Quest for Lost Heroes

by David Gemmell

  “My horses are in the stable. Do not fear for me.”

  She smiled. “It was good what you did for him,” she said, and then she left, pulling the door shut behind her. Chareos pushed home the bolt and settled down to his meal. The meat was tender, the vegetables soft and overcooked, and the wine barely passable; even so, the meal filled his belly, and he settled down to sleep in the chair. His dreams were troubled, but when he awoke, they vanished like smoke in the breeze. Predawn light had shaded the sky to a dark gray. The fire was almost dead, the room chilly; Chareos added tinder to the glowing embers, blowing the flames to life, then piled on larger chunks. He was stiff and cold, and his neck ached. With the fire blazing once more, he moved to the villager. The youth’s breathing was more shallow now. Chareos touched his arm, and the villager groaned and opened his eyes.

  He tried to sit up, but pain hit him and he sank back.

  “Your wounds are clean,” said Chareos, “and though they must be painful, I suggest you rise and dress. I have bought a horse for you. And we leave the city this morning.”

  “Thank you … for your help. My name is Kiall.” The youth sat up, his face twisted by the pain clawing at his back.

  “The wounds will heal well,” Chareos told him. “They are clean and not deep. The pain is from the whip burns, but that will pass in three or four days.”

  “I do not know your name,” said Kiall.

  “Chareos. Now get dressed. There are men waiting who will make our departure troublesome.”

  “Chareos? The hero of Bel-azar?”

  “Yes,” snapped Chareos, “the wondrous giant of song and tale. Did you hear me, boy? We are in danger. Now, get dressed.”

  Kiall pushed himself to his feet and struggled into his trews and boots but could not raise his arms to pull on his shirt. Chareos helped him. The lash marks extended all the way to Kiall’s hip, and he could not fasten his belt. “Why are we in danger?” he asked.

  Chareos shrugged. “I doubt it has to do with you. I had a duel with a man named Logar, and I would imagine he is feeling somewhat humiliated. Now, I want you to go down to the stable. My horses are there. Mine is the gray, and the saddle is by the stall. You know how to saddle a horse?”

  “I was once a stable boy.”

  “Good. Make sure the cinch is tight enough. Two stalls down there is a swaybacked black gelding; it was the best I could find for you. He’s old and nearly worn out, but he will get you back to your village.”

  “I will not return to the village,” said Kiall softly. “I will hunt down the raiders who took Ravenna and the others.”

  “A sound and sensible idea,” said Chareos irritably, “but for now be so good as to saddle my horse.”

  Kiall reddened. “I may owe you my life, but do not mock me,” he said. “I have loved Ravenna for years, and I will not rest until she is free or I am dead.”

  “The latter is what you will be. But it is your life. My horse, if you please.”

  Kiall opened his mouth but said nothing. Shaking his head, he left the room. Chareos waited for several minutes and then walked down the stairs to the kitchen, where two scullery servants were preparing the dough for the day’s bread. He summoned the first and asked her to pack some provisions for him: salt beef, a ham, corn biscuits, and a small sack of oats. With his order filled, he paid her and wandered through the deserted main hall. The innkeeper, Finbale, was hanging freshly washed tankards on hooks above the bar. He nodded and smiled as Chareos moved toward the door, and Chareos stopped and approached the man.

  “Good morning,” said Finbale, a wide grin showing the gaps in his teeth.

  “And to you,” responded Chareos. “Will you have my horse brought to the door?”

  “The stable is only across the yard, sir. And my boy is not here yet.”

  “Then do it yourself,” said Chareos coldly.

  “I’m very busy, sir,” Finbale answered, the smile vanishing, and turned back to his chores.

  So, thought Chareos, they are still here. Holding his provisions in his left hand, he stepped out into the yard. All was quiet, and the dawn was breaking to the east. The morning was chilly and fresh, and the smell of frying bacon hung in the air. Glancing around the yard, Chareos saw a wagon close by and a short wall leading to the chicken run. To the left the stable door was open, but there was no sign of Kiall. As Chareos moved out into the open, a man ran toward him from the side of the building; he dropped his provisions and drew his saber. Two more men came into view from behind the wagon, and then Logar appeared from the stable. His forehead was bandaged, but blood was seeping through the linen.

