The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

The lioness moved warily forward, her great head sniffing the air. Satisfied that her family was safe she edged to the pool, the cubs gambolling behind her. The last of the cubs leapt upon the back of one of the others and commenced a play fight. The lioness ignored them and drank deeply. She was thin, her pelt patchy. When she had drunk her fill, she moved into the shade and lay beside Nosta Khan. The cubs followed her, nuzzling her teats. One scrambled over Nosta Khan’s bare legs, then settled down in the old man’s lap with its head resting on his thigh.

Reaching out, he laid his hand on the lioness’s broad head. She did not flinch. Nosta Khan allowed his mind to float free. High above the hills he floated, scanning the folds and gullies. Less than a mile to the east he found a small family group of ochpi, wild mountain goats with short curved horns. There was a male, three females, and several young. Returning to his body, Nosta touched the lioness with his spirit. Her head came up, nostrils flaring. There was no way she could pick up the scent from this distance, with the wind against her, but Nosta Khan filled her mind with the vision of the ochpi. The lioness rose, scattering the cubs, then she loped away. At first the cubs remained where they were, but she gave a low growl and they ran after her.

With luck she would feed.

Nosta sat back, and waited. The riders would be here within the hour. He pictured the axeman, his broad, flat face and deep, cold eyes. Would that all these Southerners could be so easily manipulated, he thought, remembering his spirit meeting in the tavern. Once outside it had been so easy to mesmerize the crossbow man and command him to shoot down the Gothir fighter. Nosta recalled with pleasure the flight of the bolt, the sickening impact, and the intense shock of the crossbow man when he realized what he had done.

The threads were drawing together well now, but there was so much still to weave. Nosta rested his body and his mind, floating in half-sleep in the warmth.

Two riders came into view. The shaman took a deep breath and focused, as he had when the lioness came to the pool. He was a rock, eternal, unchanging, save to the slow eroding winds of time. The lead rider, a tall, slim young man with fair hair, dressed in garish silks, dis-mounted smoothly, holding firm to the reins, preventing the steel-dust gelding from reaching the cool water. ‘No yet, my lovely,’ he said softly. ‘First we must cool you down.’ The second rider, the black-bearded axeman lifted his leg over the saddle pommel and jumped down His mount was old, and more than tired. Laying his axe to the ground Druss unbuckled the saddle, hauling it clear of the mare’s back. She was lathered in sweat and breathing heavily; he wiped her down with a cloth and tethered her next to the tall gelding in the partial shade of the east side of the pool. The fair one moved to the pool and stripped off his clothing, shaking off the dust and folding it neatly. His body was pale as ivory, smooth and soft. No warrior this, thought Nosta Khan as the young man dived into the water. Druss gathered his axe and moved to the shade where Nosta Khan sat. Squatting down he cupped his hands and drank, then splashed water to his thick dark hair and beard.

Nosta Khan closed his eyes and reached out to touch Druss’s arm and read his thoughts. An iron grip closed around his wrist and his eyes flared open. Druss was looking directly at him.

‘I have been waiting for you,’ said Nosta, fighting for calm.

‘I do not like men creeping up on me,’ said the axeman, his voice cold. Nosta glanced down at the pool and the tension eased from him. The Spell of Concealment had not failed him, Druss had merely seen the reflection of his hand upon the water. Druss released his grip and drank once more.

‘You are seeking the Healing Jewels, eh? That is good. A man should stand by his friends in their darkest moments.’