Quest for Lost Heroes

by David Gemmell

  “He has decided not to continue his lessons.”

  “And you arranged this, my lord?” Chareos asked softly.

  “I did. You were wrong, Master Chareos. When I am an officer, I will have no one in my force who is not excellent in every department. I shall certainly have no pigs.”

  “Neither will I, my lord. I suggest that you and your cousin remove yourselves immediately. The rest of you gentlemen can begin on the pegs.”

  “No one move!” ordered Patris, and the youths froze. “You dare to insult me?” the boy demanded of Chareos.

  “You have brought discredit on yourself, my lord,” Chareos answered him icily, “and I will no longer be at your service. Since these youngsters are your friends and in some way dependent on your good graces, I shall not ask them to remain and incur your displeasure. There will be no more lessons. Good day to you.”

  Chareos bowed to the group and walked away.

  “You’ll pay for this!” Patris shouted.

  The monk ignored him and returned to his rooms, his fury hard to control. He was angry not with Patris but with himself; he should have seen it coming. The earl’s son was a fine athlete, but his personality was flawed. There was in him an arrogance that could not be curbed and a cruelty that would never be held in check.

  After a while he calmed his emotions and walked to the library. There in the cold, stone quiet of the reading hall, he sat and studied the writings of the philosopher Neucean.

  Lost in his studies, he did not feel the hours flow by. A hand touched his shoulder.

  “The earl is waiting for you in the Long Hall,” said the Senior Brother.

  Chareos left the library and walked through the arched gardens toward the steps to the Long Hall. He had expected some reaction to his dismissal of Patris—but a visit from the earl? And so swiftly? It made him feel uneasy. In Gothir the old feudal laws had been much revised, but the earl was still the ultimate power in the Southlands, and on a whim, he could have a man flogged or imprisoned or both.

  Chareos gathered his thoughts and climbed the stairs to the hall. The earl was standing alone by the south window, his fingers tapping rhythmically at the sill.

  “Welcome, my lord,” said Chareos, and the slim young man turned to him, forcing a smile. His face was fine-featured, his hair long and blond, heat curled in the manner of the lord regent’s court.

  “What are we to do about this business, Chareos?” asked the earl, beckoning the monk to a seat by the window. Chareos sat, but the earl remained standing.

  “You are speaking of the lessons?”

  “Why else would I be here? You have caused quite a stir. My wife wants you flogged; the captain of the guard wishes to challenge you; my son wants you hanged—though I pointed out that withdrawing from lessons is hardly a crime. So, what can we do?”

  “Is the subject so important, my lord? There are many swordmasters.”

  “That is not the point, and you know it, Chareos. You have insulted the heir to the earldom, and in doing so, it could be argued that you have insulted me.”

  “The question of right and wrong must be considered,” said the monk.

  “The fat boy? Yes. But I want this business resolved. I suggest you invite the child—what’s his name? Akarin?—to return to the classes. You can then pair him with someone else, and the lessons can continue.”

  Chareos considered the question and shook his head. “I am indeed sorry that you feel the need to be involved in this … petty matter. What with thoughts of the Nadir, the slave raids, and the many duties you face, this is an unnecessary irritant. However, I do not see that the resumption of lessons is what is called for here. Your son is highly gifted but arrogant. Resumption of lessons will, for him, be a victory. It will be better for the boy if he is placed with another master.”

  “You speak of arrogance?” snapped the earl. “He has every right to be arrogant. He is my son, and we of the House of Arngir are used to victory. The lessons will resume.”

  Chareos rose and met the earl’s icy stare. “I should point out, my lord, that I receive no pay. I chose—as a free man—to administer the lessons. I choose as a free man to cease them. I am contracted to no one and therefore am not under the law.”

  “Then you are telling me that the insult to my family stands? Be careful, Chareos. Think of what that means.”