  “You are very good with a rapier,” said Logar. “But how do you fare with the saber?”

  “I am better with a saber,” Chareos answered.

  “In that case we will take no chances,” hissed Logar. “Kill him!”

  As two swordsmen leapt forward, Chareos blocked a wild slash, spun on his heel to avoid a second thrust, and backhanded his blade across the first man’s throat. Blood welled from the cut, and the attacker fell, dropping his sword and thrusting his fingers at the wound in a vain attempt to stem the flow of his life. The second attacker sent a cut at Chareos’ head, but the monk ducked under it and thrust his own blade through the man’s chest. A third swordsman fell back, his eyes widening.

  “Well?” said Chareos, glaring at Logar, and the earl’s champion screamed and launched an attack. Chareos blocked the first slash, leapt back from a sweeping slice that would have disemboweled him, then swept a flashing riposte that plunged into Logar’s groin, severing the huge artery at the top of the inner thigh. Logar dropped his saber and stared in disbelief at the blood drenching his leggings; then his legs gave way, and he fell to his knees before Chareos. He looked up at his killer and blinked before toppling sideways to the ground. Chareos moved to the body, pulling free the sword belt and sliding the dead man’s saber back into the scabbard. When Kiall rode into the yard, leading Chareos’ gray, the former monk tossed Logar’s saber to the villager, gathered his provisions, and swung into the saddle. The last swordsman stood by, saying nothing. Chareos ignored him and steered his mount toward the southern gate.

  The yard had been roped off, and guards stood by the entrances. Behind them a crowd had gathered, straining to see the stiffening corpses. The earl stood over the body of Logar, staring down at the gray, bloodless face.

  “The facts speak for themselves,” he said, pointing at the body. “See, he has no sword. He was murdered, and I want the killer brought to justice. Who would have thought that a hero of Bel-azar would stoop to such a base deed?” The retainers grouped around him said nothing, and the surviving swordsman turned his eyes from the earl.

  “Take twenty men,” the earl ordered Salida, his captain of lancers, “and bring Chareos back here.”

  Salida cleared his throat. “My lord, it was not like Logar to walk unarmed, and these other two men had swords drawn. Chareos is a master bladesman. I cannot believe …”

  “Enough!” snapped the earl, and swung to the survivor. “You … what is your name again?”

  “Kypha, my lord,” replied the man, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

  “Was Logar armed when Chareos slew him?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “There you have it, then,” said the earl. “And you have the evidence of your eyes. Do you see a sword?”

  “No, my lord,” said Salida. “I will fetch him. What of the villager?”

  “He was an accessory to murder; he will hang alongside Chareos.”

  The twenty-two captive women sat close together in four open wagons. On either side warriors rode, grim men and fierce-eyed. Ravenna was in the second wagon, separated from her friends. Around her were women and girls taken in two other raids. All were frightened, and there was little conversation.

  Two days before a girl had tried to escape; she had leapt from a wagon at dusk and run for the trees, but they had ridden her down in seconds and dragged
her back. The captives had been assembled in a circle to watch the girl being whipped, and her whimpering screams still sounded in Ravenna’s ears.

  After that several of the men had dragged her away from the camp and raped her. Then her arms had been tied and she had been flung down near the other prisoners.

  “There is a lesson to be learned here,” said a man with a scarred face. “You are slaves, and you will begin to think like slaves. That way you will survive. Any slave who attempts to run will be treated more harshly than this one. Remember these words.”

  Ravenna would remember …

  The time to escape would not be while the Nadren held them. No, it was necessary to be more cunning. She would wait until she was bought by some lecherous Nadir. She would be pliant and helpful, loving and grateful … and when he had grown confident of her emotions—then she would run.

  “Where are you from?” whispered the woman beside her. Ravenna told her.

