The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

‘I can’t stay,’ she said. ‘Have to work,’

‘I’ll pay your . . . wages,’ said Klay.

Tess gave him a gap-toothed grin. ‘That’s not it, lovely man. If I’m away from my patch some other whore will take my trade. I need to be there. But I’ll come here when I can.’ Stepping in close she took Klay by the hand, raising it to her lips and kissing it. Then she swung away, embarrassed, and left the room.

Kells walked to the bedside and took his mother’s hand. She was sleeping now, but the skin was hot and scaly to the touch. The boy sighed and sat down on the bed.

Klay and Eduse walked from the room. ‘How long?’ he heard Klay ask, his voice little more than a whisper.

‘Difficult to say. The cancers are very advanced. She could die in the night – or last another month. You should get home, you’ve a fight tomorrow. I saw the Drenai fight – you’ll need to be at your best.’

‘I shall be, my friend. But I’ll not go home yet. I think I’ll take a stroll. Get some air. You know, I have never wanted to be a god. Not until tonight.’

Kells heard him move away.

Jarid was a careful man, a thinker. Few understood this – for what they saw was a large, round-shouldered, shambling bear of a man, slow of speech – and therefore dim-witted. This was a misconception which Jarid did not seek to change. Far from it. Born in the slums of Gulgothir, he had learned fast that the only way for a man to prosper lay in outwitting his fellow men. The first lesson to be learned was that morality was merely a weapon used by the rich. There was – and never would be – an ultimate right or wrong. All life was theft in one form or another. The rich called their thefts taxes, and a king could steal a nation by invasion and conquest and men would proclaim it a glorious victory. Yet a beggar could steal a loaf of bread and the same men would label it larceny, and hang the man. Jarid would have none of it. He had killed his first man just after his twelfth birthday, a fat merchant whose name he could no longer remember. He had stabbed him in the groin, then slashed his purse clear of its retaining belt. The man had screamed loud and long, the sound following Jarid as he sped through the alleyways. The money had bought medicines for his mother and sister, and food for their shrunken bellies.

Now, at forty-four, Jarid was an accomplished killer. So accomplished that his skills had come to the attention of the State, and his work was now paid for out of public funds. He had even been allotted a tax number, the ultimate symbol of citizenship, giving him the right to vote in local elections. He had a small house in the south-east quarter, and a housekeeper who also warmed his bed. Far from rich, Jarid was still a long way from the urchin thief he had once been.

From his position in the alleyway he had watched Druss enter The Broken Sword tavern, and had followed him inside, listening as he ordered his meal and noting the tavern maid telling him that the house was almost full and that the food would take a little time to prepare.

Jarid had left the tavern and run to where Copass waited; he gave the man his orders and stood back in the shadows, waiting. Copass soon returned with a dozen men, tough capable fighters mostly armed with knives and clubs. The last man carried a short crossbow. Jarid took the thin faced bowman by the arm and led him away from the others, then he spoke to him in a low voice. ‘You don’t shoot unless all else fails. You will be paid whether you loose a bolt or no. Your target is a black-bearded Drenai in a dark leather shirt – you will have no trouble picking him out.’

‘Why don’t I just kill him as he appears in the doorway?’