‘The woman sleeps,’ said Gorkai. ‘It looks as if there will be another fight today. The head of the boy who was killed now sits atop a pole at the Sky Rider camp. His comrades are determined to punish this insult.’
‘Stupidity,’ said Talisman.
‘It seems to be in our blood. Maybe the gods cursed us.’
Talisman nodded. ‘The curse came when the Eyes of Alchazzar were stolen. When they are returned to the Stone Wolf, then we shall see a new day.’
‘You believe this?’
‘A man must believe in something, Gorkai. Otherwise we are merely shifting grains of sand, blown by the wind. The Nadir number in their hundreds of thousands, perhaps in millions, and yet we live in squalor. All around us there is wealth, controlled by nations whose armies do not exceed twenty thousand men. Even here the four tribes guarding the Shrine cannot live in peace. Their purpose is identical – the Shrine they protect is of a man who is a hero to all Nadir – yet they stare at each other with undisguised hatred; I believe that will change. We will change it.’
‘Just you and I?’ asked Gorkai softly.
‘Why not?’
‘I have still seen no man with violet eyes,’ said Gorkai.
‘You will. I swear it.’
When Druss awoke Nosta Khan had gone. It was approaching dusk and Sieben was sitting by the poolside, his naked feet resting in the cool water. Druss yawned and stretched. Rising, he stripped off his jerkin, boots and leggings and leapt into the pool, where the water was welcomingly cool. Refreshed, he climbed out and sat beside the poet. ‘When did the little man leave?’ he asked.
‘Soon after you fell asleep,’ Sieben told him, his voice flat.
Druss looked into his friend’s face, and saw the lines of tension there. ‘You are concerned about the two thousand warriors heading for the Shrine?’
Sieben bit back an angry retort. ‘Concerned does not quite cover it, old horse. I see it doesn’t surprise you, though.’
Druss shook his head. ‘He told me he was repaying a debt because I helped his young friend. That is not the Nadir way. No, he wanted me at the Shrine because he knew there would be a battle.’
‘Oh, I see, and the mighty Druss the Legend will turn the tide, I suppose?’
Druss chuckled. ‘Perhaps he will, poet. Perhaps he will not. Whatever the answer, the only way I’ll find the jewels is if I go there.’
‘And what if there are no magical jewels? Suppose he lied about that also?’
‘Then Klay will die, and I will have done my best.’
‘It is all so simple for you, isn’t it?’ stormed Sieben. ‘Black and white, light and dark, pure or evil? Two thousand warriors are going to ransack that Shrine. You won’t stop them. And why should you even try? What is it about Klay that has touched you so? Other men have suffered grievous wounds before now. You have seen comrades cut down beside you for years.’
Druss stood and dressed, then he wandered to the horses and unhooked a sack of grain from the saddle pommel. From his pack he took two feed-bags and looped them over the ears of the mounts. Sieben joined him. ‘They say a grain-fed horse will outrun anything fed on grass,’ said Druss. ‘You are a horseman, is that true?’
‘Come on, Druss, answer my question, damn you! Why Klay?’
‘He reminds me of a man I never knew,’ answered Druss.
‘Never knew! What does that mean?’
‘It means that I must try to find the jewels, and I don’t give a damn about two thousand Gothir whoresons, or the entire Nadir nation. Leave it there, poet!’
The clatter of hooves sounded on the trail and both men swung towards the source of the noise. Six Nadir warriors, riding in single file, approached the pool. They were dressed in goatskin tunics and wore fur-rimmed helms. Each carried a bow and two short swords. ‘What do we do?’ whispered Sieben.
‘Nothing. Water-holes are sacred places and no Nadir will fight a battle at one. They’ll merely water their horses, then leave.’
‘Then what?’