The Legend Of Deathwalker By David Gemmell

As the early-morning sun rose above the blackened earth of the camp-site, Gargan surveyed the wreckage. ‘The fire was set in the south,’ he told Premian. ‘Find the names of the night sentries in that section. Thirty lashes per man.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Less destruction than we might have expected,’ said the general.

‘Yes, sir. Though more than a thousand arrows were lost, and around eighty lances. I’m sorry about your manservant. We found his body behind the tent.’

‘Bren was a good man. Served me well. I took him out of the line when the rheumatic ruined his sword arm. Good man! They’ll pay for his death with a hundred of their own.’

‘We’ve also lost six water wagons, sir. With your permission I will adjust the daily ration to allow for the loss, and suspend the order that every Lancer must be clean-shaven daily.’

Gargan nodded. ‘We’ll not get all the horses back,’ he said. ‘Some of the younger ones will run clear back to Gulgothir.’

‘I fear you are correct, sir,’ said Premian.

‘Ah, well. Some of ‘our Lancers will have to be transferred to the infantry; it’ll make them value their mounts more in the future.’ Gargan hawked and spat. ‘Send four companies through the pass. I want reports on any Nadir movements. And prisoners. Last night’s attack was well executed; it reminds me of Adrius and the winter campaign, when he slowed the enemy army with fire.’

Premian was silent for a moment, but he saw that Gargan was staring at him, awaiting a response. ‘Okai was Wolfshead, sir. Not Curved Horn. In fact, I don’t believe we had any Curved Horn janizaries.’

‘You don’t know your Nadir customs, Premian. Four tribes guard the Shrine. Perhaps he is with them. I hope so. I would give my left arm to have him in my power.’

The moon was high above the Valley of Shul-sen’s Tears, and Talisman, weary to the bone, took a last walk to the battlements, stepping carefully over sleeping Nadir warriors. His eyes were gritty and tired, his body aching with unaccustomed fatigue as he slowly climbed the rampart steps. The new wooden platform creaked under his feet. In the absence of nails the planks had been tied into place; but it was solid enough, and tomorrow it would be more stable yet, as Bartsai and his men continued their work upon it. The fighting platform constructed by Kzun and his Lone Wolves was nearing completion. Kzun had worked well, tirelessly. But the man worried Talisman. Often during the day he would walk from the Shrine compound and stand out on the steppes. And now he was not sleeping with his men, but outside back at the former Lone Wolves camp.

Gorkai strode up to join him. On Talisman’s instructions, the former Notas had worked alongside Kzun’s men throughout the day. ‘What did you find out?’ asked Talisman, keeping his voice low.

‘He is a strange one,’ said Gorkai. ‘He never sleeps inside his tent; he takes his blankets out and spreads them under the stars. He has never taken a wife. And back in Curved Horn lands he lives alone, away from the tribe; he has no sword brothers.’

‘Why then was he placed in command of the Tomb Guards?’ asked Talisman.

‘He is a ferocious fighter. Eleven duels he has fought – he has not been cut once. All his enemies are dead. His men hate him, but they respect him.’

‘What is your evaluation?’

Gorkai shrugged, and scratched at the widow’s peak on his brow. ‘I don’t like him, Talisman, but if I was faced with many enemies I would want him by my side.’ Talisman sat down on the rampart wall and Gorkai looked at him closely. ‘You should sleep.’

‘Not yet. I have much to think on. Where is Nosta Khan?’

‘In the Shrine. He casts spells there,’ said Gorkai, ‘but he finds nothing. I heard him curse a while back.’

Gorkai gazed along the wall. When first he had seen the Shrine he had thought it small, but now the walls -at sixty paces each – looked ridiculously long. ‘Can we hold this place?’ he asked suddenly.

‘For a time,’ said Talisman. ‘Much depends on how many ladders the enemy have. If they are well equipped, they will sweep over us.’