But he did not enter, he could not enter. Talisman's mouth was dry, his stomach knotted with fear. Out here in the bright moonlight his dreams were solid, his confidence unshakeable. Once through that door, however, they could disappear like wood-smoke.
Calm yourself! The Shrine has been plundered before. The Eyes will be hidden. Step inside, and pay homage to the spirit of the hero.
Taking a deep breath, he moved forward and pushed open the ancient wooden door. The dust-covered room was no more than thirty feet long, and twenty wide. Wooden pegs were hammered into the walls, but nothing hung from them now. Once Oshikai's armour had been displayed here, his breastplate and helm, and Kolmisai, the single-bladed hand-axe which had felled a hundred foes. There had been tapestries and mosaics, detailing his life and his victories. Now there were only bare and empty walls. The Shrine had been ransacked hundreds of years ago. They had, so Nosta Khan informed him, even opened the coffin and torn off the fingers of the corpse to get to the golden rings worn by Oshikai. The chamber was bleak, the stone coffin resting on a raised platform at the centre. The coffin itself was unadorned, save for a square of black iron set into the stone. Upon it, in raised letters, were the words:
Oshikai Demon-bane - Lord of War.
Talisman laid his hand on the cold stone of the coffin lid. 'I live,' he said, 'to see your dreams return. We will be united again. We will be Nadir, and the world will tremble.'
'Why do the dreams of men always lead to war?' asked a voice. Talisman spun to see that sitting in the shadows was an old blind man wearing a grey robe and cowl. He was stick-thin, and hairless. Taking hold of his staff, he levered himself to his feet and approached Talisman. 'You know,' he said, 'I have studied the life of Oshikai, sifting through the legends and the myths. He never wanted war. Always it was thrust upon him. That was when he became a terrible enemy. The dreams you speak of were mostly of finding a land of promise and plenty where his people could grow in peace. He was a great man.'
'Who are you?' asked Talisman.
'I am a priest of the Source.' As the man stepped into the beam of moonlight coming through the open western window, Talisman saw that he was Nadir. 'I live here now, writing my histories.'
'How does a blind man write?'
'Only the eyes of my body are blind, Talisman. When I write I use the eyes of my spirit.'
Talisman shivered as the man spoke his name. 'You are a shaman?'
The priest shook his head. 'I understand the Way, though my own path is different. I cast no spells, Talisman, though I can heal warts and read the hearts of men. Sadly I cannot alter them. I can walk the paths of the many futures, but do not know which will come to pass. If I could, I would open this coffin and raise the man within. But I cannot.'
'How is it that you know my name?'
'Why should I not? You are the flaming arrow, the messenger.'
'You know why I am here,' said Talisman, his voice dropping to a whisper.
'Of course. You are seeking the Eyes of Alchazzar, hidden here so many years ago.'
Talisman fingered the dagger at his belt, and silently drew it. 'You have found them?'
'I know they are here. But they were not left for me to find. I write history, Talisman; it is not for me to create it. May the Source give you wisdom.'
The old man turned away and walked to the sunlit doorway where he stood for a moment, as if waiting. Then his voice sounded once more. 'In at least three of the futures I have seen, you struck me down as I stood here, your dagger deep in my back. Why did you not do so in this one?'
'I considered it, old man.'
'Had you committed the deed you would have been dragged from this chamber, your arms and legs tied with ropes attached to the saddles of four ponies. You would have been ripped apart, Talisman. That also happened.'
'Obviously it did not, for you still live.'
'It happened somewhere,' said the old man. Then he was gone.
Talisman followed him into the light, but he had vanished into one of the buildings. Seeing Gorkai drawing water from the well, he strolled across to him. 'Where is Zhusai?'
'The woman sleeps,' said Gorkai. 'It looks as if there will be another fight today. The head of the boy who was killed now sits atop a pole at the Sky Rider camp. His comrades are determined to punish this insult.'
'Stupidity,' said Talisman.
'It seems to be in our blood. Maybe the gods cursed us.'
Talisman nodded. 'The curse came when the Eyes of Alchazzar were stolen. When they are returned to the Stone Wolf, then we shall see a new day.'
