The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

Gargan, Lord of Larness, removed his helm and drew in a deep breath of hot desert air. The sun was beating down, shimmering heat hazes forming over the steppes. Twisting in the saddle, he glanced back along the column. One thousand lancers, eight hundred infantry Guardsmen and two hundred archers were moving slowly in line, dust rising in a cloud around them. Gargan tugged on the reins and cantered back along the column, past the water-wagons and supply carts. Two of his officers joined him and together they rode to the crest of a low hill where Gargan drew rein and scanned the surrounding landscape.

‘We will make camp by that ridge,’ said Gargan, pointing to a rocky outcrop some miles to the east. ‘There is a series of rock pools there.’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Marlham, a grizzled, white-bearded career officer coming close to mandatory retirement.

‘Put out a screen of scouts,’ Gargan ordered. ‘Any Nadir seen should be killed.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Gargan swung to the second officer, a handsome young man with clear blue eyes. ‘You, Premian, will take four companies and scout the marshes. No prisoners. All Nadir are to be treated as hostiles. Understand?’

‘Yes, Lord Gargan.’ The boy had not yet learned how to keep bis feelings from showing in his expression.

‘I had you transferred to this force,’ said Gargan. ‘Do you know why?’

‘No, Lord Gargan.’

‘Because you are soft, boy,’ snapped the general. ‘I saw it at the Academy. The steel in you – if steel there is – has not been tempered. Well, it will be during this campaign. I mean to soak the steppes in Nadir blood.’ Spurring his stallion, Gargan galloped down the hillside.

‘Watch yourself, my boy,’ said Marlham. ‘The man hates you.’

‘He is an animal,’ said Premian. ‘Vicious and malevolent.’

‘All of that,’ Marlham agreed. ‘He always was a hard man, but when his son disappeared . . . well, it did something to him. He’s never been the same since. You were there at the time, weren’t you?’

‘Aye. It was a bad business,’ said Premian. ‘There was to be an inquiry over the death of a cadet who fell from Argo’s window. On the night before the inquiry Argo vanished. We searched everywhere; his clothes were gone, as was a canvas shoulder-pack. We thought at first that he had feared being implicated in the boy’s death. But that was ridiculous, for Gargan would have protected him.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘Something dark,’ said Premian. With a flick of the reins he moved away, returning to the rear of the column and signalling his junior officers to join him. Swiftly he told them of their new orders. The news was greeted with relief by the two hundred men under his command, for it would mean no more swallowing the dust of the column.

While the men were being issued with supplies, Premian found himself thinking back to his last days at the Academy, that summer two years ago. Only Okai remained of the original Nadir contingent, his two comrades having been sent home after failing the toughest of the pre-final examinations. Their failure had concerned Premian, for he had worked with them and knew their mastery of the subjects was no less proficient than his own. And he had passed with a credit. Only Okai remained – a student so brilliant there was no way he could fail.. Even he, however, had barely scraped a pass.

Premian had voiced his concerns to the oldest – and best – of the tutors, a former officer named Fanlon. Late at night, in the old man’s study, he told Fanlon he believed the youths were unfairly dismissed.

‘We speak much of honour,’ said Fanlon sorrowfully, ‘but in reality it is in short supply. It always was. I was not allowed to take part in the judging of their papers; the Lord Larness and two of his cronies marked them. But I fear you are correct, Premian. Both Dalsh-chin and Lin-tse were more than capable students.’

‘Okai was allowed to pass. Why?’ asked Premian.

‘He is exceptional, that one. But he will not be allowed to graduate; they will find a way to mark him down.’