Sieben pulled open the man's jerkin. He had been cut across the chest and deep into the side; the sword had broken off above the hip. 'I need pliers for this,' said Sieben, wiping a bloodied hand across his brow, leaving a smear of crimson. Niobe handed him a rusty pair and Sieben dug his fingers into the wound, feeling for the broken blade. Once he had it, he pushed the pliers against the split flesh and with a great wrench dragged the iron clear. Elsewhere in the room two other Nadir women were applying stitches or bandages.
Nosta Khan entered, looked around and then moved across the room, past Nuang and into the small office beyond.
Nuang could just make out the conversation that followed. 'I leave tonight,' came the voice of the shaman. 'You must prepare the woman.'
'She stays,' said Talisman.
'Did you not understand what I said about destiny?'
'It is you who are without understanding,' roared Talisman. 'You do not know the future, shaman. You have had glimpses, tantalizing and incomplete. Despite your powers you cannot locate Ulric. How hard should it be to find a violet-eyed leader? You cannot find the Eyes of Alchazzar. And you did not warn me they would take Quing-chin. Go from here if you must. But you travel alone.'
'You fool!' shouted Nosta Khan. 'This is no time for betrayal. Everything you live for hangs in the balance. If I take her, she lives. Can you understand that?'
'Wrong again, shaman. If you take her, she will kill herself — she has told me this and I believe her. Go. Seek out the man with violet eyes. Let him build on what we accomplish here.'
'You will die here, Talisman,' said Nosta Khan. 'It is written in the stars. Druss will escape, for I have seen him in the many futures. For you there is no place.'
'Here is my place,' responded Talisman. 'Here I stand.'
The shaman said more, but Huang did not hear it for the voices within were suddenly lowered.
Niobe knelt beside Nuang handing him a clay cup full of lyrrd. 'Drink, old father,' she said. 'It will put strength back into your ancient bones.'
'Ancient they may be, but my blood runs true, Niobe. Five I killed. I feel so strong I could even survive a night with you.'
'You were never that strong,' she said, patting his cheek. 'Anyway Chisk told us you killed at least a dozen.'
'Ha! Good men, these Lone Wolves.'
Rising, she moved back to the table. Taking a fresh cloth, she wiped the blood and sweat from Sieben's brow. 'You are working good,' she said. 'No mistakes.'
From outside came the screams of wounded men and the clash of swords. 'It is vile,' he said. 'All vile.'
'They say your friend is a god of battle. They call him the Deathwalker.'
'The name suits him.'
The doors opened'and two men were carried inside. 'More bandages and thread,' he told Niobe.
Outside on the walls Druss relaxed; the enemy had pulled back for the second time. Chisk came alongside him. 'You hurt, Deathwalker?'
'The blood is not mine,' Druss told him.
'You are wrong; your shoulder bleeds.'
Druss glanced down to the gash in his jerkin. Blood was leaking from it. Doffing the jerkin he examined the cut beneath, which was no more than two inches long, but deep. He swore. 'You hold this damned wall till I get back,' he said.
'Till the mountains crumble to dust,' promised Chisk. As Druss walked away he added, 'But you don't take too long, hey?'
Inside the hospital Druss called out to Niobe and she ran across to him. 'Don't bother Sieben with it,' he said. 'It's no deeper than a dog-bite. Get a needle and thread for me; I'll do it myself.'
She returned with the implements and a long stretch of bandage. The wound was just below the collar-bone and Druss fumbled his way through the stitching, drawing the lips of the gash together.
'You have many scars,' said Niobe, staring at his upper body.
'All men get careless,' he told her. The wound was beginning to throb now. Pushing himself to his feet, he strode from the room and out into the fading sunlight. Behind the gates some thirty warriors were manhandling blocks to form a semi-circular wall. The work was back-breaking and slow, yet no word of complaint came from them. They had erected a rough hoist and pulley on the ramparts, and the blocks of granite were being hauled into place, blocking the gates. Suddenly the pulley gave way and a huge block fell, hurling two men to the ground. Druss ran over to where they lay. The first was dead, his skull crushed, but the other man was merely winded. Pulling the corpse aside the other warriors continued with their work, their faces grim. The blocks were being laid four deep, forming a curved wall eight feet wide.
'They'll get a nasty shock as they come through,' said Lin-tse, striding down the rampart steps to join Druss.
'How tall can you get it?'
'We think twelve feet at the front, ten at the back. But we need a stronger hoist bar and supports.'
'Tear up the floorboards in the upper lodging-rooms,' advised Druss. 'Use the cross joists.'
Returning to the wall, Druss put on his jerkin and silver-skinned gauntlets. Talisman's man, Gorkai, joined him. 'The Curved Horn will stand with you for the next attack,' he said. 'This is Bartsai, their leader.' Druss nodded, then reached out and shook hands with the stocky Nadir.
'Well, lads,' he said, with a wide smile, 'do you fight as well as the Lone Wolves?'
'Better,' grunted a young warrior.
'Would you care to make a wager on that, laddie?'
Chapter Twelve
The moon was bright as Talisman and Lin-tse watched the Gothir carrying away their dead and wounded. The stretcher-bearers worked with great efficiency and no little courage, coming in close to the walls to pick up the wounded. The Nadir did not loose shafts at them. Talisman had forbidden it — not for any reason of mercy, but simply because every wounded Gothir soldier needed to be tended and fed, and that would help to exhaust the enemy's supplies. The Nadir dead had been wrapped in blankets and placed in the cool of the Shrine.
'They lost sixty-four, with another eighty-one wounded,' said Lin-tse gleefully. 'Our losses are less than a third of that.'
'Twenty-three dead,' said Talisman, 'and nine wounded who will not fight again.'
'That is good, eh?'
'They outnumber us ten to one. Five to one for casualties is not good enough,' Talisman told him. 'However, as Fanlon used to say, the worst always die first — those with the least skill, or the least luck. We did well today.'
'The Lancers are not riding out,' observed Lin-tse.
'Their mounts are thirsty and tired,' said Talisman, 'as indeed are the men. Their wagons went out again this morning. They have not returned; Kzun is still holding them away from the pool.'
Lin-tse moved to the edge of the battlements. 'I wish we could bring in Quing-chin's body,' he said. 'It saddens me to think of his spirit wandering blind and maimed.'
Talisman did not reply. Two years before, the three Nadir warriors had sought revenge for the death of their comrade. They had found satisfaction in kidnapping and killing the son of Gargan; he too had been blinded and maimed. Now the circle of violence had swung once more, and Quing-chin's body lay as cold testimony to the cruel reality of revenge. Talisman rubbed at his eyes.
The smell of scorched wood drifted to him. The gates had come under two attacks, the Gothir using oil in an attempt to burn a way through. This had failed, and some twenty Gothir soldiers had paid with their lives. Talisman shivered.