'You believe this?'
'A man must believe in something, Gorkai. Otherwise we are merely shifting grains of sand, blown by the wind. The Nadir number in their hundreds of thousands, perhaps in millions, and yet we live in squalor. All around us there is wealth, controlled by nations whose armies do not exceed twenty thousand men. Even here the four tribes guarding the Shrine cannot live in peace. Their purpose is identical - the Shrine they protect is of a man who is a hero to all Nadir - yet they stare at each other with undisguised hatred; I believe that will change. We will change it.'
'Just you and I?' asked Gorkai softly.
'Why not?'
'I have still seen no man with violet eyes,' said Gorkai.
'You will. I swear it.'
When Druss awoke Nosta Khan had gone. It was approaching dusk and Sieben was sitting by the poolside, his naked feet resting in the cool water. Druss yawned and stretched. Rising, he stripped off his jerkin, boots and leggings and leapt into the pool, where the water was welcomingly cool. Refreshed, he climbed out and sat beside the poet. 'When did the little man leave?' he asked.
'Soon after you fell asleep,' Sieben told him, his voice flat.
Druss looked into his friend's face, and saw the lines of tension there. 'You are concerned about the two thousand warriors heading for the Shrine?'
Sieben bit back an angry retort. 'Concerned does not quite cover it, old horse. I see it doesn't surprise you, though.'
Druss shook his head. 'He told me he was repaying a debt because I helped his young friend. That is not the Nadir way. No, he wanted me at the Shrine because he knew there would be a battle.'
'Oh, I see, and the mighty Druss the Legend will turn the tide, I suppose?'
Druss chuckled. 'Perhaps he will, poet. Perhaps he will not. Whatever the answer, the only way I'll find the jewels is if I go there.'
'And what if there are no magical jewels? Suppose he lied about that also?'
'Then Klay will die, and I will have done my best.'
'It is all so simple for you, isn't it?' stormed Sieben. 'Black and white, light and dark, pure or evil? Two thousand warriors are going to ransack that Shrine. You won't stop them. And why should you even try? What is it about Klay that has touched you so? Other men have suffered grievous wounds before now. You have seen comrades cut down beside you for years.'
Druss stood and dressed, then he wandered to the horses and unhooked a sack of grain from the saddle pommel. From his pack he took two feed-bags and looped them over the ears of the mounts. Sieben joined him. 'They say a grain-fed horse will outrun anything fed on grass,' said Druss. 'You are a horseman, is that true?'
'Come on, Druss, answer my question, damn you! Why Klay?'
'He reminds me of a man I never knew,' answered Druss.
'Never knew! What does that mean?'
'It means that I must try to find the jewels, and I don't give a damn about two thousand Gothir whoresons, or the entire Nadir nation. Leave it there, poet!'
The clatter of hooves sounded on the trail and both men swung towards the source of the noise. Six Nadir warriors, riding in single file, approached the pool. They were dressed in goatskin tunics and wore fur-rimmed helms. Each carried a bow and two short swords. 'What do we do?' whispered Sieben.
'Nothing. Water-holes are sacred places and no Nadir will fight a battle at one. They'll merely water their horses, then leave.'
'Then w
hat?'
'Then they'll try to kill us. But that is a problem for another time. Relax, poet, you wanted adventure. Now you'll have it.'
Druss strolled back to the shade and sat down beside the fearsome axe. The Nadir affected to ignore him, but Sieben could see them cast furtive glances in his direction. Finally the leader - a middle-aged, stocky warrior with a thin, wispy beard - came and sat opposite him.
'You are far from home,' he said, speaking haltingly in the Southern tongue.
'Yet I am at ease,' replied Druss.
'The dove is rarely at ease in the home of the hawk.'
'I am not a dove, laddie. And you are no hawk,'
The man rose. 'I think we will meet again, Round-eye.' He strolled back to his companions, vaulted to the saddle and led the riders on towards the east.
Sieben sat down beside Druss. 'Oh, well done, old horse. Always best to appease an enemy who outnumbers you three to one.'
'There was no point. He knows what he must do. As do I. You wait here with the horses; get them saddled and ready.'
'Where are you going?'
