Eric van Lustbader - Sunset Warrior 1 - The Sunset Warrior

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Eric Van Lustbader is the author of the bestselling novels The Ninja, Sirens,

Black Heart, The M

and Jian. He graduated from Columbia University in 1968, majoring in

Sociology, then joined

entertainment industry as a journalist. He went to take publicity and

marketing posts for Elek

Records, Dick James Music, NBC-TV and C Records, working with Pink Floyd, Blue

Oys Cult and

Elton John.

By the same author

The Ninja Black Heart The Miko Jian Sirens Shan Zero

Shallows of Night

Dai-San

Beneath an Opal Moon

ERIC VAN LUSTBADER

The Sunset Warrior

Volume 1 of the Sunset Warrior Sequence

GRAFTON BOOKS

A Division of the Collins Publishing Group

LONDON GLASGOW TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND

Grafton Books

A Division of the Collins Publishing Group

8 Grafton Street, London W1X 3LA

Published by Grafton Books 1988

First published in Great Britain by W. H. Alien & Co. Ltd 1980

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Collins, Glasgow

Set in Bembo

a retrieval system, or transmitted, in

any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or

otherwise, without the prior

permission of the publishers.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade

or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired

out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form

of binding or cover other than that

in which it is published and without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the

subsequent purchaser. To R.A.L. and M.H.L.

who were there through the best and,

especially, through the worst.

And To Henry Steig, more than the master artisan.

PART ONE

Echoes

To survive is not enough. - Bujun saying

Ronin was dying and he did not know it.

He lay quite still and completely naked on the centre of an elliptical stone

slab which

occupied roughly the centre of a square, cold chamber. Despite this, tiny

beads of sweat glinted

in the bristles of his short, black hair. His fine features held no expression

whatsoever.

Standing over him, bent, eyes intent, was Stahlig, the Medicine Man. Ronin

tried to relax,

thinking, This is all a waste of time, as Stahlig's fingers probed and pushed

at his chest, moving

slowly down towards his ribs on the left side. He tried not to think of it but

his muscles had a

will of their own and they betrayed him, jumping in pain under the thick

fingers.

'Uhm,' Stahlig grunted. 'Very recent'.

Ronin stared at the ceiling; at nothing. What was bothering him? It was merely

a fight.

Merely? His lips curled in distaste. A brawl; rolling in the Corridor like a

common - abruptly

remembrance blossomed . . .

His bare arms slick with sweat, his thick sword just sheathed, heavy at his

side, his hands

light after almost a full Spell of Combat practice. Walking alone and

distracted out of the Hall of

Combat into a knot of people, all at once surrounded by loud voices

disclaiming hotly, stupidly,

and he paid no attention. Something pushed against him and a voice cut through

the din.

'And where are you going?' It was cold and affected and belonged to a tall,

thin, blond man

who wore the obliquely striped chest bands of the Chondrin. Black and gold:

Ronin did not

recognize the colours. Behind the blond man on either side stood five or six

Bladesmen wearing

the same colours. Apparently they had stopped a cluster of Students on their

way from practice.

He could not think why.

'Answer, Student!' the Chondrin commanded. His thin face was very white,

dominated by a

waxy nose. His high cheeks were pocked and a scar ran down like a tear from

the corner of one

eye so that it appeared lower than the other one.

Ronin was momentarily amused. He was a Bladesman and therefore practised with

other

Bladesmen. But these days he did not have much to do and boredom had led him

to practice

with the Students also. When he did that, as now, he wore plain clothes and

those who did not

know him took him for a Student.

'Where I go and what I do is my own affair' Ronin said blandly.'What is your

business with

these Students?'

The Chondrin goggled at him, stretching his neck forward like a reptile about

to strike, and

two spots of colour appeared high on his cheeks, accentuating the whiteness of

the pockmarks.

'Where are your manners, Student?' he said menacingly. 'Speak with deference

to your betters.

Now answer the question.'

Ronin's hand strayed to the hilt of his sword but he said nothing.

