David Gemmell - The Legend of the Deathwalker

She awoke then, and raised herself up on one elbow. 'Why you smile, po-et?' she asked him.

'Why not? It is a fine night.'

'You wish to make love?'

'No, but I would appreciate a hug. Come close.'

'You are very warm,' she said, snuggling alongside him and resting her arm on his chest.

'What do you want from life?' he whispered.

'Want? What is there to want? Apart from a good man and strong babies?'

'And that is all?'

'Rugs,' she said, after thinking for a few moments. 'Good rugs. And a fire-bucket of iron. My uncle had a fire-bucket of iron; it heated the tent on the cold nights.'

'What about rings and bracelets, items of gold and silver?'

'Yes, those too,' she agreed. 'You will give these to me?'

'I think so.' Turning his head, he kissed her cheek. 'Amazing as it might seem, I have fallen in love with you. I want you with me. I will take you to my own land and buy you an iron fire-bucket and a mountain of rugs.'

'And the babies?'

'Twenty if you want them.'

'Seven. I want seven.'

'Then seven it will be.'

'If you are mocking me, po-et, I will cut out your heart.'

Sieben chuckled. 'No mockery, Niobe. You are the greatest treasure I ever found.'

Sitting up she looked around the large hospital. 'Everyone is sleeping,' she said suddenly.

'Yes.'

'I think some must have died.'

'I don't believe so,' he told her. 'In fact I am sure that is not the case — just as I am sure none will wake for several hours. So let us return to your earlier offer.'

'Now you want love-making?'

'Indeed I do. Maybe for the first time in my life.'

Master Sergeant Jomil pressed his thick fingers to the cut on his face, trying to stem the flow of blood. Sweat trickled into the shallow wound, the salt stinging him, and he cursed. 'You are slowing down, Jomil,' said Premian.

'Little bastard almost took my eye out. . sir,' he added.

The bodies of the Nadir defenders were dragged from the rocks and laid in a line away from the pool. The fourteen Gothir dead had been wrapped in their cloaks, the bodies of the six slain Lancers tied across the saddles of their mounts, the infantry buried where they had fallen.

'By the Blood of Missael, they put up a fight, didn't they, sir?' said Jomil.

Premian nodded. 'They were fighting for pride and love of land. There is no greater motivation.' Premian himself had led the charge up the slope, while the infantry stormed the rocks. Weight of numbers had carried the day, but the Nadir had fought well. 'You'll need stitches in that face wound. I'll attend to it presently.'

'Thank you, sir,' replied Jomil, without enthusiasm.

Premian grinned at him. 'How is it that a man can face swords, axes, arrows and spears without flinching, yet be terrified of a small needle and a length of thread?'

'I get to whack the buggers with the swords and axes,' said Jomil. Premian laughed aloud, then moved to the poolside. The water was deep, clear and cool. Kneeling, he cupped his hands and drank deeply, then rising, he walked to the line of Nadir dead. Eighteen men, some of them little more than boys. Anger churned inside him: what a wasted exercise this was. What a futile little war! Two thousand highly trained Gothir soldiers marching through a wasteland to sack a Shrine.

Yet something was wrong, Premian could feel it. An invisible worry nagged at his subconscious. An infantry soldier approached him and saluted. The man had a bloody bandage around his scalp.

'Can we start cook-fires, sir?' he asked.

'Yes, but move further into the rocks. I don't want the smoke to spook the wagon horses when they arrive. It'll be hard enough getting them up the slope.'

'Yes, sir.'

Premian walked to his horse and took needle and thread from his saddle-bag. Jomil saw him and cursed under his breath. Only two hours past dawn, and already the heat was formidable, radiating from the red rocks. Premian knelt by Jomil's side and eased the flap of skin into place over his right cheekbone. Expertly he stitched the wound. 'There,' he said, at last, 'now you'll have a fine scar to bewitch the ladies.'

'I already have more than enough scars to brag of,' grumbled Jomil. Then he grinned. 'You remember that battle outside Lincairn Pass, sir?'

'Yes. You received an unfortunate wound, I recall.'