'East a little way. I want to see what sort of trap they will set.'
'Is this wise, Druss? There are six of them.'
Druss grinned. 'You think it would make it fairer if I left my axe behind?' With that he gathered up Snaga and set off up and over the rocks. Sieben watched him go, then settled down to wait. Darkness came swiftly in the mountains and he wished he had thought to gather dead-wood back along the trail. A fire would be a welcome friend in this desolate place. The moon was bright, however, and Sieben wrapped himself in his blanket and sat deep in the shadows of the rock wall. Never again, he thought. From now on I'll welcome boredom with open arms and a mighty hug!
What was it Druss had said about Klay? He reminds me of a man I never knew? Suddenly it came clear to Sieben. Druss was speaking of Michanek, the man who had loved and wed Rowena back in Ventria. * Like Druss Michanek was a mighty warrior, and a champion among the rebels opposed to Prince Gorben. And Rowena, robbed of her memory, had grown to love him, had even attempted suicide when she learned of his death. Druss had been there as Michanek faced the elite of Gorben's Immortals. Alone he had killed many, until at last even Michanek's prodigious strength failed him, sapped from his body in the gushing of blood from a score of wounds. As he died, he asked Druss to look after Rowena.
* First Chronicles of Druss the Legend
Once, when visiting Druss and his lady at their farm in the mountains, Sieben had walked with Rowena across the high meadows. He had asked her then about Michanek and she smiled fondly. 'He was like Druss in many ways, but he was also gentle and kind. I did love him, Sieben, and I know Druss finds that hard to bear. But they took my memory from me. I did not know who I was, and remembered nothing of Druss. All I knew was that this huge man loved me and cared for me. And it still saddens me to know that Druss had a part in his death.'
'He didn't know Michanek,' said Sieben. 'All he had dreamed of through those long years was finding you and bringing you home.'
'I know.'
'Given the choice between the two men, who would you have chosen?' asked Sieben suddenly.
'That is a question I never ask myself,' she told him. 'I merely know that I was fortunate to be loved by, and to love, both of them.'
Sieben had wanted to ask more, but she touched a finger to his lips. 'Enough, poet! Let us go back to the house.'
A cold wind blew around the rock pool now and Sieben wrapped his cloak more tightly about him. There was no sound, save for the wind whistling through the rocks, and Sieben felt terribly alone. Time passed with a mind-numbing lack of speed and the poet dozed several times, always waking with a start, terrified that hidden Nadir assassins were creeping up on him.
Just before the dawn, with the sky brightening, he heard the sound of hooves on stone. Scrambling to his feet he drew one of his knives, dropped it, gathered it and stood waiting. Druss came into sight leading four Nadir ponies and Sieben walked out to meet him. There was blood on Druss's jerkin and leggings. 'Are you hurt?' asked Sieben.
'No, poet. The way is now clear - and we have four ponies to trade.'
'Two of the Nadir got away?'
Druss shook his head. 'Not the Nadir, but two of the ponies broke loose and ran off.'
'You killed all six?'
'Five. One fell from the cliff as I was chasing him. Now let us be moving on.'
Chapter Six
Just before midnight Talisman entered the tomb of Oshikai Demon-bane. While Gorkai stood guard outside the door, the Nadir warrior crept inside and placed four small pouches on the ground before the coffin. From the first he poured a small amount of red powder; then, with his index finger, he formed it into a circle no bigger than his palm. Faint moonlight shining through the open window made his task more easy. From the second pouch he took three long dried leaves, which he rolled into a ball and placed in his mouth, under his tongue. The taste was bitter and he almost gagged. Taking a tinder-box from the pocket of his goatskin tunic, he struck a flame and held it to the red powder, which flared instantly with a crimson light. Smoke billowed up. Talisman breathed it in, then swallowed the ball of leaves.