'Well,' sneered the Chondrin, 'it appears this Student is in need of a

lesson.' As if the words

were a signal, the Bladesmen rushed at Ronin. Too late he realized that he

could not draw his

sword rapidly within the confines of the crowd. Then they were piling into

him, the sheer force

of their combined weight bearing him to the ground, and he thought, I do not

believe this is

happening. Instinctively he kicked out as he was borne under, and had the

satisfaction of

feeling his boot smash into flesh that gave way. Almost at the same moment, a

blow along the

side of his head disrupted his enjoyment. Adrenalin spurted and he punched up

and out, and

even though he was on his back and the leverage was not there, he felt his

fist connect as it split

open skin, cracked into bone. He heard a brief wail.

Then the boot caught him in the side and a thick gauze came down over his

brain. He tried to

hit again, could not, struggled with an enormous weight on his chest. His

lungs were on fire

and he felt ashamed. When the boot hit him again, he passed out . . .

The wave of pain came again but this time he had it under control and there

was only the

slightest movement. He looked at the wide head bent over him with its shaggy

brows, rheumy

eyes, and creased forehead.

'Ach!' exclaimed the Medicine Man, as much to himself as to Ronin. 'What have

you been

up to, ah?' He shook his head and, without looking at

Ronin, turned and put a dark, furry cloth against the mouth of an opaque

white-glass bottle, and

turned it upside down. He applied the cloth to Ronin's side. It was cold and

the pain subsided.

'So. Dress and come inside.' He threw the cloth over the back of a hard chair

and disappeared

through a doorway. Ronin sat up, his side stiff but now without pain, pulled

on his leggings and

shirt, then his low leather boots. He stood to strap on his sword, then

followed in the wake of

Stahlig's body into a warmly lighted cubicle in sharp contrast to the starkly

geometrical surgery

outside.

Here all was a jumble. Shelves of bound papers and tablets rose like wild ivy

from floor to

ceiling along three walls. Occasionally gaps appeared in the contents of the

shelves, or markers

stuck out at odd angles. Stahlig's desk was set close to the far wall, and it

was covered

completely by mounds of papers and tablets, as were the two small chairs set

before the desk.

Behind the Medicine Man lay glass cases filled with phials and boxes.

Stahlig did not look up from his work as Ronin entered but he reached out

behind him and

got a clear bottle of amber wine, and from somewhere produced two metal cups,

which he blew

into perfunctorily before filling them halfway. He looked up then as he held

one out. Ronin took

it, and Stahlig sat back and waved an arm expansively.

'Sit,'he said.

Ronin had to set his cup down in order to clear away the masses of tablets

from the chair. He

hesitated with them in his arms.

'Oh, drop them anywhere,' said Stahlig with a flick of his thick hand.

Ronin sat and sipped, felt the sweet wine unroll its carpet of warmth along

his throat and

into his stomach. He took a long swallow.

Stahlig leaned forward, elbows on the masses of tablets, fingers steepled, his

thumbs tapping

absently at his upper lip. He said: 'Tell me what happened.'

Ronin, swirling the wine slowly in his cup, said nothing. He sat very straight

because of his

side.

The Medicine Man dropped his eyes, crumpled a sheet of paper, and threw it

into a corner

apparently without caring where it landed. 'So.' He sighed audibly, and when

he spoke again

his voice had softened perceptibly. 'You do not wish to speak of it, yet I

know something

troubles you.' Ronin looked up. 'Oh, yes, the old man still sees and feels.'

He hunched forward

over the desk again.

He stared at Ronin. 'Tell me, how long do we know each other?' His fingers

moved along the

desktop. 'Since you were very young, since before your sister dis - ' He

stopped abruptly and

colour came to his worn cheeks. 'I - '

Ronin shook his head. 'You will not hurt me if you say it,' he said softly. 'I

am beyond that.'

Stahlig said quickly, 'Since before her disappearance,' as if, even in speech,

it was a terrible

thing to linger over. 'A long time we know each other. Yet you will not speak

to me of what

troubles you.' His hands came together again. 'You will leave here and go and

talk to Nirren' -

his voice had acquired a hard edge - 'your friend. Ha! He is a Chondrin,

Estrille's Chondrin, and

what is his first concern? You are without affiliation - you have no Saardin

to order you or protect

you. He is without feelings, that one. He pretends friendship, for

information. That is after all one of his

functions.'

Ronin put down his cup. Another time he might have been angry with Stahlig.

But, he thought, he

truly likes me, watches out for me, he does not realize - yet I must remember

that he fears many

things, some justly, others not. He is wrong about Nirren.