  “I visited your village once. For the summer solstice fair.” Ravenna looked at the bony figure, scanning the lean, angular face and the shining black hair. She could not remember her.

  “Are you wed?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said the woman, shrugging. “But that does not matter anymore.”

  “No,” Ravenna agreed.

  “And you?”

  “I was due to marry. Eighteen—no, seventeen—days from now.”

  “Are you a virgin?” the woman asked, her voice dropping lower.

  “No.”

  “You are from now on. They will ask. Virgins fetch higher prices. And it will mean these … pigs … will not touch you. You understand?”

  “Yes. But surely the man who buys me …”

  “What do they know? Men! Find yourself a sharp pin and on the first night cut yourself.”

  Ravenna nodded. “Thank you. I will remember that.”

  They lapsed into silence as the wagons moved on. The raiders rode warily, and Ravenna could not stop herself from scanning the horizon.

  “Do not expect help,” the woman told her.

  “One should always hope.”

  The woman smiled. “Then hope for a handsome savage with kindly ways.”

  The mountains towered before them like a fighting line of white-bearded giants, and an icy wind drifted over the peaks into the faces of the riders. As Chareos pulled his fur-lined cloak about him and belted it, he glanced at the villager. Kiall’s face was gray and he swayed in the saddle, but he offered no complaint. Chareos gazed back toward the city. It was far behind them now, and only the tallest turrets could be seen beyond the hills.

  “How are you faring?” he asked Kiall. The villager gave a weak smile. The lirium was wearing off, and pain was eating into his back like hot coals. The old swayback gelding was a serene beast, and normally the ride would have been comfortable, but now every movement pulled at Kiall’s tortured flesh. “We will stop in a while,” said Chareos, “once we are in the trees. There are lakes there with crystal-clear water. We will rest, and I will see to your injuries.” Kiall nodded and gripped the pommel of his saddle. He felt sick, and sweat had formed a sheen on his face. Cursing inwardly, Chareos moved alongside the swayback. Suddenly the white stallion arched its neck and flashed a bite at the older animal. Chareos dragged on the reins, and the gelding reared. Kiall all but toppled from the saddle. The stallion bucked and dipped its head, but Chareos clung grimly, his thighs locked tight to the barrel of the animal’s body. For several seconds the horse tried to unseat him; then it settled down as if nothing had happened and stood calmly. Chareos stepped down from the saddle, stroking the stallion’s long neck. Moving to stand before the horse’s head, he rubbed at its nose, then blew a long slow breath into each of its nostrils. “Know me,” whispered Chareos, over and over again. “I will not harm you. I am not your master. I am a friend.”

  At last he remounted and continued the journey south. Chareos had never traveled those hills, but travelers spoke of a settlement built around a tavern. He hoped that the village was close and that they had a healer. Kiall’s fever was climbing, and for all Chareos knew the wounds could be festering. As a soldier he had seen many men die from what appeared to be small wounds. The skin would swell and discolor, fever would deepen, and flesh would melt away. He recalled a young warrior at Bel-azar who had cut his hand on a thorn. The hand had swelled to three times its size, then had turned blue and finally black. The surgeon had cut it from him. But the boy died … And he died screaming. Chareos glanced at Kiall and forced a smile, but the youth did not respond.

  By late afternoon Kiall could ride no more. He was feverish and moaning, and two of the long wounds in his back had opened. Chareos had lashed the young man’s wrists to the pommel and was now leading the gelding as he guided the horses along the shores of a wide lake; it was smooth as a mirror, and the mountains were reflected on its surface. Dismounting, he hobbled the horses and helped Kiall to the ground. The villager sagged, his knees giving way. Chareos let him lie and built a fire. As a soldier he had seen many men flogged. Often the shock of the beating was what laid a man low, the humiliation more than the agony. With the fire blazing, he turned Kiall onto his stomach and sniffed at the wounds. There was no smell of corruption. Chareos covered him with a blanket. The young man was strong and proud. He had not complained about his pain, and Chareos admired that.