He felt faint, dizzy, and as if from a great distance he heard the sound of soft music, then a sigh. His vision blurred, then cleared. Upon the walls of the shrine there were flickering lights that made his eyes water. He rubbed them with finger and thumb, and looked again. Shimmering in place beneath the pegs on the wall was the armour of Oshikai Demon-bane - the breastplate with its one hundred and ten leaves of hammered gold, the winged helm of black iron, set with silver runes, and the dread axe, Kolmisai. Talisman slowly scanned the chamber. Beautiful tapestries decorated the walls, each showing an incident from the life of Oshikai - the hunt for the black lion, the razing of Chien-Po, the flight over the mountains, the wedding to Shul-sen. This last was a spectacular piece, a host of ravens carrying the bride to the altar while Oshikai stood waiting with two demons beside him.
Talisman blinked and battled to hold his concentration against the waves of narcotics coursing through his blood. From the third pouch he took a ring of gold, and from the fourth a small finger-bone. As Nosta Khan had commanded, he slid the ring over the bone and placed it before him. With his dagger he made a narrow cut in his left forearm, allowing the blood to drip upon the bone and the ring. 'I call to thee, Lord of War,' he said. 'I humbly ask for your presence.'
At first there was nothing, then a cool breeze seemed to blow across the chamber, though not a mote of dust was disturbed. A figure began to materialize over the coffin. The armour of gold flowed over him, the axe floating down to rest in his right hand. Talisman almost ceased to breathe as the spirit descended to sit cross-legged opposite him. Though broad of shoulder, Oshikai was not huge, as Talisman had expected. His face was flat and hard, the nose broad, the nostrils flared. He wore his hair tied back in a tight pony-tail, and he sported no beard or moustache. His violet eyes glowed with power, and he radiated strength of purpose.
'Who calls Oshikai?' asked the translucent figure.
'I, Talisman of the Nadir.'
'Do you bring news of Shul-sen?'
The question was unexpected and Talisman faltered. 'I . . . I know nothing of her, Lord, save legends and stories. Some say she died soon after you, others that she crossed the oceans to a world without darkness.'
'I have searched the Vales of Spirit, the Valleys of the Damned, the Fields of Heroes, the Halls of the Mighty. I have crossed the Void for time without reckoning. I cannot find her.'
'I am here, Lord, to see your dreams return to life,' said Talisman, as Nosta Khan had ordered. Oshikai seemed not to hear him. 'The Nadir need to be united,' continued Talisman. 'To do this we must find the violet-eyed leader, but we do not know where to look.'
The spirit of Oshikai gazed at Talisman, then sighed. 'He will be found when the Eyes of Alchazzar are set in their rightful sockets. The magic will flow back into the
land, and then he will be revealed.'
'I seek the Eyes, Lord,' said Talisman. 'They are said to be hidden here. Is this true?'
'Aye, it is true. They are close by, Talisman of the Nadir. But you are not destined to find them.'
'Then who, Lord?'
'A foreigner will take them. More than this I will not tell you.'
'And the Uniter, Lord. Can you not tell me his name?'
'His name will be Ulric. Now I must go. I must keep searching.'
'Why do you search, Lord? Is there no Paradise for you?'
The spirit stared at him. 'What Paradise could there be without Shul-sen? Death I could bear, but not this parting of souls. I will find her, though it take a dozen eternities. Fare you well, Talisman of the Nadir.'
Before Talisman could speak the figure was gone. The young Nadir warrior rose unsteadily and backed to the door.
Gorkai was waiting in the moonlight. 'What happened in there? I heard you speak, but there was no answer.'
'He came, but he could not help me. He was a soul in torment, seeking his wife.'
'The witch, Shul-sen. They say she was burned alive, her ashes scattered to the four winds and her spirit destroyed by sorcery.'
'I have never heard that story,' said Talisman. 'Among others we were taught that she crossed the sea to a land where there was no nightfall, and there she lives for ever in the hope that Oshikai will find her.'
'It is a prettier tale,' admitted Gorkai, 'and both would explain why the Lord of War cannot find her. What will we do now?'
'We will see what tomorrow brings,' said Talisman, striding off to the rooms Gorkai had found for them. There were thirty small chambers set within the main building, all constructed for the use of pilgrims. Zhusai had spread her blankets on the floor beneath the window, and pretended to be asleep as Talisman entered. He did not go to her, but pulled up a chair and sat staring out at the stars. Unable to bear the silence any longer, she spoke.