The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

Sieben knelt by the boy, lightly touching his shoulder. Kells came awake instantly, his eyes flaring wide in fear. ‘It is all right, boy. I come with a gift from the Lord Klay.’

‘He is dead,’ said the child.

‘But I bring his gift anyway. Stand up.’ Kells did so. The movement and the voices awoke the thin woman in the chair.

‘What is happening?’ she asked. ‘Is she gone?’

‘Not gone,’ said Sieben. ‘She is coming home.’ To the boy he said, ‘Take your mother’s hand,’ and Kells did so. Sieben leaned forward and laid his own palm on the dying woman’s fevered brow. The skin was hot and dry. The poet closed his eyes, and felt the power of the stones flowing through him. The woman in the bed gave a weak groan and the Abbot moved in closer, looking down in wonder as her colour deepened and the dark rings beneath her eyes slowly faded. The bones of her face receded as the wasted muscles of her cheeks and jaw swelled into health. Her hair, which had been dry and lifeless, now shone upon the pillow. Sieben took a deep breath and stepped back.

‘Are you an angel of the Source?’ asked the thin woman.

‘No, just a man,’ said Sieben. Kneeling down by the boy, he saw the tears in his eyes. ‘She is healed, Kells. She sleeps now. Would you like to help me heal all these others?’

‘Yes. Yes, I would. The Lord Klay sent you?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘And my mother is going to live?’

‘Aye. She is going to live.’

Together Sieben and the boy moved from bed to bed, and when the dawn sun rose over Gulgothir the sounds of laughter and unfettered joy came from within the walls of the hospice.

It was all lost on Druss, who sat alone in the drab office, his feelings numbed. He could help hold a fortress against all the odds, but could not prevent the death of a friend. He could cross the ocean and fight in a hundred battles. He could stand against any man alive, yet Klay was still dead.

Rising from his chair, he moved to the window. The dawn sun had filled the gardens beyond with colour -crimson roses growing around the white marble fountain, purple foxgloves amid carpets of yellow flowers beside the curving paths. ‘It is not fair,’ said Druss aloud.

‘I cannot recall anyone saying that it would be,’ came the voice of the Abbot.

‘That bolt was meant for me, Father. Klay took it for me. Why should I live and he die?’

‘There are never answers to such questions, Druss. He will be remembered with great fondness, by a great many people. There will even be those who will revere his memory enough to try to emulate him. We are none of us here for very long. Would you like to see his stone?’

‘Aye. I would.’

Together the two men left the office and walked down the rear stairwell to the gardens. The air was sweet with perfume, the sun bright in the morning sky. Klay’s grave was beside a dry-stone wall, beneath an ancient willow. A long, rectangular slab of white marble had been set into the earth, and upon it were carved the words:

Any good that I may do, let me do it now, for I may not pass this way again.

‘It is a quote from an ancient writing,’ said the Abbot. ‘He did not ask for it, but I thought it was fitting.’

‘Aye, it is fitting,’ agreed Druss. ‘Tell me, who is the woman Klay wanted saved?’

‘She is a prostitute; she works the southern quarter, I understand.’

Druss shook his head and said nothing.

‘You think a whore is not worth saving?’ the Abbot asked.

‘I would never say that,’ Druss told him, ‘nor would I think it. But I have just come from a battle, Father, where hundreds of men lost their lives. I have returned here – to find a great man dead. And at the end of it I have ensured that one more whore will work the southern quarter. I’m going home,’ said Druss sadly. ‘I wish I had never come to Gulgothir.’