'No one knows better than I the deviousness of Chondrin,' he said. 'You know

this. If Nirren seeks

information from me, he is welcome to it.'

'Ach!' Stahlig's fingers flailed the air. 'You are not a political animal.'

Ronin laughed. 'True,' he said. 'Oh, how very true.'

The Medicine Man frowned. 'I do not believe you realize the precariousness of

the situation.

Politics is what rules the Freehold. There has been much friction among the

Saardin recently, and it

becomes worse daily. There are elements within the Freehold - very powerful

elements - who, I

believe, want a war.'

Ronin shrugged. 'I could think of worse things happening.' He sipped his wine.

'At least the

boredom will be relieved.'

Stahlig was shocked. 'You do not mean that, I know you better. Perhaps you

think you will be

unaffected.'

'Perhaps I will be.'

Stahlig shook his head slowly, sadly. 'You talk without thinking because there

is little for

you to do. But you know as well as I that none shall remain unscathed by an

internal war.

Within this confined space such a foolhardy action can only have disastrous

consequences.'

'Yet I am uninvolved.'

'You are without a Saardin, yes. But you are a Bladesman, and when the time

comes you

cannot be uninvolved.'

There was a small silence. Within it, Ronin took another swallow of wine. He

said, finally: 'I

shall tell you what occurred today.'

Stahlig listened to Ronin through half-closed eyes, his blunt thumbs again

idly tapping his

upper lip. He could have been falling asleep.

'I find it incredible that I should be attacked in such a manner - and by

Bladesmen. If I were

Downshaft in the Middle Levels - you know the Code as well as I. Fistfights

are not for

Bladesmen. Any grievances are settled by Combat; it cannot be otherwise. For

centuries it has

been so. And today I am attacked by Bladesmen led by a Chondrin - as if they

were urchins who

did not know any better.'

Stahlig sat back now. 'It is as I have said. Tension, and something more, is

in the air. A war is

certainly coming, and with it a breakdown of all the traditions that have

allowed this Freehold,

among all other Freeholds, to survive.' He shuddered, just once, a pathetic

gesture. 'The victors,

whoever they may be, will change the Freehold.

Nothing will remain the same.' He gulped his wine, poured more. 'Black and

gold, you said. That

would be - Dharsit's people. He is one of the relatively new Saardin. A new

Order they want; new

ideas, new Traditions, so they say. Their ideas, / say.' He was suddenly

vehement, slamming his cup

down so hard that the contents flew across his desk, staining the tablets. 'It

is power they want!' He

jumped up in exasperation, flinging the wet tablets away from him, heedless of

where they fell.

'Oh, Chill take it! Ask your friend Nirren,' he said darkly. 'He will know.'

'We do not normally talk of politics.'

'No, of course not,' Stahlig said contemptuously. 'He would not divulge the

strategies Estrille

thinks upon. But I will wager he gathers Corridor gossip from you.'

'Perhaps.'

'Ah!' Stahlig paused, sitting down once again, and then rushed on as if

surprised at having elicited

this from Ronin. 'As for this incident today, I trust you are not

contemplating a precipitous action.'

'If by that you mean that you are worried I will use this' - he partially

withdrew his blade from its

scabbard and slammed it home with a whack -'rest assured I am not interested

in being drawn into

the world of the Saardin.'

The Medicine Man sighed. 'Good, because I doubt if Security would believe

you.'

'What about the Students who witnessed the attack?'

'And jeopardize their chances to be Bladesmen?'

Ronin nodded. 'Yes, of course. Well, it is no matter to me. And who knows,

sometime I may

run into Dharsit's Chondrin at practice.' He grinned. 'He will have cause to

remember me then.'

Stahlig laughed then. 'I daresay he will.'

Boots sounded in the surgery and two figures filled the doorway of the inner

cubicle as

Ronin and Stahlig turned to look. They did not enter the room. They wore

identical grey

uniforms with three daggers held in scabbards attached to black leather straps

buckled obliquely

across their chests: Security daggam. Both had short, dark hair and even

features; faces one would

never look at twice, faces one would have to study closely to remember.

'Stahlig?' said one. He had a crisp, clear voice.

'Yes?'

