David Gemmell - The Legend of the Deathwalker

Nuang swung his gaze to where Meng pointed. At this distance, through the heat haze, he could barely make out the riders, and just for a moment he envied the eyes of the young. 'No, we will not attack yet. They may be scouts from a larger force. Let them approach.'

Heeling his pony he rode down to the flat lands, his fourteen warriors alongside him, fanning out in a skirmish line. Summoning Meng, he said, 'What do you see, boy?'

'Still only two, Uncle. Gajin . One has a beard and wears a round black helm and a black jerkin with silver armour on the shoulders; the other is yellow-haired and carries no sword. He has knife-sheaths on his chest. Ah!'

'What?'

'The black-bearded one carries a great axe, with two shining blades. They ride Gothir horses, but are leading four saddled ponies.'

'I can see that myself now,' said Nuang testily. 'Go to the rear.'

'I want my part in the kill, Uncle!'

'You are not yet twelve, and you will obey me or feel my whip across your buttocks!'

'I'm almost thirteen,' contradicted Meng, but reluctantly he dragged on his reins and backed his pony to the rear of the group. Nuang Xuan waited, his gnarled hand resting on his ivory-hilted sabre. Slowly the two riders closed the distance until Nuang could see their features clearly. The fair-haired gajin was very pale, his manner betraying his nervousness and fear, his hands gripping the reins tightly and his body stiff in the saddle. Nuang flicked his gaze to the axeman. No fear could be seen in this one. Still, one man and a coward against fourteen? Surely now Nuang's luck had changed? The riders drew rein just ahead of the group and Nuang took a deep breath, ready to order his men to the attack. As he did so he looked at the axeman, and found himself staring into the coldest eyes he had ever seen — the colour of winter storm clouds, grey and unyielding. A nagging doubt struck him and he thought of his remaining sons and nephews, many of whom already carried wounds as their bloody bandages bore witness. The tension grew. Nuang licked his lips and prepared once more to give the signal. The axeman gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head; then he spoke, his voice deep and, if anything, colder than his stare. 'Think carefully about your decision, old one. It seems that luck has not favoured you recently,' he said. 'Your women outnumber your men by, what, three to one? And the riders with you look bloodied and weary.'

'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.'

'My man was a great fighter; he killed three Lancers. But he rutted like a dog on heat. Fast. Then he would sleep. You are not a fighter. What are you?'

'I am a scholar," he said, leaning in to her. 'I study many things — history, poetry, art. But most of all I study women. They fascinate me.' Lifting his hand he stroked his fingers through her long dark hair, pushing it back from her forehead. 'I love the smell of a woman's hair, the touch of skin upon skin, the softness of lips upon lips. And I am not fast.'

The woman smiled and said something in Nadir to her friends. All the women laughed. 'I am Niobe,' she told him. 'Let us see if you rut as well as you talk.'

Sieben smiled. 'I've always appreciated directness. But is this allowed? I mean, what of the. . ' He gestured towards the men at the camp-fires.

'You come with me,' she said, rising smoothly. 'I wish to see if what they say about gajin is true.' Reaching out, she took his hand and led him to a night-dark tent.

Back at the leader's fire, Nuang chuckled. 'Your friend has chosen to mount the tiger. Niobe has fire enough to melt any man's iron.'

'I think he will survive,' said Druss.

'You want a woman to warm your blankets?'

'No. I have a woman back home. What happened to your people? It looks as if you've been mauled.'

Nuang spat into the fire. 'Gothir Lancers attacked us, they came from nowhere on their huge horses. Twenty men I lost. You spoke with great truth when you said fortune has not favoured me. I must have done something to displease the Gods of Stone and Water. But it does no good to whine about it. Who are you? You are not Gothir. Where are you from?'