“Love is for fools. It is a surging of blood in the loins … there is no mystery and no magic. Find someone else, boy. By now she has been raped a dozen times, and she may even have found she likes it.”
Kiall’s face went white, and Logar’s saber flashed into the air. Chareos leapt back. “What in the devil’s name are you doing?”
“Apologize! Now!” Kiall ordered, advancing with the saber pointing at Chareos’ throat.
“For what? For pointing out the obvious?” The saber lanced forward, but Chareos swayed aside from the point and drew his own sword. “Don’t be a fool, boy. You are in no condition to fight me. And even if you were, I could cut you to pieces.”
“Apologize,” repeated Kiall.
“No,” said Chareos softly. The villager attacked wildly, but Chareos parried with ease, and, off balance, Kiall tumbled to the ground, dropping the saber. He reached for it, but Chareos’ boot trapped the blade. Kiall twisted and dived, his head ramming into Chareos’ belly, and both men fell. Kiall’s fist cracked against Chareos’ chin. The former monk blocked a second blow, but a third stunned him, and he lost his grip on his saber. Kiall swept up the blade and lurched upright. Chareos tried to rise, but the point of his own saber touched the skin of his throat.
“You are a surprising lad,” remarked Chareos.
“And you are a whoreson,” hissed Kiall, dropping the saber to the snow and turning away. His wounds had opened, and fresh blood was seeping in jagged lines through the back of his tunic.
Chareos rose and slid the saber back in its scabbard.
“I am sorry,” he said, and Kiall stopped, his shoulders sagging. Chareos moved to him. “I mean it. I am not a man who likes women very much, but I do know what it is to be in love. Were you married long?”
“We were not wed,” Kiall told him.
“Betrothed?”
“No.”
“What, then?” asked Chareos, mystified.
“She was going to marry another man. His father owns the whole of the east pastureland, and it was a good match.”
“But she loved you?”
“No,” admitted Kiall. “No, she never did.” The young man hauled himself into the saddle.
“I don’t understand,” said Chareos. “You are setting off on a quest to rescue a woman who doesn’t love you?”
“Tell me again what a fool I am,” Kiall said.
“No, no, forgive me for that. I am older than you, and cynical, Kiall. But I should not mock. I have no right. But what of her betrothed? Is he dead?”
“No. He has made an arrangement with Ravenna’s father, and now he will marry her younger sister, Karyn—she was not taken.”
“He did not grieve for long, then,” Chareos observed.
“He never loved her; he just wanted her because she is beautiful and her father is rich; he breeds pigs, cattle, and horses. He is the ugliest man I ever saw, but his daughters have been touched by heaven.”
Chareos picked up the boy’s saber and handed it to him hilt first.
Kiall gazed down at the blade. “There’s little point in my carrying this sword. I have no skill with such things.”
“You are wrong,” said Chareos, smiling. “You’ve a good hand, a fast eye, and a proud heart. All you lack is tuition. I’ll supply that as we search for Ravenna.”
“You’ll come with me? Why?”
“Never count the teeth of a gift horse,” answered Chareos, moving to the gray and stepping into the saddle. The horse trembled.
“Oh, no,” whispered Chareos. The stallion bucked violently, then reared and twisted in the air, and Chareos flew over his head to land in the snow with a bone-jarring thud. The stallion walked forward to stand over him. He pushed himself upright and remounted.
“A strange beast,” observed Kiall. “I don’t think he likes you.”
“Of course he does, boy. The last man he didn’t like he trampled to death.”
Chareos touched his heels to the stallion and led the way south.
He stayed some lengths ahead of Kiall as they rode through the morning, aware that he had no answers that the boy would understand. He could have told him of a child thirty years ago who had had no hope, save that a warrior named Attalis had rescued him and become a father to him. He could tell him of a mother also named Ravenna, a proud, courageous woman who had refused to leave the husband she adored even for the son she loved. But to do so would mean sharing a secret that Chareos carried with shame—a duty unfulfilled, a promise broken. He felt the fresh breeze whispering against his skin and could smell the trees and the promise of snow. He glanced at the sky.
There was nothing he could say to Kiall. The boy was happy. The legendary blademaster had agreed to accompany him, and in Kiall’s mind success was assured.
Chareos’ thoughts turned to the farm girl and the man who loved her, just as he had loved Tura, a hopeless onesided emotion. Yet even now, after the bitterness and the pain, Chareos would walk through a lake of fire if Tura needed him. But she did not need him … she never had.
No, the one in need was a pig breeder’s daughter. He twisted in the saddle and looked back at Kiall, who smiled and waved.
Returning his gaze to the mountains ahead, Chareos remembered the day Tura had left him. He was sitting alone in the small courtyard behind the house. The sun was sinking behind the clouds and seemed to burn like red fire. Finn found him there.
The bowman sat alongside him on the stone seat. “She didn’t love you, man,” said Finn, and Chareos wept like a child. For some time Finn sat in silence, then he placed his hand on Chareos’ shoulder and spoke softly. “Men dream of many things, Blademaster. We dream of fame we can never know or riches we can never win. But the most foolish of all is the dream of love, of the great abiding love. Let it go.”
“I can’t,” answered Chareos.
“Then mask it, for the troops are waiting and it is a long ride to Bel-azar.”
3
THE STAG DIPPED its head to the stream, its long tongue lapping at the clear water. Something struck it a wicked blow in the side; its head came up, and an arrow sliced through one eye, deep into the brain. Its forelegs buckled, and it dropped to the earth, blood seeping from its mouth.
The two hunters rose from the bushes and splashed across the stream to the carcass. Both were wearing buckskins, fringed and beaded, and they carried curved hunting bows of Vagrian horn. The younger of the men—slight, blond-haired, with wide eyes of startling blue—knelt by the stag and opened the great artery of the beast’s throat. The other man, taller and heavily bearded, stood watching the undergrowth.