'Your presence is required. Please pack your healing bag and come with us.' He

handed

Stahlig a folded sheet. The other one did absolutely nothing except watch

them. Both his hands

were free. Stahlig read the sheet.

'Freidal himself,' he murmured. 'Most impressive.' He looked up. 'Of course I

shall come, but

you must tell me something of the nature of the summons. I must know what to

bring.'

'Bring everything.' The daggam eyed Ronin suspiciously.

'That is quite impossible,' said Stahlig impatiently.

'I am his assistant. You may speak freely in front

of me,' said Ronin. The daggam's eyes swung darkly upon him, then back to

Stahlig.

The Medicine Man nodded. 'Yes, he is helping me.'

'A Magic Man,' the daggam said slowly, reluctantly, 'has gone mad. We have

been forced to

restrain him - for his own safety as well as the safety of others. He had

already wantonly attacked

his Teck. But his health seems to be failing, and -'

Stahlig was already busy cramming phials and paraphernalia into a worn leather

bag. Seeing

this, the daggam stopped, and instead of finishing his thought he stared

stonily at Ronin.

'You are no assistant,' he said icily. 'You carry a sword. You are a

Bladesman. Explain.'

Stahlig ceased to fill his bag but remained with his back to them. That does

not help, Ronin

thought.

'Yes, of course I am a Bladesman, but as you can see I am unaffiliated and so

have much free

time. So I help the Medicine Man from time to time.'

Stahlig finished filling his bag. He turned. 'All set,' he said. 'Lead the

way.' He looked at

Ronin. 'You had better accompany me.'

Ronin stared at the daggam. 'It would certainly relieve the boredom.'

The Corridor swept away from them in a smooth, gently curving arc. The walls

were painted a

grey that at one time had been uniform; now, through years of wear and

neglect, there were

patches made oily and dark by dirt, areas crusty with grime, sections bleached

almost white.

Here and there spiderweb cracks extended their fingers like tenacious plants

seeking sunlight.

Doorways marched by them on either side at regular intervals. Those with doors

were invaria-

bly shut. Occasionally an open doorway revealed cubicles dark and musty,

debris piled in

corners, refuse strewn about the floor. But, beyond the evidence of human

detritus, they were

empty save for the brief flash of small scurrying bodies: click-click of claw,

whip of tail.

Gradually the grey of the walls gave way to a tired lustreless blue. The

daggam turned left into

a dark passageway in the interior wall of the Corridor and the pair behind

them followed. None

of them gave a second look at the stalled Lift across the Corridor.

They were on a landing of the Stairwell that ran vertically along the rim of

the core of the

Freehold. One of the daggam, the one who talked, reached up into a niche in

the wall and

removed a torch of tarred reeds bound tightly with cord. He held it in front

of him while the other

daggam produced flint and a tinder box, got a flame going, and touched it to

the torch. It flared

and crackled as it caught. Sparks jumped in the air and fell blackly at their

feet.

Without a backward glance, the daggam proceeded down the concrete steps. Ronin

was sur-

prised to find that they were descending rather than ascending. The little he

knew of the mysteri-

ous Magic Men indicated that they held a lofty position in the hierarchy of

the Freehold. Their

talents and wisdom were constantly courted by the

Saardin despite their traditional vow for ever to work towards the good of the

entire Freehold. But it

was possible that they were not immune to politicization. By all rights the

Magic Man should be

quartered on one of the Freehold's Upper Levels, yet they were descending.

Ronin shrugged

mentally. No one knew much about them except that they were rumoured to be

strange individuals.

If one chose to reside on the fringes of the Middle Levels with the Neers it

was no concern of his.

Between each Level the Stairwell doubled back on itself at a landing. They

traversed the Levels

silently, the shivering torchlight distorting their shadows into grotesque

parodies of human shapes,

shambling things that danced along the walls and low ceilings, expressionless,

unthinking, desire-

less, receding from and approaching their human counterparts disconcertingly.

At length they reached the proper Level and emerged into a Corridor identical

to the one they had

quit above, save that here the walls were painted a drab green. They waited

while the daggam

snuffed the torch and placed it in the niche in this landing.

There was more activity on this Level. Men and women passed them going in

either direction and

the low hum of distant conversations filled the air like a tidal wash. Perhaps

two hundred metres

from where they emerged, they came upon a door painted dark green. All the

others they had seen

on this Level were the same colour as the walls. Before the door stood two

daggam.

