David Gemmell: The Legend of the Deathwalker

Druss chuckled. 'You almost fooled me there, laddie. I thought you might be showing some respect for me.' He lay back and closed his eyes.

Pars and Pellin strolled away to where a servant stood holding a pitcher of cold water. Seeing them coming, the man filled two goblets. Pellin drained his and accepted a refill, while Pars sipped his slowly. 'You didn't tell him about the prophecy,' said Pars.

'Neither did you. He'll find out soon enough.'

'What do you think he'll do?' asked the bald runner.

Pellin shrugged. 'I have only known him for a month — but somehow I don't think he'll want to follow tradition.'

'He'll have to!' insisted Pars.

Pellin shook his head. 'He's not like other men, my friend. That Lentrian should have won — but he didn't. Druss is a force of nature, and I don't think politics will affect that one jot.'

'I'll wager twenty gold raq you are wrong.'

'I'll not take that bet, Pars. You see, I hope for all our sakes that you are right.'

From a private balcony high above the crowd, the giant, blond fighter Klay watched Druss deliver the knockout blow. The Lentrian carried too much weight on his arms and shoulders, and though it gave him incredible power the punches were too slow. . easy to read. But the Drenai made it worthwhile. Klay smiled.

'You find the man amusing, my Lord Klay?' Startled, the fighter swung round. The newcomer's face showed no expression, no flicker of muscle. It is like a mask, thought Klay — a golden Chiatze mask, tight and unlined. Even the jet-black hair, dragged back into the tightest of pony-tails, was so heavily waxed and dyed that it seemed false — painted on to the over-large cranium. Klay took a deep breath, annoyed that he could have been surprised on his own balcony, and angry that he had not heard the swish of the curtains, nor the rustle of the man's heavy ankle-length robe of black velvet.

'You move like an assassin, Garen-Tsen,' said Klay.

'Sometimes, my Lord, it is necessary to move with stealth,' observed the Chiatze, his voice gentle, melodic. Klay looked into the man's odd eyes, slanted as spear points. One was a curious brown, flecked with shards of grey; the other was as blue as a summer sky.

'Stealth is necessary only when among enemies, surely?' ventured Klay.

'Indeed so. But the best of one's enemies masquerade as friends. What is it about the Drenai that amuses you?' Garen-Tsen moved past Klay to the balcony's edge, staring down into the arena below. 'I see nothing amusing. He is a barbarian, and he fights like one.' He turned back, his fleshless face framed by the high, arched collar of his robe.

Klay found his dislike of the man growing, but masking his feelings he considered Garen-Tsen's question. 'He does not amuse me, Minister. I admire him. With the right training he could be very good indeed. And he is a crowd-pleaser. The mob always love a plucky warrior. And, by Heaven, this Druss lacks nothing in courage. I wish I had the opportunity to train him. It would make for a better contest.'

'It will be over swiftly, you think?'

Klay shook his head. 'No. There is a great depth to the man's strength. It is born of his pride, and his belief in his own invincibility; you can see it in him as he fights. It will be a long and arduous battle.'

'Yet you will prevail? As the God-King has prophesied?' For the first time Klay noticed a slight change in the Minister's expression.

'I should beat him, Garen-Tsen. I am bigger, stronger, faster, and better trained. But there is always a rogue element in any fight. I could slip, just as a punch connects. I could fall ill before the bout and be sluggish, lacking in energy. I could lose concentration, and allow an opening.' Klay gave a wide smile, for the Minister's expression was now openly worried.

'This will not happen,' he said. 'The prophecy will come true.'

Klay thought carefully before answering. 'The God-King's belief in me is a source of great pride. I shall fight all the better for it.'

'Good. Let us hope it has the opposite effect on the Drenai. You will be at the banquet this evening, my Lord? The God-King has requested your presence. He wishes you to sit alongside him.'

'It is a great honour,' answered Klay, with a bow.

'Indeed it is.' Garen-Tsen moved to the curtained doorway, then he swung back. 'You know an athlete named Lepant?'

'The runner? Yes. He trains at my gymnasium. Why?'

'He died this morning, during questioning. He looked so strong. Did you ever see signs of weakness in his heart? Dizziness, chest pain?'

'No,' said Klay, remembering the bright-eyed garrulous boy and his fund of jokes and stories. 'Why was he being questioned?'

'He was spreading slanders, and we had reason to believe he was a member of a secret group pledged to the assassination of the God-King.'

'Nonsense. He was just a stupid boy who told bad-taste jokes.'

'So it would appear,' agreed Garen-Tsen. 'Now he is a dead boy, who will never again tell a bad-taste joke. Was he a very talented runner?'

'No.'

'Good. Then we have lost nothing.' The odd-coloured eyes stared at Klay for several seconds. 'It would be better, my Lord, if you ceased to listen to jokes. In cases of treason there is guilt by association.'

'I shall remember your advice, Garen-Tsen.'

After the Minister had departed Klay wandered down to the Arena gallery. It was cooler here, and he enjoyed walking among the many antiquities. The gallery had been included on the Arena plans at the insistence of the King — long before his diseased mind had finally eaten away his reason. There were some fifty stalls and shops here, where discerning buyers could purchase historical artefacts or beautifully made copies. There were ancient books, paintings, porcelain, even weapons.

People in the gallery stopped as he approached, bowing respectfully to the Gothir Champion. Klay acknowledged each salutation with a smile, and a nod of his head. Though huge, he moved with the easy grace of the athlete, always in balance and always aware. He paused before a bronze statue of the God-King. It was a fine piece, but Klay felt the addition of lapis lazuli for the pupils too bizarre in a face of bronze. The merchant who owned the piece stepped forward. He was short and stout, with a forked beard and a ready smile. 'You are looking very fine, my Lord Klay,' he said. 'I watched your fight — what little there was of it. You were magnificent.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'To think your opponent travelled so far only to be humiliated in such a fashion!'

'He was not humiliated, sir, merely beaten. He had earned his right to face me by competing against a number of very good fist-fighters. And he had the misfortune to slip on the sand just as I struck him.'

'Of course, of course! Your humility does you great credit, my Lord,' said the man, smoothly. 'I see you were admiring the bronze. It is a wonderful work by a new sculptor. He will go far.' He lowered his voice. 'For anyone else, my Lord, the price would be one thousand in silver. But for the mighty Klay I could come down to eight hundred.'

'I have two busts of the Emperor; he gave them to me himself. But thank you for your offer.'

Klay moved away from the man and a young woman stepped before him. She was holding the hand of a fair-haired boy of around ten years of age. 'Pardon me, Lord, for this impertinence,' she said, bowing deeply, 'but my son would dearly like to meet you.'

'Not at all,' said Klay, dropping to one knee before the boy. 'What is your name, lad?'

'Atka, sir,' he replied. 'I saw all your fights so far. You are. . you are wonderful.'

'Praise indeed. Will you watch the final?'

'Oh, yes, sir. I shall be here to see you thrash the Drenai. I watched him too. He almost lost.'