David Gemmell - The Legend of the Deathwalker

Gargan and the senior tutors stood on the raised stage at the south end of the hall as the two hundred senior cadets filed in. This time Premian looked squarely at the general, who was now wearing the full armour of his rank, gilded breastplate and the white cloak of a senior Guards officer. Behind him, set on wooden stands, were scores of shining sabres. When the cadets had taken up their positions, Gargan moved to the front of the stage.

His voice thundered out. 'One hundred and forty-six cadets have passed the final examination and will receive their sabres this day,' he said. 'A further seventeen passed with credit. One cadet gained an honour pass. Thirty-six failed, and leave this honoured place bearing the shame earned by their slothful behaviour. In the time-honoured tradition we will begin with the passes, and progress to the honour-cadet. As your disc number is called, move forward.'

One by one the cadets moved forward and handed in their discs, receiving their sabres and bowing to their tutors, before marching to the back of the hall and standing in rank.

The credit students followed. Premian was not among them, nor was Okai. Premian's mouth was dry; he was standing close to the stage and staring up at Gargan. 'Now,' said Gargan, 'we come to the Honour Student — the cream of the Academy, and a man whose martial skills will help to maintain the glory of Gothir.' Turning, he took the last sabre from the stand. Its blade was shining silver steel, its hilt embellished with gold. 'Step forward, number seventeen.'

Okai marched from the ranks and up the short wooden steps as whispers began all around the hall. Premian focused on Gargan's broad face; the man's eyes widened, and Premian saw his jaw twitch. He stood silently, staring with undisguised hatred at the young Nadir.

'There has been a mistake,' he said at last. 'This cannot be! Fetch his paper!'

There was silence in the hall as the Chief Prefect ran from the stage. Minutes passed and no-one moved or spoke. The Chief Prefect returned and handed the sheaf of papers to Gargan, who stood and studied them. Fanlon stepped forward. 'There is no question as to the handwriting, Lord Gargan,' he said softly. 'These are Okai's papers. And I see that you marked them yourself. There can be no mistake.'

Gargan blinked. Okai stepped forward, hand outstretched. Gargan stared at him, then looked down at the sabre in his own trembling hands. Suddenly he thrust the sabre at Fanlon. 'You give it to him!' he hissed. And he strode from the stage.

The elderly tutor smiled at Okai. 'This was well-merited, young man,' he said, his voice carrying to all in the hall. 'For five years you have endured much, both in physical hardship and emotional cruelty. For what it is worth — and I hope it is something — you have my respect and my admiration. I hope that when you go from here you will carry with you some fond memories. Would you like to say a few words to your fellow cadets?'

Okai nodded. Stepping forward, he stood and ran his gaze over the assembled cadets. 'I have learned much here,' he said. 'One day I will put that knowledge to good use.' Without another word he walked from the stage, and out of the hall.

Fanlon followed him from the stage and approached Premian. 'I shall appeal on your behalf and have your papers re-examined.'

'Thank you, sir. For everything. You were right about the discs. I saw Jashin's fingers were closed as he dipped his hand into the bag; he already had a disc ready for Okai.'

'Jashin will be in serious trouble,' said Fanlon. 'Lord Gargan is not a forgiving man.'

Later that day Premian was summoned to Gargan's study. The general was still in his armour, and his face was grey. 'Sit down, boy,' he said. Premian obeyed. 'I am going to ask you a question, and I put you on your honour to answer it with truth.'

'Yes sir,' answered Premian, with a sinking heart.

'Is Okai a friend of yours?'

'No, sir. We rarely speak; we have little in common. Why do you ask, sir?'

For a long moment Gargan stared at him, then he sighed. 'It does not matter. It broke my heart to see him take the sabre. However, that is of no interest to you. I called you here to tell you there has been an error in the marking. You have gained a credit pass.'

'Thank you, sir. How. . did it happen?'

'It was an honest mistake, and I hope you will accept my apologies for it.'

'Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.'

Premian had left the study and returned to his room, where at midnight he was awakened by a tapping at the door. Rising, he lifted the latch. Okai stood there; the Nadir was fully dressed for travel. 'You are leaving? But the prize-giving is not until tomorrow.'

'I have my sabre,' said Okai. 'I came to thank you. I had thought Gothir honour was all sham. I was wrong.'

'You have suffered here, Okai, but you emerged triumphant and I admire you for it. Where will you go now?'

'Back to my tribe.'

Premian held out his hand and Okai shook it. As the Nadir turned away Premian spoke: 'Do you mind if I ask a question?'

'Not at all.'

'When we were at the burial of your friend, Zhen-shi, you opened the coffin and pressed a small package into his hand. There was blood on it. I have often wondered what it was. Is it part of some Nadir ritual?'

'Yes,' said Okai. 'It gave him a servant in the next life.'

With that Okai walked away.

Three days later, after continuing complaints of a bad smell coming from behind a wall in the new section of the north tower, labourers dug out several blocks of stone. Behind them they found a rotting body, from which the eyes had been cut out.

Nuang Xuan was a wily old fox, and he would never have brought his people into Chop-back territory had fortune not ceased to smile upon him. Shading his eyes he scanned the surrounding land, pausing at the pinnacles of rock to the west. His nephew Meng rode alongside. 'Are they the Towers of the Damned?' he asked, keeping his voice low so as not to invoke the spirits who dwelt there.

'They are indeed,' Nuang told the boy, 'but we will not be going close enough for the demons to strike us.' The boy reined his pony round, galloping back to the little convoy. Nuang's gaze followed him. Fourteen warriors, fifty-two women and thirty-one children; not a great force with which to enter such lands. But then who could have supposed that a Gothir cavalry force would be so close to the Mountains of the Moon? When Nuang had led the raid on the Gothir farmers of the marches, seeking to seize horses and goats, he had done so in the knowledge that no soldiers had been stationed there for five years. He had been lucky to escape with fourteen men when the Lancers charged. More than twenty of his warriors had been-hacked down in that first charge, among them two of his sons and three nephews. With the cursed gajin following his trail, he had no choice but to lead the remnants of his people into this cursed place.

Nuang kicked his pony into a run and rode to the high ground, squinting against the morning sun and studying the back trail. There was no sign of the Lancers. Perhaps they too feared the Chop-backs. Yet why had they been so close to the marches? No Gothir force ever entered the eastern flat lands, save in time of war. Were they at war with someone? The Wolfshead perhaps, or the Green Monkeys? No, surely he would have heard from passing merchants and traders.

It was a mystery, and Nuang disliked mysteries. Once more he glanced at his small company — too small now to build his clan into a full tribe. I will have to lead them back to the north, he thought. He hawked and spat. How they would laugh when Nuang begged for re-admittance to the tribal grounds. Nuang No-luck, they would call him.

Meng and two of the other young men galloped their ponies up the rise. Meng arrived first. 'Riders,' he said, pointing to the west. ' Gajin , two of them. Can we kill them, Uncle?' The boy was excited, his dark eyes gleaming.