The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

‘My apologies, Lord,’ said Chorin-Tsu. ‘Forgive your humble servant.’ Bringing his hands together he bowed even lower than before, touching his thumbs to his chin.

‘Your skills are needed here, Master Embalmer. No-one else will enter this room until you have completed your . . . craft. You understand?’

‘Of course, Lord.’ The guardsmen placed Chorin-Tsu’s trunk by the door. Garen-Tsen opened the door just wide enough for the elderly Chiatze to enter, dragging the trunk behind him.

Chorin-Tsu heard the door close behind him, then gazed around the apartments. The rugs were of the finest Chiatze silk, as were the hangings around the royal bed. The bed itself had been exquisitely carved, then gilded. Every item in the room spoke of riches and the extremes of wealth only monarchs could afford.

Even the corpse . ..

She was hanging by her arms from golden chains attached to rings in the ceiling above the bed, and blood had drenched the sheets below her. Chorin-Tsu had seen the Queen only twice before – once during the parade at her wedding, and then, two weeks ago, when the Fellowship Games began. In her new role as Bokat, Goddess of Wisdom, she had blessed the opening ceremony. Chorin-Tsu had seen her closely then. Her eyes had seemed vacant, and she slurred the words of the Blessing. Now he moved to a chair and sat, staring at the still body.

The old man sighed. Just as at the Games Ceremony, the Queen was wearing the Helm of Bokat, a golden headpiece with flaring wings and long cheek-guards. Chorin-Tsu was not well versed in Gothir myths, but he knew enough. Bokat was the wife of Missael, the God of War. Their son, Caales, future Lord of Battle, sprang fully grown from his mother’s belly.

But that was not the myth that inspired this insanity. No. Bokat had been captured by the enemy. The Gods of the Gothir had gone to war, the world burning from the flame arrows of Missael. Bokat had been taken by one of the other gods, and hung from chains outside the Magical City. Her husband, Missael, was warned that if he attacked she would be the first slain. He had taken his bow and shot her through the heart, then he and his companions rushed forward, scaling the walls and slaying all within. When the battle was over he drew the arrow from his wife’s breast, and kissed the wound. It healed instantly and she awoke, and took him in her arms.

Here in this room someone had tried to duplicate the myth. The blood-covered arrow was lying on the floor. Wearily Chorin-Tsu climbed to the bed, loosening the bolts that held the golden chains to the slender wrists of the dead Queen. The body fell to the bed, the helm rolling clear and striking the floor with a dull clang. The Queen’s blond hair fell free, and Chorin-Tsu noticed that the roots were a dull, mousy brown.

Garen-Tsen entered, and the two men spoke in sign.

‘The God-King tried to save her. When the bleeding would not stop he panicked and sent for the Royal Physician.’

‘There is blood everywhere,’ said Chorin-Tsu. ‘/ cannot perform my arts upon her in these conditions.’

‘You must! No-one will be allowed to know of this. . .’ Garen-Tsen’s fingers hesitated . . . ‘this stupidity.’

‘The physician is dead, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘As I will be when my work is done.’

‘No. I have arranged for you to be smuggled from the palace. You will flee to the south and Dros Delnoch.’

‘I thank you, Garen-Tsen.’

‘I will have a chest left outside these apartments. Place all the . . . soiled linen within it.’

‘How long will you need to prepare her?’ he concluded, aloud.

‘Three hours, perhaps more.’

‘I shall return then.’

The Minister left the room and Chorin-Tsu sighed. The man had lied to him; there would be no escape to the south. Putting the thought from his mind, Chorin-Tsu moved to the trunk by the door and began to remove the jars of embalming fluid, the cutters and the scrapers, setting them out neatly on a table by the bed.