  He sat by the fire, staring out over the mountains and the stands of pine which grew green through the snow. There had been a time when such a view had made him think of freedom, the wide beauty, the towering grandeur of the peaks. Now, he realized, they spoke only of the futility of man. Wars, plagues, kings, and conquerors were as nothing to these peaks.

  “What do you care for my dreams?” asked Chareos, his mind drifting back to Tura as it so often did when the reflective mood came upon him. Beautiful, black-haired Tura. She had made him feel more of a man than he could have wished for. With her he was complete. But what she had seemed to give so freely, she had cruelly stolen back. Chareos’ face reddened with the memory. How many lovers had she taken before Chareos had discovered her infidelity? Ten? Twenty? How many of his friends had accepted the gift of her body? The hero of Bel-azar! If only they knew. Chareos the bladesman had not gone there to fight; he had gone there to die.

  There was little heroism in that. But the bards did not care for realism. They sang of silver blades and dashing deeds; the cuckold’s shame had no place in the saga of Bel-azar.

  He stood and wandered to the lakeside, kneeling to drink, closing his eyes against his reflection. Returning to the fire, he saw that Kiall was sleeping peacefully. The sun drifted low in the west, and the air grew cooler. Chareos loosened the saddle cinches on the horses and stretched out his blanket close to the fire.

  Lying back, he stared at the stars. He had wanted to forgive Tura, to take her far from the fort and start a new life, but she had laughed at him. She liked it where she was, where there were men at hand, strong men, lusty men, men who would give her presents. In his mind’s eye he could see himself striking her and smashing her beauty beneath his fists. But he never had. He had backed from the room, forced by the strength of her laughter, the love he had allowed into his heart torn away by the talons of treachery. He had never loved again, never taken a woman to his heart or his bed.

  A wolf howled in the distance, a lonely mournful sound. Chareos banked the fire and slept.

  Birdsong drifted through his dreams, and he awoke. He did not feel refreshed for his sleep and knew that he had dreamed of Tura. As always, he could remember little save her name echoing in his mind. He sat up and shivered. The fire was nearly gone, and he knelt before it, blowing the embers to life and adding twigs to the tiny flames. Then he rose and wandered from the campsite, gathering dead wood.

  With the fire blazing once more, he moved to the stallion, stroking its neck. He took some cold meat from his sack of provisions and returned to the warmth of the blaze. Kiall woke and carefully sat up. His color had retur
ned, and he smiled at Chareos.

  The former monk sliced the ham with his hunting knife and passed it to the villager.

  “Where are we?” asked Kiall.

  “About ten miles from the old toll road. You look better.”

  “I am sorry to be a burden to you. And even more sorry that you had to kill for me.”

  “It wasn’t for you, Kiall. They were hunting me. A haughty child is disciplined, and now three men are dead. Insane.”

  “You were amazing in the fight. I have never seen anything like it. You were so cool.”

  “You know why they died?” Chareos asked.

  “They were not as good as you?” ventured Kiall.

  “No, they weren’t, but that’s not the whole reason. They died because they had something to live for. Finish your breakfast.”

  For three days they moved higher into the range, crossing streams and rivers. Above them the snow geese flew, heading for their distant breeding grounds. In the waters the beaver battled against the floods, building their dams. Kiall’s wounds were healing fast in the clean mountain air, and now he wore Logar’s saber at his side.

  The companions had spoken little during the climb, and at night, at the campfire, Chareos would sit facing north, lost in thought.

  “Where are we going?” Kiall asked as they saddled their horses on the fifth morning.

  Chareos was silent for a moment. “We are heading into a settlement called Tavern Town. There we will purchase supplies. But after that I will be riding south across the steppes. And I will be riding alone, Kiall.”

  “You will not help me rescue Ravenna?” It was the first time since the tavern that the villager had spoken of the raid. Chareos tightened the saddle cinch on the stallion before turning to face the young man.

  “You do not know which direction the raiders took. You do not know the name of their leader. By now the women will be sold. It is a hopeless cause, Kiall. Give it up.”

  “I cannot,” said the young man. “I love her, Chareos. I have loved her since I was a child. Have you ever been in love?”