Nadir shamen, men of great power – reputedly – decided to create a statue to the Gods of Stone and Water. They drew magic from the land and shaped the statue, which they called Alchazzar, from the stone of the Mountains of the Moon. It was, I understand, in the form of a giant wolf. Its eyes were huge amethysts, its teeth of ivory . . .’

‘Get to the point, poet!’ snapped Druss.

‘You have no patience, Druss. Now bear with me. According to the legends the shamen drew all the magic from the land, placing it within the wolf. They did this so that they could control the destiny of the Nadir. But one of the shamen later stole the Eyes of Alchazzar and suddenly the magic ceased. Robbed of their Gods, the Nadir tribes – peaceful until then – turned upon one another, fighting terrible wars which continue to this day. There! A nice little fable to help you to sleep.’

‘So what happened to the man who stole the Eyes?’ asked Druss.

‘I have no idea.’

‘That’s what I hate about your stories, poet. They lack detail. Why was the magic trapped? Why did he steal the Eyes? Where are they now?’

‘I shall ignore these insults, Druss, old horse,’ said Sieben, with a smile. ‘You know why? Because when word got out that you were ill, your odds against Klay lengthened to twelve to one.’

‘Ill ? I have never been ill in my life. How did such a rumour start?’

Sieben shrugged. ‘I would . . . guess it was when you failed to attend the banquet in the God-King’s honour.’

‘Damn, I forgot about it! You told them I was sick?’

‘I don’t believe I said sick . . . more . . . injured. Yes, that was it. Suffering from your injuries. Your opponent was there and he asked after you. Such a nice fellow. Said he hoped the prophecy did not affect your style.’

‘What prophecy?’

‘Something about you losing the final,’ said Sieben airily. ‘Absolutely nothing to worry about. Anyway you can ask him yourself. He has invited you to his home tomorrow evening – and I should be grateful if you would accept.’

‘You would be grateful? Do I take it there is a woman involved in this?’

‘Now that you mention it, I did meet a delightful serving-maid at the palace. She seems to think I’m some kind of foreign prince.’

‘I wonder how she formed that opinion,’ muttered Druss.

‘No idea, old lad. However, I did invite her to dine with me here tomorrow. Anyway I think you’ll like Klay. He’s witty and urbane, and his arrogance is carefully masked.’

‘Oh, yes,’ grunted Druss. ‘I like him already.’

Chapter Two

The house on the Street of Weavers was an old grey stone Gothir building, two storeys under a roof of red terracotta tiles. However, the rooms inside had been redesigned after the fashion of the Chiatze. No square or rectangular rooms remained, the walls now flowed in perfect curves: ovals or circles, or circles upon ovals. Doors and door frames followed these lines; even the heavy, square-framed Gothir windows, so bleak and functional from the outside, had been decorated on the interior frames with exquisitely sculpted circular covers.

In the small central study Chorin-Tsu sat cross-legged on an embroidered rug of Chiatze silk, his deep brown eyes staring unblinking at the man kneeling before him. The newcomer’s eyes were dark and wary, and though he was kneeling – as was customary in the presence of one’s host – his body was tense, and ready. He reminded Chorin-Tsu of a coiled snake, very still but ready to strike. Talisman flicked his gaze to the rounded walls, the reliefs of sculpted, lacquered wood and the delicate paintings in their lacquered frames. His gaze flowed over the works of art, never pausing to examine them. Swiftly he returned his attention to the little Chiatze. Do I like you? wondered Chorin-Tsu, as the silence lengthened. Are you a man to be trusted? Why did destiny choose you to save your people ? Without blinking Chorin-Tsu studied the young man’s face. He had a high brow, which often denoted intelligence, and his skin was closer to the gold of the Chiatze than the jaundiced yellow of the Nadir. How old was he? Nineteen? Twenty? So young! And yet he radiated power, strength of purpose. You have gained experience beyond your years, thought the old man. And what do you see before you, young warrior? A wrinkled ancient – a lantern whose oil is almost gone, the flame beginning to stutter? An old man in a room of pretty pictures! Well, once I was strong like you, and I had great dreams also. At the thought of those dreams his mind wandered briefly, and he came to with a start and found himself staring into Talisman’s jet-black eyes. Fear touched him fleetingly – for now the eyes were cold and impatient.