  The monk took a deep, slow breath. “My lord,” he said at last, “I hold you in the highest regard. If you feel that my actions have brought discredit to you, then accept my sincerest apologies. But at the beginning it was made clear to the students that in the matter of my lessons they had no rank. There would be no privilege. Patris not only dismissed one of my pupils but stopped the others from obeying a command. By all the rules that he—and you—agreed to, he had to go. I cannot reverse that decision.”

  “Cannot? Say it honestly, man. You will not.”

  “I will not.” A cold silence grew between the men, but the earl seemed unwilling to end the meeting and paced by the window for several minutes.

  “Very well,” he said finally. “It will be as you say. Logar will take over the duties of swordmaster. I will see you, as agreed, at the castle hall on Petition Morning.”

  “You still wish me to practice with you, my lord?”

  “I do. Or are you withdrawing from that duty also?”

  “Not at all, sir. I will look forward to it.”

  The earl smiled. “Until then,” he said, turning on his heel and striding from the hall. Chareos sat down, his hands trembling and his heart beating wildly.

  It did not make sense for the earl to retain him, and he had an uneasy feeling that the next practice would not be a pleasant experience. Was he to be publicly humiliated?

  He wandered to the window. Now would be a good time to leave. He could travel north to the capital or southeast into Vagria. Or even south through the lands of the Nadir and on to Drenan and the great library.

  He thought of the twelve gold coins he still had hidden in his room. He could buy two horses and supplies for a journey. His gaze flickered around the hall; he had been almost content here.

  His mind journeyed back to the last night on the gate tower as they sat with Tenaka Khan, the violet-eyed lord of the Nadir.

  “Why did you let us live?” whispered Chareos.

  The two-hour service was drawing to a close. Chareos enjoyed the singing of hymns, the chanting of the ritual prayers, and the feeling of belonging that accompanied the morning worship. It did not matter to him that his faith was less than that of his brothers. He felt at one with the Gray Order, and that in itself was enough for the former soldier.

  He rose from his knees and filed out with the others, head bowed, face shadowed by the deep hood. The morning sunshine was welcome after the cold of the nave as Chareos stepped out into the Long Garden and down the terraces toward the southern gate. Once beyond it, the peace of the monastery was lost within the noise of the crowds heading for the market meetings. Chareos allowed himself to be swept along until he reached the main square, where he pushed clear of the crowd and moved down a narrow alleyway to the livestock market. Daily auctions were watched there by discerning farmers and noblemen, with the pedigrees of bulls and horses discussed at length in the stalls surrounding the circular arena. Chareos eased himself onto the front bench by the rail and sat in silence while the bulls were led into the circle. The bidding was brisk, especially for the Drenai bulls—powerful beasts, short-horned but weighed down with flesh. After an hour the horses were led in. Chareos bid for a bay gelding but lost out to a young nobleman sitting three rows back. He bid again for a dun mare but this time was beaten by a bid from the back of the arena. Most of the other horses were swaybacks or past their prime, and he began to lose interest. Then the gray was brought in. Chareos had no wish to bid for a gray; out in the Wildlands they stood out too much, unlike the bay or the chestnut. But this animal had the look of eagles about him. His neck was long and arched, his ears flat to hi
s skull, his eyes fierce and proud. The man leading him had a nervous look, as if fearing that at any moment the beast would rear and smash his skull. Bidding was slow, and Chareos was surprised to find himself raising an arm and even more surprised when he won the auction with a price less than half the sum he had bid for the gelding.

  The man beside him leaned in close. “Beware, Brother, that is the mount that killed Trondian—threw him, then trampled him to death.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” said Chareos, rising and moving to the rear of the arena. The stallion had been stabled there, and the monk moved in alongside him, stroking his gleaming flank. “I understand you are a killer, white one. But I daresay there is another side to your story.” Carefully he checked the stallion’s legs. “You are a fine beast.” Edging back, he made his way to the auction table.

  “I will ride him this afternoon,” he said, “but I wish him stabled with you until Petition Day.”

  “As you wish,” replied the auction clerk. “That will be twelve silvers for the horse and six coppers for the week. Will you require a saddle? We have several that would suit you.”

