David Gemmell - The Legend of the Deathwalker

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.

Then, during a shift, a workman preparing support timbers broke the tip of his file. With a curse he strode back down the tunnel, seeking a replacement. Kzun picked up the tip; it was no longer than his thumb. Every sleep time for days and days he slowly filed away at the clasps of his ankle-chain. There was always noise in the tunnels, the roaring of underground rivers, the snoring of sleepers whose lungs were caked with dirt and dust. Even so Kzun was careful. Finally, having worked evenly on both clasps, the first gave way. Feverishly Kzun filed the second. This too fell clear. Rising, he made his way back down the tunnel to where the tools were stored. It was quieter here, and a man wearing chains would have been heard by the guards in the small chamber by the shaft. But Kzun was wearing no chains. Selecting a short-handled pick, he hefted it clear of the other tools and padded silently to the guards' chamber. There were two men inside; they were playing some kind of game, involving bone dice. Taking a deep breath Kzun leapt inside, swinging his pick into the back of the first man — the iron point driving through the rib-cage and bursting from his chest. Releasing the weapon, Kzun drew the dying man's knife and hurled himself across the table at the second guard. The man surged to his feet, scrabbling for his own knife, but he was too late. Kzun's weapon punched into his neck, down past the collar-bone and into his heart.

Swiftly Kzun stripped the man, then climbed into his clothes. The boots were too big, and he hurled them aside.

Moving to the shaft, he began to climb the iron rungs set into the stone. The sky was dark above him, and he saw the stars shining clear. A lump came to his throat then. Climbing more slowly, he reached the lip of the shaft and warily looked out. There was a cluster of buildings beyond, where they milled the ore, and a barracks for the guards. Scrambling clear, Kzun walked slowly across the open ground. The smell of horse came to him on the night breeze, and he followed it to a stable.

Stealing a fine horse, he rode from the settlement and out into the clean, sweet air of the mountains.

Returning to his village, he found that no-one recognized him as the young man taken only two years before. He had lost his hair, and his skin and face had the pallor of the recently dead. The teeth on the right side of his mouth had rotted away, and his once powerful body was now wolf-lean.

The Gothir had not come for him. They took no names of the Nadir 'picked men', nor had any record of which village they had raided to capture him.

Now Kzun heaved another slab of old stone into place and stepped back from the new wall. It was just under four feet high. A beautiful woman appeared alongside him, carrying a bucket of water in which was a copper ladle. She bowed deeply, and offered him a short scarf of white linen. 'It is for the head, Lord,' she said, formally.

'I thank you,' he replied, not smiling for fear of showing his ruined teeth. 'Who are you?' he asked, as he tied the scarf over his bald head.

'I am Zhusai, Talisman's woman.'

'You are very beautiful, and he is most fortunate.'

She bowed again and offered him a ladle of water. He drank deeply, then passed the bucket to his waiting men. 'Tell me, how is it that Talisman knows so much of the ways of the Gothir?'

'He was taken by them as a child,' answered Zhusai. 'He was a hostage. He was trained at the Bodacas Academy — as were Quing-chin and Lin-tse.'

'A janizary. I see. I have heard of them.'

'He is a great man, Lord.'

'Only a great man would deserve someone like you,' he said. 'I thank you for the scarf.'

With a bow she moved away and Kzun sighed. One of his men made a crude comment, and Kzun rounded on him. 'Not one more word, Chisk, or I will rip your tongue from your mouth!'

'How do you read the other leaders?' asked Talisman.

Lin-tse let the question hang for a moment, marshalling his thoughts. 'The weakest of them is Bartsai. He is old. He doesn't want to die. Quing-chin is as I remember him, brave and thoughtful. I am grateful to Gargan. Had he not been marching here with his army I would have been forced to kill Quing-chin. It would have scarred my soul. Kzun? The man has a demon within him. He is unhinged, Talisman, but I think he will stand tall.'

'And what of Lin-tse?'

'He is as you knew him. My people call me the Man with Two Souls. I do not think it is true, but the years at Bodacas changed me. I now have to try to be Nadir. It is worse for Quing-chin. He killed my best fighter — and refused to take his eyes. I would not have done that, Talisman, but I would have wished to. You understand?'

'I understand,' said Talisman. 'They took from us.But we also took from them. We will put it to good use here.'