A brief, muffled exchange passed between the four daggam. The shorter of the

pair guarding

the door nodded curtly, turned, and rapped a peculiar pattern on the door. It

was opened by

another daggam, and the messengers and Stahlig stepped through. Ronin moved to

join them

but was stopped short by the palm of one of the guards pressed against his

chest. The

daggam's jaw jutted. 'Where you goin'?' His voice managed to sound bored and

contemptuous

at the same time.

'I am with the Medicine Man.' Ronin met his eyes with a steady gaze. He saw a

round, jowly

face too large for the small, fat nose and close-set eyes the colour of mud.

But, thought Ronin,

an efficient machine that will respond instantly and unfailingly to orders. I

have seen so many.

The square mouth with its thick red lips opened like a reluctant gate. 'Don't

know anything

'bout it. Move along 'fore you get into trouble.'

Ronin felt the pressure from the other's hand and stood his ground. Surprise

showed briefly

in the daggam's eyes: he was used to a certain response to the application of

his power. He

recognized fear in others easily, loved creating it, seeing it burn before him

as if it were a

sacrifice. He saw no fear now, and this disturbed him. Anger flared within

him, and his fingers

plucked at the top dagger strapped across his chest.

Ronin's hand was on the hilt of his sword when a face appeared from around the

still partially

open door. 'Stahlig, you absentminded - '

The Medicine Man's eyes widened. 'Ronin. Wondered where you were. Come along

in.'

Ronin stepped forward but the daggam still barred his way. The daggam, anger

still beating

within him, shook his head, and the blade of the dagger gleamed in the

Corridor's light.

At that moment Robin saw another face appear. Long and lean with a cleft jaw

filled with

determination, a very high, narrow forehead topped by coal-black hair so slick

and shiny it had

blue highlights, it was dominated by wide-apart eyes of a clear piercing blue,

whose

penetrating gaze appeared to take in everything while giving away nothing.

'Qieto, Marcsh. Let the fellow through.' The voice was deep and commanding.

Marcsh heard the words and automatically moved aside, but the anger refused to

die, beating

ineffectually at the cage of his burly chest. He glared in silent resentment

as the figure moved

past him, careful that his Saardin should not see, and thus punish him.

Ronin found himself in an antechamber off which he saw two rooms set at

angles. The one on

his left was furnished starkly and functionally with a large work table and

smallish writing desk

along one wall, and a narrow bed along the opposite wall. The room was dark

but he could

make out a figure sprawled on the bed. Battered and scarred cabinets lined the

upper areas of

three walls. A lone chair squatted empty in the middle of the cubicle.

The room to the right was less utilitarian. Two walls were lined with low

couches and

cushioned chairs. The daggam, including the two who had been sent for Stahlig,

sat on the

couch farthest from the door, amid a meal. In the anteroom two more daggam

stood flanking

Stahlig and the man who commanded the daggam. Ronin thought they must have

torn down

some walls in order to make these quarters. Two-cubicle quarters were rare

enough Upshaft,

but Down here -

'Ah, Ronin,' said the Medicine Man. 'This is Freidal, Saardin of Security for

the Freehold.'

Freidal inclined his long body from the waist in a gesture that was somehow

theatrical. He did

not smile, and his eyes were blank beacons that studied Ronin for another

brief moment before he

returned his gaze to Stahlig. They resumed their discussion.

Freidal was dressed all in deep grey save for the knee-high boots of the

Saardin and the

oblique chest stripes of the Chondrin, both of which were silver. Ronin

wondered at this:

overlord and tactician, eyes and ears, all rolled into one.

'Nevertheless,' he was saying now, 'do you take responsibility for this man

being here?'

'Ach!' Stahlig rubbed his forehead. 'Do you think he will walk out with

Borros? Nonsense.'

Freidal eyed the Medicine Man coldly. 'Sir, there is much here that is of the

gravest import to

the Freehold.' The brass hilts of his daggers winked in the light as he

shifted easily. 'I cannot

take unnecessary risks.' He spoke in a curiously formal, almost anachronistic

manner. He stood

very straight and he was very tall.

'I assure you there is nothing to fear from Ronin's presence,' Stahlig said.

'He is merely

observing my techniques, and is here only because I invited him.'

