David Gemmell: The Legend of the Deathwalker

Sieben smiled as he saw Druss's pale blue eyes narrow. The warrior's huge hand came up and idly tugged at his square-cut black beard — a sure sign of his growing irritation. 'You don't believe in appeasing the Gods?' asked Sieben innocently.

'Not with the blood of the innocent.'

'They went on to win, Druss. Therefore the sacrifice was worthwhile, surely?'

The axeman shook his head. 'If they believed the sacrifice would appease the Gods, then they would have been inspired to fight harder. But a good speech could have done that.'

'Supposing the Gods did demand that sacrifice, and therefore did help win the battle?'

'Then it would have been better lost.'

'Aha!' exclaimed Sieben triumphantly, 'but if it had been lost a far greater number of innocents would have been slain: women raped and murdered, babes slain in their cribs. How do you answer that?'

'I don't feel the need to. Most people can smell the difference between perfume and cow-dung; there's no need for a debate on it,'

'Come on, old horse, you're not stretching yourself. The answer is a simple one — the principles of good and evil are not based on mathematics. They are founded on the desire of individuals to do — or not to do — what is right and just, both in conscience and law.'

'Words, words, words! They mean nothing!' snapped Druss. 'The desire of individuals is what causes most evils. And as for conscience and law, what happens if a man has no conscience, and the law promotes ritual sacrifice? Does that make it good? Now stop trying to draw me in to another of your meaningless debates.'

'We poets live for such meaningless debates,' said Sieben, battling to hold back his anger. 'We tend to like to stretch our intelligence, to develop our minds. It helps to make us more aware of the needs of our fellows. You are in a sour mood today, Druss. I would have thought you would have been delirious at the thought of another fight to come, another man to bash your fists against. The Championship, no less. The cheers of the crowd, the adoration of your fellow-countrymen. Ah, the blood and the bruises and the endless parades and banquets in your honour!'

Druss swore and his face darkened. 'You know I despise all that.'

Sieben shook his head. 'Part of you might, Druss. The best part loathes the public clamour, yet how is it your every action always leads to more? You were invited here as a guest — an inspirational mascot, if you like. And what do you do? You break the jaw of the Drenai Champion — then take his place.'

'It was not my intention to cripple the man. Had I known his chin was made of porcelain, I would have struck him in the belly.'

'I am sure you would like to believe that, old horse. Just as I am sure I do not. Answer me this, how do you feel as the crowd roars your name?'

'I have had enough of this, poet. What do you want from me?'

Sieben took a deep, calming breath. 'Words are all we have to describe how we feel, what we need from one another. Without them how would we teach the young, or express our hopes for future generations to read? You view the world so simplistically, Druss, as if everything was either ice or fire. That in itself matters not a jot. But like all men with closed minds and small dreams you seek to mock what you can never comprehend. Civilizations are built with words, Druss. They are destroyed by axes. What does that tell you, axeman ?'

'Nothing I did not already know. Now, are we even yet?'

Sieben's anger fell away and he smiled. 'I like you, Druss, I always have. But you have the most uncanny power to irritate me.'

Druss nodded, his face solemn. 'I am not a thinker,' he said, 'but nor am I stupid. I am a man like so many others. I could have been a farmer, or a carpenter, even a labourer. Never a teacher, though, nor a cleric. Intellectual men make me nervous. Like that Majon.' He shook his head. 'I have met a great number of ambassadors and they all seem identical: easy, insincere smiles and gimlet eyes that don't miss a thing. What do they believe in? Do they have a sense of honour? Of patriotism? Or do they laugh at us common men, as they line their purses with our gold? I don't know much, poet, but I do know that men like Majon — aye, and you — can make all I believe in seem as insubstantial as summer snow. And make me look foolish into the bargain. Oh, I can understand how good and evil can come down to numbers. Like those women in the fountain. A besieging army could say, "Kill six women and we'll spare the city." Well, there's only one right answer to that. But I couldn't tell you why I know it is right.'

'But I can,' said Sieben, his anger fading. 'And it is something, in part at least, that I learned from you. The greatest evil we can perpetrate, is to make someone else do evil. The besieging army you speak of is actually saying: "Unless you commit a small evil act, we will commit a great one." The heroic response would naturally be to refuse. But diplomats and politicians are pragmatists, Druss. They live without any genuine understanding of honour. Am I right?'

Druss smiled and clapped Sieben's shoulder. 'Aye, poet, you are. But I know that without turning a hair you could argue the opposite. So let us call an end to this.'

'Agreed! We will call it even.'

Druss switched his gaze to the south. Below them lay the centre of Old Gulgothir, a tightly packed and apparently haphazard jumble of buildings, homes, shops and workplaces, intersected by scores of narrow alleyways and roads. The old Keep Palace sat at the centre, like a squat, grey spider. Once the residence of kings, the Keep Palace was now used as a warehouse and granary. Druss looked to the west and the new Palace of the God-King, a colossal structure of white stone, its columns adorned with gold leaf, its statues — mostly of the King himself — crowned with silver and gold. Ornate gardens surrounded the palace, and even from here Druss could see the splendour of the royal blooms and the flowering trees. 'Have you seen the God-King yet?' asked the warrior.

'I was close to the Royal Balcony while you were toying with the Lentrian. But all I saw were the backs of his guards. It is said he has his hair dyed with real gold.'

'What do you mean toying ? The man was tough, and I can still feel the weight of his blows.'

Sieben chuckled. 'Then wait until you meet the Gothir Champion, Druss. In combat the man is not human; it is said he has a punch like a thunderbolt. The odds are nine to one against you.'

'Then maybe I'll lose,' grunted Druss, 'but don't wager on it!'

'Oh, I won't be wagering a copper coin this time. I've met Klay. He is unique, Druss. In all the time I have known you I never met another man I thought could best you in combat. Until now.'

'Pah!' snorted Druss. 'I wish I had a gold raq for every tune someone has told me another man was stronger, or faster, or better, or more deadly. And where are they now?'

'Well, old horse,' answered Sieben coolly, 'they are mostly dead — slain by you in your endless quest to do what is good and pure and right.'

Druss's eyes narrowed. 'I thought you said we were even.'

Sieben spread his hands. 'Sorry. Couldn't resist it.'

The Nadir warrior known as Talisman ducked into the alleyway and loped along it. The shouts of his pursuers were muted now, but he knew he had not lost them. . not yet. Emerging into an open square, Talisman paused. There were many doors here — he counted six on each side of the square. 'This way! This way!' he heard someone shout. The moonlight shone brightly on the north and west walls as he ran to the south of the square and pressed his back against a recessed doorway. Here, in his long, black hooded cloak, he was all but invisible in the shadows. Talisman took a deep breath, fighting for calm. Absently his hand strayed towards his hip, where his long hunting-knife should have been. Silently he cursed. No Nadir warrior was allowed to carry weapons inside any Gothir city. He hated this place of stone and cobbles, with its seething masses and the resultant stench of humanity. Talisman longed for the open expanse of the Nadir steppes. Awesome mountains beneath a naked, burning sky, endless plains and valleys, where a man could ride for a year and never see another soul. On the steppes a man was alive. Not so here in this rats' nest of a city, its foul, polluted air carrying the bowel-stink of human excretions, thrown from windows to lie rotting in the alleyways, alongside other garbage and waste.