  Chareos chose a Vagrian saddle with a high pommel and a good harness, settled his account, and left the market. After a short walk he entered Wool Street. There he purchased riding clothes: soft leather boots, dark woolen trews, two thick white shirts, and a leather topcoat that was double-shouldered and vented at the ribs to allow for ease of movement. He also bought a cloak of shining black leather lined with fur.

  “A fine choice, sir,” the merchant told him. “The leather is Ventrian and will stay soft through the fiercest winter. It is deeply oiled and will repel rain.”

  “Thank you. Tell me, who is the finest swordsmith here?”

  “Well, that is a matter of debate, of course. But my brother …”

  “Does your brother supply the earl?”

  “No, but …”

  “Who does supply the earl?”

  The man sighed. “It is not far from here. You are seeking Mathlin; he has a forge by the eastern gate. Follow Wool Street until you reach the Gray Owl tavern, turn right, and continue to the temple. Then it is the second on the left.”

  Mathlin—a dark-bearded, powerfully built Drenai—took the monk through his workshop to a building behind the forge. On the walls hung swords of every kind: broad-bladed glaives, short stabbing swords, sabers, and the rapiers carried by the Gothir noblemen. There were even tulwars and double-headed axes on display.

  “What blade were you seeking, sir monk?”

  “A cavalry saber.”

  “Might I suggest that you try Benin’s establishment. His weapons are cheaper than mine and would probably suit you just as well.”

  Chareos smiled. “What suits me, swordsmith, is the best. Show me a saber.”

  Wandering to the far wall, Mathlin lifted clear a shining weapon. The blade was only slightly curved, the hilt topped with a cross-guard of iron. He tossed it to Chareos, who caught it expertly, then hefted the blade, slashed the air twice, rolled his wrist, and executed a lunge. “The weight is wrong,” he said. “The lack of balance makes it unwieldy. Perhaps you should direct me to Benin.”

  Mathlin smiled. “That was made by my apprentice, and he has much to learn. Very well, sir monk. Perhaps you would follow me.” He led the way through to a second room. The swords there were beautifully fashioned but without adornment—no gold leaf, no filigree silver. Mathlin took down a saber and passed it to Chareos. The blade was no wider than two fingers and sharp as a razor. The hilt guard extended around the fist, protecting the sword hand.

  “Forged of the finest Ventrian steel and tempered with the blood of the smith,” said Mathlin. “If there is a finer saber, then I have not seen it. But can you afford it?”

  “What are you asking?”

  “Three gold pieces.”

  “I could buy five horses for that sum.”

  “That is the price. There is no haggling to be done here, sir monk.”

  “Throw in a hunting knife and a good scabbard and we will strike the bargain,” said Chareos.

  Mathlin shrugged. “So be it. But the knife will be one made by my apprentice. Nothing I make comes cheap.”

  2

  THAT AFTERNOON, IN his new clothes, Chareos prepared to ride the gray for the first time. He checked the saddle’s underblanket for rucks or folds that would rub at the beast’s back, then examined the bridle and bit. The latter was heavy and ridged.

  “Take it out,” Chareos told the hostler.

  “This is a troubled beast, sir. You may need that bit.”

  “I want a sound horse. That … monstrosity … will tear his mouth to pieces.”

  “Maybe so. But it will keep him in check.”

  Chareos shook his head. “Look at his mouth—there are scars there already … old scars. And on his flanks. His masters have been hard men.”

  He took an apple from the barrel by the door and cut it into quarters with his new hunting knife. Then he offered a quarter to the gray, which turned its head away. Standing to one side of the horse, Chareos ate the first quarter himself; then he offered another. This time the gray accepted the gift, but his eyes were still wary.

  “I reckon he’ll be fast,” said the hostler. “He’s built for it. And with that color he’ll need to be. You using him for afternoon rides, sir?”

  “Perhaps. I may take him on a journey or two.”

