The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

‘That is good. Describe it to me.’

‘It is twelve miles to the east, and high in the mountains. It is very deep and cold, and is full even in the driest seasons.’

‘How easy is it to approach?’

Bartsai shrugged. ‘As I said, it is high. There is only one path to it, snaking up through the passes.’

‘Could wagons reach it?’

‘Yes, though the trail would have to be cleared of large rocks.’

‘How would you defend it?’

‘Why would I defend it?’ countered Bartsai. ‘The enemy is coming here!’

‘They will need water, Bartsai. It must be denied them.’

Bartsai grinned, showing broken teeth. ‘That is so, Talisman. With fifty men I could hold the trail against any army.’

‘Fifty cannot be spared. Pick twenty – the finest you have.’

‘I will lead them myself,’ said Bartsai.

‘No, you are needed here. As the Gothir approach, other Curved Horn riders will come to the Shrine and they will look to you for leadership.’

Bartsai nodded. ‘This is true. Seven came in last night, and I have men scouting for others.’ The older man sighed. ‘I have lived for almost fifty years, Talisman. And I have dreamt of fighting the Gothir. But not like this – a handful of men in a rotting shrine.’

‘This is only the beginning, Bartsai. I promise you that.’

Kzun heaved another rock into place and stepped back, wiping sweat from his face with a grimy hand. For three hours he and his men had been moving stone blocks from the ruined tower and packing them against the west wall, just below the crack, creating a platform that Talisman had ordered to be twenty feet long, ten feet wide and five feet tall. It was back-breaking work, and some of his men had complained. But Kzun silenced them; he would suffer no whining before the other tribesmen.

He glanced to where Talisman was deep in conversation with the long-faced Sky Rider, Lin-tse. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He hated the work, for it reminded him of the two years he had spent in the Gothir gold-mines to the north. He shivered at the memory, remembering the day when he had been dragged in ankle-chains to the mouth of the shaft and ordered to climb down. They had not removed the chains, and twice Kzun’s feet had slipped and he had hung in darkness. Eventually he had arrived at the foot of the shaft where two guards carrying torches had been waiting. One smashed a fist into Kzun’s face, propelling him into the wall. ‘That’s to remind you, dung-monkey, to obey every order you hear. Instantly!’ The fifteen-year-old Kzun had struggled to his feet and looked up into the man’s bearded, ugly face. He saw the second blow coming, but could not avoid it. It split his lips and broke his nose. ‘And that is to tell you that you never look a guard in the eyes. Now get up and follow.’

Two years in the dark followed, with weeping sores on his ankles where the chains bit, boils upon his back and neck, and the kiss of the whip when his weary body failed to move at the speed the guards demanded. Men died around him, their spirits broken long before their bodies surrendered to the dark. But Kzun would not be broken. Every day he chipped at the tunnel walls with his pick of iron, or a short-handled shovel, gathering up baskets of rock and hauling them back to the carts drawn by blind ponies. And every sleep time – for who could tell what was day and what was night? – he would fall to the ground upon the order and rest his exhausted body on the rock of the ever-lengthening tunnel. Twice the tunnel at the face collapsed, killing miners. Kzun was half-buried in the second fall, but dug himself clear before the rescuers came.

Most of the slave workers around him were Gothir criminals, petty thieves and house-breakers. The Nadir contingent were known as ‘picked men’. In Kzun’s case this meant that a troop of Gothir soldiers had ridden in to his village and arrested all the young men they could find. Seventeen had been taken. There were mines all over the mountains here, and Kzun had never seen his friends again.