David Gemmell - The Legend of the Deathwalker

Gargan walked on, scanning the camp for signs of disorderliness or complacency. He found none, save that one of the latrine trenches was dug in an area where the prevailing wind would carry the stench back into the camp. He noted it in his mind. Two Nadir heads had been tied to a pole outside one tent. A group of Lancers were sitting around a camp-fire close by. When Gargan strode up, the men leapt to their feet, saluting smartly.

'Bury them,' said Gargan. 'They are attracting flies and mosquitoes.'

'Yes, sir!' they chorused.

Gargan returned to his tent. Sitting down at the table, he took quill and ink and wrote a short letter to Mirkel, congratulating her and stating his hope and his intention to be with her soon. 'Take good care of little Argo,' he wrote. 'Do not rely on wet-nurses. A child draws much from his mother's milk, taking in not only nourishment but also spirit and courage. One should never allow a babe of noble birth to suckle at a common breast. It dissipates character.'

Travelling carefully, using dry gullies and low terrain, Quing-chin and his nine riders avoided the Gothir patrols. As darkness fell they were hidden to the south of the Gothir encampment. His friend, Shi-da, crept alongside him as he knelt behind a screen of dry bushes, scanning the camp.

The night breeze was picking up, blowing from the south-east. Shi-da tapped Quing-chin's shoulder. 'It is done, my brother.'

Quing-chin settled back on his haunches. The breeze was picking up. 'Good.'

'When?' asked Shi-da, eagerness showing on his young face.

'Not yet. We wait until they settle for the night.'

'Tell me of Talisman,' said Shi-da, settling down alongside him. 'Why is he the chosen one? He is not as strong as you.'

'Strength of body counts for nothing in a general,' said Quing-chin. 'He has a mighty heart, and a mind sharper than a dagger.'

'You also have a great heart, my brother.'

Quing-chin smiled. The boy's hero-worship was a source of both irritation and delight. 'I am the hawk, he is the eagle. I am the wolf, he is the tiger. One day Talisman will be a war leader among the Nadir. He will lead armies, little brother. He has a mind for. .' He hesitated. There was no Nadir word for logistics. 'A mind for planning,' he said, at last. 'When an army marches it must be supplied. It needs food and water and, just as important, it needs information. It takes a rare man to be able to plan for all eventualities. Talisman is such a man.'

'He was at the Academy with you?'

'Yes. And at the last he was the Honour Student, beating all others.'

'He fought them all?'

'In a way.' Behind them a pony whinnied and Quing-chin glanced back to where the others were hidden. 'Get back to them,' he said, 'and tell Ling that if he does not control his pony better than that I shall send him back in disgrace.'

As the boy eased himself back from the gully's crest Quing-chin settled down to wait. Fanlon had often said that a captain's greatest gift was patience — knowing when to strike, and having the nerve to wait for the right moment.

As the air cooled the wind would increase. So too would the moisture, caused by the change in temperature. All these factors combined to make good timing essential. Quing-chin looked out at the enemy camp, and felt his anger rise. They were not in defensive formation, as was required when in enemy territory. There was no outer perimeter of fortifications. They had constructed the encampment according to the regulations for a peace-time manoeuvre: five picket lines, each with two hundred horses, the tents set out in squares by regiment. How arrogant they were, these gajin. How well they understood Nadir mentality.

Three Gothir scouts came riding from the east. Quing-chin ducked down below the crest until they had passed. They were talking as they rode, and laughing. Tomorrow there would be no laughter; they would be biting upon a leather strap as the whip lashed their backs.

Quing-chin carefully made his way down the slope to where his men were waiting. Tinder and brush had been packed into a net of twine, and tied to a long rope. 'Now is the time,' he said.

Shi-da stepped forward. 'May I ride the fire?' he asked.

'No.' The boy's disappointment was intense but Quing-chin walked past him, stopping before a short, bow-legged warrior. 'You have the glory, Nien,' he said. 'Remember, ride south for at least a quarter of a mile before releasing the rope. Not too fast, then double back along the line.'

'It will be done,' said the man. Swiftly they mounted and rode to the top of the gully. Quing-chin and two others leapt from their saddles and, using tinder-boxes, lit the tinder bundle tied behind Nien's pony. Flames licked up, then roared into life.

Nien kicked his horse and set off at a slow trot across the dry grass of the steppes. Fire flickered behind him, and dark oily smoke spiralled up. The wind fanned the blaze, and soon a roaring wall of flames swept towards the Gothir camp.

'Might I enquire, sir, the purpose of this mission?' asked Premian, as he and the other ten senior officers gathered in Gargan's tent.

'You may,' said the general. 'Our intelligence reports show that a Nadir uprising is planned, and it is our duty to see that it does not happen. Reports have been gathered and compiled showing that the Curved Horn tribe have been mustering for a major raid on the lands around Gulgothir. We shall crush this tribe; it will send a message to other Nadir chieftains. First, however, we shall march to the Shrine of Oshikai and dismantle it stone by stone. The bones of their hero will be crushed to powder and scattered upon the steppes.'

The veteran Marlham spoke up. 'But surely, sir, the Shrine is a holy place to all the tribes. Will this not be seen by all the leaders as provocation?'

'Indeed it will,' snarled Gargan. 'Let them know, once and for all, that they are a slave race. Would that I could bring an army of forty thousand into the steppes. By Shemak, I would slay them all!'

Premian was tempted to speak again, but Gargan had been drinking and his face was flushed, his temper short. He was leaning on the desk, the muscles of his arms sharp and powerful in the lantern light, his eyes gleaming. 'Does any man here have a problem with this mission?'

The other officers shook their heads. Gargan straightened and moved round the desk, looming over the shorter Premian. 'How about you? As I recall you have a soft spot for these scum.'

'I am a soldier, sir. It is my duty to carry out all orders given to me by a superior officer.'

'But you don't agree with them, do you?' sneered Gargan, pushing his bearded face so close to Premian's that the officer could smell the sour taste of wine upon the other's breath.

'It is not my place to disagree with policy, sir.'

'Not my place,' mimicked Gargan. 'No, sir, it is not your place. Do you know how many tribesmen there are?'

'No, sir.'

'No, sir. Neither do I, boy. Nor does any man. But they are numberless. Can you imagine what would happen if they joined together, under one leader? They would sweep over us like a tide.' He blinked and returned to his table, sitting heavily on the canvas chair which groaned under the sudden weight. 'Like a tide,' he mumbled. Sucking in a great breath, he fought to overcome the wine in his system. 'They must be humbled. Crushed. Demoralized.'

A commotion began outside, and Premian heard men shouting. With the other officers he left the tent. A wall of flame was lighting the night sky, and smoke was swirling around the camp. Horses began whinnying in fear. Premian swung his gaze around the camp. The fire would sweep right over it. 'The water wagons!' he yelled. 'Harness the wagons!' Premian began to run across the camp to where the twenty wagons had been drawn up in a square. Each carried sixteen barrels. A man ran by him in panic and Premian grabbed his shoulder. 'Fetch horses for the wagons,' he said, his voice ringing with authority.