  The hostler chuckled. “Don’t try the Wildlands. They’ll see a horse of this color from a mile away, and you’ll have robbers around you thicker than flies on dog droppings.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Chareos said irritably. Stepping into the saddle, he steered the stallion out into the back street behind the auction yard.

  Twenty minutes later he was in the foothills to the south of the city, with the wind in his hair and the stallion galloping at full stretch. He let the beast have his head for a full quarter mile and then drew him back, pulling left to climb a gentle rise. At the top he allowed the horse to walk for a while, watching the beast’s breathing. He need not have been concerned; within a few minutes the stallion was no longer snorting, and there was little evidence of sweat on his flanks.

  “You are strong,” said Chareos, stroking the long sleek neck, “and fast. But when will you let me know why you are such a troubled beast?”

  The stallion plodded on, but when Chareos urged him into a canter over the hills, the horse responded instantly. At the end of an hour’s riding the city was far behind, though Chareos could still see its turrets in the misty distance. He made up his mind to turn back, for dusk was fast approaching and the great stallion was finally tired. Angling the beast down a short slope, he spotted billowing clouds of smoke from the south, beyond the hills. He rode on, entering a circle of trees. In a clearing he came on a group of soldiers sitting around several small fires. He recognized the officer, who was sitting apart from his men, as Logar, the earl’s champion.

  “There is a large fire south of you beyond the hill,” Chareos told him. “Have you not noticed the smoke?”

  “What business is it of yours?” asked Logar, rising smoothly. A tall, lean young man with cold eyes and a dark trident beard, he moved forward to stand close to the stallion. The horse did not like the proximity of the soldier and backed away; Chareos calmed him.

  “It is not my business,” he said. “Good day to you.” He rode from the clearing, topped the rise, and gazed down on a scene of devastation. There were twelve homes burning, and several bodies lay sprawled on the ground. Elsewhere people were trying to bring the blaze under control at a large communal barn. Chareos cursed and returned to the soldiers’ camp.

  Logar was dicing with a junior officer, and both men looked up as Chareos rode in. “There is a village close by,” said Chareos, “which has been under attack. You will take your men and help with the fire fighting. And know this: I shall report you to the earl for dereliction of duty.”

  All color fl
ed from Logar’s face as he rose and grasped the hilt of his saber. “Step down, you whoreson! I’ll not be insulted by the likes of you.”

  “You have been,” said Chareos. “Now do as I told you.” Swinging the stallion, he rode to the village, tethering the horse upwind of the smoke before running to help the villagers. The fire at the barn was out of control. As a man ran by him bearing a bucket of water, Chareos dragged him to a halt. “You must get out what you can. The barn is beyond saving,” he told him. The man nodded and ran on to the others as the soldiers arrived and hurled themselves into the work. Three of the homes were saved, but the barn fire raged on. Several axmen hammered an entrance at the rear of the building, allowing others to enter and drag clear what grain sacks could be saved. The battle went on long into the evening, but finally the fires died down.

  Chareos walked to a nearby stream and washed his face and hands of grime. He looked down at his new clothes. The jerkin was singed, as were the trews; the shirt was blackened by smoke, the boots scuffed.

  He sat down. His lungs felt hot, and his mouth tasted of wood smoke. A young man approached him.

  “They took eleven of our women, sir. When will you ride after them?”

  Chareos stood. “I am not a soldier; I was merely passing by. You need to see the officer with the troop; his name is Logar.”

  “A thousand curses on him!” spit the young man. Chareos said nothing but looked more closely at the villager. He was tall and slender, with long dark hair and keen blue eyes under thick brows. The face was handsome despite the blackening of smoke and charcoal.

  “Be careful what you say, youngster,” warned Chareos. “Logar is the earl’s champion.”

  “I don’t care. Old Paccus warned us of the raid, and we sent to the earl for aid three days ago. Where were the soldiers when we needed them?”

  “How did he know of the raid?”

  “He’s a seer: he told us the day and the hour. We tried to fight them, but we’ve no weapons.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Nadren. Outlaws who trade with the Nadir. For slaves! We must get them back. We must!”