'I don't know about unfortunate. The ladies love the story about that one. Not sure why.'

'Buttock wounds are always a source of great merriment,' said Premian. 'As I recall, you were awarded forty gold crowns for bravery. Did you save any of it?'

'Not a copper of it. I spent most of it on strong drink, fat women and gambling. The rest I wasted.' Premian glanced back at the Nadir dead. 'Something bothering you, sir?' asked Jomil.

'Yes. . but I don't know what.'

'You expected there to be more of them, sir?'

'Perhaps a few.' Premian strolled to the line of dead warriors, then called out to a young Gothir Lancer. The man ran to his side. 'You were involved in the first attack. Which of these is the leader?' The Lancer gazed down at all the faces.

'It is hard to say, sir. They all look alike to me, vomit-coloured and slant-eyed.'

'Yes, yes,' said Premian irritably. 'But what do you remember of the man?'

'He had a white scarf over his head. Oh. . and rotting teeth. I remember that. They were yellow and black. Vile.'

'Check the teeth of the dead,' ordered Premian. 'Find him for me.'

'Yes, sir,' replied the man, without enthusiasm.

Moving back to Jomil, he reached out, taking the man's extended hand and hauling him to his feet. 'Time to work, sergeant,' he said. 'Get the infantry out on the slope. I want all the boulders pushed from the trail. We've fourteen wagons on the way, and it will be bad enough trying to get them up the slope without needing to negotiate them through a maze of scattered rocks.'

'Yes, sir.'

The Lancer returned from his examination of the corpses. 'He's not there, sir; he must have run off.'

'Run off? A man who would leap from rock twenty feet high and launch himself into a group of Lancers? A man who could inspire his warriors to die for him? Run off? That is most unlikely. If he is not here then. . sweet Kama!' Premian swung on Jomil. 'The wagons; he has gone after the wagons!'

'He can't have more than a handful of men,' argued Jomil. 'There are fourteen drivers, tough and armed.'

Premian ran to his horse and stepped into the saddle. Calling out to two of his officers, he ordered them to gather their companies and follow him. Kicking the horse into a run, he left the pool and galloped out on to the slope. As he breasted the rise he saw the smoke more than a mile to the south. At full gallop he pushed the gelding hard. Behind him came fifty Lancers.

It was a matter of minutes before they rounded a bend in the trail and saw the burning wagons. The horses had been cut free, and the bodies of several of the drivers could be seen with arrows jutting from their chests. Premian dragged his exhausted mount to a halt and swiftly surveyed the scene. Smoke was billowing around the area, stinging the eyes. Five wagons were burning.

Suddenly he saw a man with a blazing torch run through the smoke. He was wearing a white head-scarf. 'Take him!' bellowed Premian, kicking his horse forward. The Lancers swept out around him, riding through the oily smoke.

A small group of Nadir warriors were desperately trying to fire the remaining wagons. As the thunder of hoofbeats reached them over the roaring of the flames they dropped their torches and ran for their ponies.

The Lancers tore into them, cutting them down.

Premian swung his horse, just as something dark came launching at him from a blazing wagon. He instinctively ducked as a white-scarfed Nadir warrior cannoned into him, sending him hurtling from the saddle. They hit hard and Premian rolled, scrabbling for his sword. But the man ignored him and, taking hold of the saddle pommel, vaulted to the gelding's back. Drawing his sabre the Nadir charged the Lancers, hacking and cutting. One man fell from his mount with his throat slashed open, a second pitched to his left as the flickering blade pierced his face. A lance ripped into the Nadir's back, half lifting him from the saddle. Twisting savagely, he tried to reach the Lancer. Another soldier heeled his horse forward, cleaving his longsword into the man's shoulder. The Nadir, dying now, sent one last lunge at the sword-wielder, the blade piercing his arm. Then he sagged to his right. The gelding reared, throwing him to the ground with the lance still embedded deep in his back. He struggled to rise and groped for his fallen sabre; blood was bubbling from his mouth and his legs were unsteady. A rider closed in on him, but he lashed out, his sword cutting the horse's flanks. 'Get back from him!' shouted Premian. 'He's dying.'