'I trust you are not so foolish as to lie to me. That would lead to dire

consequences both for

you and your friend.' He glanced briefly at Ronin and the light turned his

left eye into a silver

dazzle. Ronin started slightly as the Saardin turned back to Stahlig. A

reflection, he thought.

But it cannot be, not a flash as bright as that. Then he had it, and now,

because he was looking

for it, he saw that Freidal's left eye did not move in its socket.

Stahlig put up his hands. 'Please, Saardin, you have misunderstood me. I

merely thought to

reassure -'

'Medicine Man, permit me to make clear my position. I did not wish to summon

you. Your

presence here disturbs me. Your friend's presence here disturbs me. I am

thrust deeply into the

midst of a highly volatile Security matter with grave ramifications. Had I my

way, no one but

my hand-picked daggam would have access to these quarters. However, I am now

resigned to

the fact that such a course is no longer possible. Borros, the Magic Man, is

seriously ill, so my

Med advisers tell me. They can no longer help him. They say it is beyond them.

Hence, a

Medicine Man must be summoned if Borros is to live. I wish him to live. Yet I

have little

patience with your kind. Please attend to him as quickly as possible and

leave.'

Stahlig inclined his head slightly, an acknowledgement of Freidal's authority.

'As you wish,'

he said softly. 'However, may I ask you to recount

the events immediately prior to Borros's illness?' Ronin bristled inwardly at

the Medicine

Man's obsequious tone.

'May I ask what for, sir?'

Stahlig sighed and Ronin observed the lines of tiredness in his face.

'Saardin, I would not ask

you to defend the Freehold with one arm bound to your side. I ask only that

you give me the

same courtesy.'

'It is essential, then?'

'The more information I have, the greater the chance of helping the patient.'

'All right.' The Saardin beckoned and a daggam appeared. He had been standing

just inside

the threshold to the room on the right and they had not noticed him before. A

writing tablet lay

along the inside of his forearm. In his other hand was a quill with which he

drew symbols on

the tablet. 'My scribe is never far from me,' said the Saardin. 'He takes down

all that I say, and all

that is said to me. In this way there can be no - misunderstanding at a later

time.' He looked

from the Medicine Man to Ronin and back again with a neutral gaze. It was

impossible to guess

what he was thinking. 'He shall read from the report made to me earlier

today.'

'That will be fine,' said Stahlig. 'But let us go in first, so that I may see

Borros's condition,'

Freidal bowed stiffly and they moved silently into the shadowy cubicle and

over to the cot on

which the figure lay. 'I apologize for the lack of light,' Freidal said

without a trace of regret.

'The Overheads have recently failed, hence the lamps.'

Two of the familiar clay pots sat on the work table across from the bed, their

flames

illuminating the room with an uncertain smoky glow.

The figure lay lashed to the bed - an otherwise unremarkable affair consisting

of a wooden

frame and large, soft pillows - with leather straps around chest and ankles.

Both Ronin and

Stahlig leaned closer to get a better look in the low light.

In all ways he appeared singular. He was long-waisted with a thick barrel

chest and

peculiarly narrow hips. His hands had long delicate fingers tipped with

protracted, translucent

nails. However, most unusual of all was his face. The head, an elongated oval,

was entirely

without hair, and the skin, drawn tightly over the scalp and high cheekbones,

was of a most

peculiarly sombre hue with a yellow tinge. His eyes were closed and his

breathing was

shallow. Stahlig bent at once to examine him.

At that moment the scribe began to recite: '"Recorded on the twenty-seventh

Cycle of Sajjit-"'

Freidal raised a hand. 'Just the text, if you please.'

The scribe inclined his head. '"Statement of Mastaad, Teck to Borros, Magic

Man. We had been

working for many Cycles on the final phases of a Project, the goal of which

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摘要：

EricVanLustbaderistheauthorofthebestsellingnovelsTheNinja,Sirens,BlackHeart,TheMandJian.HegraduatedfromColumbiaUniversityin1968,majoringinSociology,thenjoinedentertainmentindustryasajournalist.HewenttotakepublicityandmarketingpostsforElekRecords,DickJamesMusic,NBC-TVandCRecords,workingwithPinkFloyd,...

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Eric van Lustbader - Sunset Warrior 1 - The Sunset Warrior

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