The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

‘As you say, so must it be, Lord,’ she said meekly.

‘No, no! Do not agree for the sake of courtesy, Zhusai.’ Her eyes met his and for a long moment she did not speak. When she did her voice was strangely different, still lilting and soft, yet with an underlying confidence that touched a chord in Talisman.

‘I fear my translation of your title was not sufficiently exact. The honour you speak of is essentially a male concept, born in blood and battle. A man’s word, a man’s patriotism, a man’s courage. Indeed, this form of honour can only be surrendered. Perhaps “guardian of my virtue” would suffice. And though we could enter a fine philosophical debate on the meaning of the word virtue, I use it in the sense that a male would apply to a woman – most especially a Nadir male. I understand that among your people a raped woman is put to death, while the rapist is merely banished.’ She fell silent and averted her eyes once more. It was the longest speech he had heard from her.

‘You are angry,’ he said.

She bowed and shook her head. ‘I am merely hot, my Lord. I fear it has made me indiscreet.’

Levering himself from the pool, he walked to the hobbled ponies and pulled a clean shirt and leggings from his saddle pack. Once dressed, he returned to the seated woman. ‘We will be resting here today and tonight.’ Pointing to the south section of the pool, he told her, ‘There is a shelf there, and the water is no more than four feet deep. You may bathe there. So that you may have privacy, I shall walk back down the trail and gather wood for tonight’s fire.’

‘Thank you, Lord,’ she said, bowing her head.

Pulling on his boots, Talisman looped an empty canvas bag over his shoulder. Slowly he walked back up the trail, stopping short of the crest and scanning the steppes below. There was no sign of other riders. Above the crest the heat was searing and intense. Talisman walked slowly down the hillside, pausing to gather sticks which he dropped into the bag. Desert trees and bushes grew here, their roots deep into the dry earth, their arid existence maintained by the few days of heavy rain in what passed for winter here. Fuel was plentiful and soon his bag was crammed full. He was just starting back up the slope when he heard Zhusai cry out. Throwing the bag to one side, Talisman sprinted up the trail and over the crest. Zhusai, her arms thrashing wildly, had slipped from the shelf and her head sank below the surface.

Talisman ran to the pool’s edge and dived after her. Below the surface he opened his eyes to see that Zhusai, still struggling, was sinking some twenty feet below him. Bubbles of air were streaming from her mouth. Talisman dived towards her, his fingers hooked into her hair and, twisting in the water, he kicked out for the surface. At first he did not rise and panic touched him. She was too heavy. If he hung on to her they would both drown! Looking round, he saw the shelf from which she had slipped; it was no more than ten feet to his left. The surface must be close, he thought. Zhusai was a dead weight now and Talisman’s breath was failing. But he hung on – and kicked out with renewed force. His head splashed clear of the water. Taking a great lungful of air, he dragged Zhusai to the shelf and heaved her body on to it. She rolled in the shallow water, face down. Talisman scrambled alongside her and, with his feet on solid rock, lifted her to his shoulder and climbed from the pool. Laying her down on her stomach he straddled her and pushed down against her back. Water bubbled from her mouth as again and again he applied pressure. Suddenly she coughed – then vomited. Talisman stood, then ran to her pony and unfastened her blanket. Zhusai was sitting up as he returned. Swiftly he wrapped the blanket around her.

‘I was dying,’ she said.