A rat scuttled over his foot but Talisman did not move. The enemy were close. Enemy? These scum from the poorest quarter of Gulgothir could hardly be considered worthy of the title. They were merely filling time in their worthless existence by hunting a Nadir tribesman through their vermin-infested streets; enjoying a transient moment of entertainment to brighten their poverty-stricken lives. He cursed again. Nosta Khan had warned him of the gangs, telling him which areas to avoid, though Talisman had barely listened. But then he had never visited a city as large as Gulgothir, and had no idea how easily a man could become lost within its warrens.
The sound of running feet came to him, and his hands clenched into fists. If they found him here they would kill him.
'Did you see where he went?' came a guttural voice.
'Nah! What about down there?'
'You three take the alley, we'll cut through Tavern Walk and meet you in the square.'
Drawing his hood around his face, leaving only his dark eyes showing, Talisman waited. The first of the three men ran past his hiding-place, then the second. But the third glanced in his direction — and spotted him. Talisman leapt forward. The man lunged with a knife, but Talisman side-stepped and hammered his fist into the attacker's face. The man stumbled back as Talisman darted to the left and sprinted into another alleyway.
'He's here! He's here!' shouted the attacker.
Ahead was a wall around eight feet high. Talisman jumped, curling his fingers over the top and scrambling up. Beyond was a moonlit garden. Dropping to the grass, he ran to a second wall, and scaled this also. On the other side was a narrow road; landing lightly he loped along it, his anger mounting. It shamed him to run from these soft, round-eyed Southerners.
He came to an intersection and cut to the north. There was no sound of pursuit, but he did not relax. He had no idea where he was, all of these foul buildings looked the same. Nosta Khan had told him to seek out the home of Chorin-Tsu, the Embalmer, which was on the Street of Weavers in the north-west quarter of the city. But where am I now? thought the tribesman.
A tall man moved from the shadows, a rust-pitted knife in his right hand. 'Got you, you little Nadir bas-tard!' he said. Talisman gazed into the man's cruel eyes and his anger rose, cold and all engulfing.
'What you have found,' said Talisman, 'is death.'
Knife-hand raised, the man ran in and stabbed down towards Talisman's neck. But Talisman swayed to the right, his left forearm sweeping up to block the attacker's wrist. In the same flowing movement his right arm came up behind the man's shoulder, then with a savage jerk he brought his weight down on the knife-arm — which snapped at the elbow. The man screamed and dropped the knife. Releasing him Talisman swept up the blade, ramming it to the hilt between the man's ribs. Dragging back on his victim's greasy hair, Talisman's dark eyes fixed on the terrified face. 'May you rot in many Hells,' whispered the Nadir, twisting the knife-blade. The mortally wounded man's mouth opened for one last scream of pain — but he died before he could draw breath.
Releasing the body, Talisman wiped the knife clean of blood on the man's filthy tunic and moved on into the darkness. All was silent here. Walls towered on both sides of him, decorated with lines of shuttered windows. Talisman emerged on to a wider alley, no more than sixty yards long, and saw glimmering lights from the windows of a tavern. Hiding the knife beneath his hooded cloak he walked on. The tavern door opened and a big man with a square-cut black beard stepped into sight. Talisman approached him.
'Your pardon, Lord,' said the Nadir, the words tasting like acid upon the tongue, 'but could you direct me to the Street of Weavers?'
'Laddie,' said the man, slumping drunkenly to an oak bench, 'I'd be surprised if I could find my own way home. I'm a stranger here myself and have been lost in this city maze more than once tonight. By Heaven, I don't know why anyone would want to live in such a place. Do you?'
Talisman turned away. At that moment the men who had been pursuing him came into sight, five at one end of the alley and four at the other. 'We're going to cut your heart out!' shouted the leader, a fat, balding ruffian. Talisman drew his knife as the first five attackers rushed in. Movement came unexpectedly from Talisman's left! His eyes flickered towards it. The drunken stranger had risen to his feet and appeared to be trying to move the oak bench. No, not move it, Talisman realized, but lift it! It was so incongruous and bizarre a moment that he had to jerk his eyes from the scene in order to face his attackers. They were close now — three armed with knives, two with cudgels of lead. Suddenly the heavy oak bench hurtled past Talisman like a spear. It struck the gang leader full in the face, smashing his teeth and punching him from his feet, then spun off into the others sending two of them to the ground. The remaining two men leapt over the bodies and ran in close. Talisman met the first, blade to blade, then hammered his elbow into the man's chin. The attacker fell face first to the cobbles. As he struggled to rise Talisman kicked him twice in the face; at the second kick the man groaned and slumped unconscious to the ground.
Talisman swung — but the last assailant was vainly struggling in the iron grip of the stranger, who had lifted him by neck and groin and was holding him suspended above his head. Spinning on his heel, Talisman saw the four remaining attackers edging forward from the other end of the alley. The stranger ran towards them, gave a grunt of effort and hurled his hapless victim straight into them. Three went down — but struggled to their feet. The stranger stepped forward.
'I think that's enough now, lads,' he said, his voice cold. 'So far I haven't killed anyone in Gulgothir. So gather your friends and go on about your business.' One of the men moved carefully forward, peering at the stranger. 'You're the Drenai fighter, aren't you? Druss?'
'True enough. Now be on your way, lads. The fun is over — unless you've an appetite for more?'
'Klay will beat you to a bloody pulp in the final, you bastard!' Without another word the man sheathed his knife, and turned to his comrades. Together they helped the injured from the alley, having to carry the leader who was still unconscious. The stranger turned to Talisman. 'An ugly place,' he said, with a broad grin, 'but it does have its delights. Join me in a jug?'
'You fight well,' said Talisman. Glancing round he could see the attackers milling at the mouth of the alley. 'Yes, I'll drink with you, Drenai. But not here. My feeling is they will talk amongst themselves until their courage returns — then they will attack again.'
'Well, walk with me, laddie. The Gothir gave us lodgings — which I believe are not far from here — and there's a jug of Lentrian Red that has been calling my name all evening.' Together they moved west, out on to the main avenue leading to the colosseum. The attackers did not follow.
Talisman had never been inside so luxurious a lodging, and his dark, slanted eyes soaked in the sights — the long oak-panelled staircase, the wall hangings of velvet, the ornate cushioned chairs, sculpted and gilded, the carpets of Chiatze silk. The huge warrior called Druss led him up the stairs and into a long corridor. Doors were set on both sides at every fifteen paces. The stranger paused at one of them, then pressed a bronze latch and the door slid open to reveal a richly furnished apartment. When Talisman peered in, his first sight was of a six-foot-long rectangular mirror. He blinked, for he had seen his reflection before, but never full-length nor quite so clearly. The stolen black cloak and tunic were travel-stained and dust-covered, and his jet-black eyes gazed back at him with undisguised weariness. The face he gazed upon — despite being beardless — looked far older than his eighteen years, the mouth set in a grim, determined line. Responsibility sat upon him like a vulture, eating away at his youth.