The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

‘Perhaps our fortune has changed,’ Nuang heard himself say.

‘Perhaps it has,’ agreed the rider. ‘I am in a mood for trade. I have four Nadir ponies, and a few swords and bows.’

‘You have a fine axe. Is that also for trade?’

The man smiled; it was not a comforting sight. ‘No, this is Snaga, which in the Old Tongue means the Sender, the blade of no return. Any man who wishes to test her name need only ask.’

Nuang felt the men around him stirring. They were young and, despite their recent losses, eager for battle. Suddenly he felt the full weight of his sixty-one years. Swinging his horse, he ordered his men to prepare for a night camp close to the towers of rock, and sent out riders to watch for signs of any enemy force. He was obeyed instantly. Turning back to the axeman, he forced a smile. ‘You are welcome in our camp. Tonight we will talk of trade.’

Later, as dusk fell, he sat at a small fire with the axeman and his companion. ‘Would it not be safer within the rocks?’ asked the black-bearded warrior.

‘Safer from men,’ Nuang told him. ‘They are the Towers of the Damned and demons are said to stalk the passes. An ancient sorcerer is entombed there, his devils with him. At least, that is how the stories tell it. Now, what do you desire in exchange for those scrawny ponies ?’

‘Food for the journey, and a guide to take us to the next water, and then on to the Shrine of Oshikai Demon-bane.’

Nuang was surprised, but his expression remained neutral. What would gajin seek at the Shrine? ‘That is a difficult journey, and perilous. These are the lands of the Chop-backs. Two men and a guide would be . . . tempting . . . prey.’

‘They have already been tempted,’ the axeman told him. ‘That is why we have ponies and weapons to trade.’

Bored by the continued bartering, Sieben stood and wandered away from the fire. The Nadir clan had pitched their tents in a rough circle and erected wind-screens between them. The women were cooking over small fires, the men sitting in three small groups sharing jugs of lyrrd – a liquor fermented from rancid goats’ milk. Despite the fires and the screens the night was cold. Sieben moved to the horses and unstrapped his blanket, tossing it carelessly over his shoulders. When he had first seen the Nadir riders he had assumed that death would be swift, despite the awesome power of Druss. Now, however, reaction had set in and he felt an almost overwhelming sense of fatigue. A young Nadir woman rose from a cooking-fire and brought him a wooden bowl of braised meat. She was tall and slim, her lips full and tempting. Sieben forgot his weariness instantly as he thanked her and smiled. She moved away without a word, and Sieben’s eyes lingered on her swaying hips. The meat was hot and heavily spiced, the flavour new to him, and he ate with relish, returning the bowl to where the woman sat with four others. He squatted down among them. ‘A meal fit for a prince,” he told her. ‘I thank you, my lady.’

‘I am not your lady,’ she said, her voice flat and disinterested.

Sieben flashed his best smile. ‘Indeed, no, which is my loss I am sure. It is merely an expression we. . . gajin use. What I am trying to say is: Thank you for your kindness, and for the quality of your cooking.’

‘You have thanked me three times, and dog is not difficult to prepare,’ she told him, ‘as long as it has been hung until the worms appear in the eye-sockets.’

‘Delightful,’ he said. ‘A tip I shall long remember.’

‘And it mustn’t be too old,’ she continued. ‘Young dogs are better.’

‘Of course,’ he said, half rising.

Suddenly she cocked her head and her eyes met his. ‘My man was killed,’ she said, ‘by Gothir Lancers. Now my blankets are cold, and there is no-one to stir my blood on a bitter night.’

Sieben sat down again more swiftly than he had intended. ‘That is a tragedy,’ he said softly, looking deep into her almond-shaped eyes. ‘A beautiful woman should never suffer the solitude of a cold blanket.’