“There’s no one about, Finn,” said the blond hunter.
“You are getting old and starting to imagine things.”
The bearded man swore softly. “I can smell the bastards—they’re hereabouts. Can’t see why. No raiding for them. No women. But they’re here, right enough. Puking Nadren!”
The smaller man disemboweled the stag and began to skin the carcass with a double-edged hunting knife. Finn notched an arrow to his bow and stood glaring at the undergrowth opposite.
“You are making me nervous,” the younger man told him.
“We been together twenty years, Maggrig, and you still read sign like a blind man reads script.”
“Truly? Who was it last year said the Tattooed Men were hunting? Stayed guard for four days and not a sight of the headhunters?”
“They were there. They just didn’t want to kill us right then,” said Finn. “How long are you going to be quartering that beast?”
Just then four men rose from the bushes on the other side of the stream. They were all armed with bows and swords, but no arrows were notched and the blades were scabbarded.
“You want to share some of that?” called a lean, bearded man.
“We need it for the winter store. Deer are mighty scarce these days,” Finn told him. Maggrig, kneeling beside the carcass, sheathed his hunting knife and took up his bow, sliding an arro
w from his quiver.
“There’s two more on this side,” he whispered.
“I know,” said the older man, cursing inwardly. With two Nadren hidden in the undergrowth behind them, they were trapped.
“You are not being very friendly,” said the Nadren warrior as he and the others began to wade toward the hunters.
“You can stop there,” Finn told him, drawing back the bowstring. “We are in no need of company.” Maggrig, confident that Finn could contain the men at the stream, notched an arrow to his bow, his blue eyes scanning the undergrowth to the rear. A bowman rose from the bushes with his arrow aimed at Finn’s back. Maggrig drew and loosed instantly, his shaft flashing through the man’s throat, and the raider’s arrow sailed over Finn and splashed down into the water before the four men.
“I didn’t order him to do that,” said the lean man across the water, waving his arm at the men alongside him. They began to back away, but Finn said nothing, his eyes fixed on them.
“The other one is ready to chance a shaft,” whispered Maggrig. “Do you have to stand there inviting it?”
“Hell’s gates, I’m tired of standing around in the cold,” said Finn. “Make the whoreson show himself.” Maggrig drew back on the bowstring and sent an arrow slicing into the bushes. There was a yelp of surprise, and a bowman reared up with a shaft through his upper arm. Finn spun on his heel and sent a second arrow into the man’s chest, and he fell facedown into the undergrowth. Finn swung back, but the men across the stream had vanished into the bushes.
“Getting old, am I?” Finn snapped. “Your boots have more brains than you.” Maggrig grabbed Finn’s jerkin, hauling him from his feet as three arrows slashed the air where he had been standing. Maggrig loosed a shaft back across the stream, but he knew he had struck nothing.
“Time to be going home, old man,” Maggrig said. An arrow hit the ground before him, striking a stone and ricocheting into the carcass. Hastily the two men dragged the butchered deer back out of range, stacked the choicest cuts of meat inside the skin, and faded into the woods. They moved warily for several miles, but there was no sign of pursuit.
Finally they angled across the slopes of the mountain to the partially hidden cabin set against the north face. Once there, Finn built up the fire and tugged off his wet boots, hurling them against the stone of the hearth. The cabin was two-roomed. A large bed was against the wall opposite the fire, and a single window had been fashioned beside the door. Bearskin rugs covered the floor. Maggrig opened the door to the workshop beyond, where they crafted their bows and arrows and beat the iron for the heads. He heard Finn swear.
“Damn Nadren! When I was your age, Maggrig, we had mounted patrols that scoured the mountains for scum like that. It’s a bad day when they feel they can come in, bold as a brass mirror, to steal an innocent man’s supper. Damn them!”
“Why so annoyed?” asked Maggrig. “We killed two of them and kept our supper. They haven’t caused us a problem, save for three lost arrows.”
“They will. Murderous savages, the lot of them. They’ll be hunting us.”
“Ah yes, but we have the great hunter Finn, the smeller of trouble! Not a bird can break wind in the mountains without Finn picking up the scent.”
“You’re as funny as a broken leg. I’ve got a bad feeling, boy; there’s death in the air smelling worse than winter.” He shivered and stretched out his large, bony hands to the fire.
Maggrig said nothing. He could feel it, too.
Carrying the quartered stag through to the back of the workshop, Maggrig hung it on iron hooks by the far wall. Then he spread the skin and began the long job of scraping the fat from it. He’d need a new shirt for the winter, and he liked the russet color of the hide. Finn wandered in and sat at the workbench, idly picking up an arrow shaft and judging the line. He put it down. Normally he would cut feather flights, but now he merely sat staring at the bench top.
Maggrig glanced up at him. “Your back troubling you again?”
“Always does when winter’s close. Damn! I hate going down to the Tavern Town but needs must. Have to pass the word about the raiders.”
“We could look in and see Beltzer.”
Finn shook his head. “He’ll be drunk as usual. And one more insult from that pig and I swear I’ll gut him.”
Maggrig stood and stretched his back. “You don’t mean that. Neither does he. He’s just lonely, Finn.”
“Feel sorry for him, do you? Not me. He was cantankerous when he was married. He was vile at Bel-azar. There’s a streak of mean in the man—I can’t stand him.”
“Then why did you buy his ax when they auctioned it?” demanded the blond hunter. “Two years of trapping to pay for that! And what have you done with it? Wrapped it in oilskin and left it at the bottom of the chest.”
Finn spread his hands. “No accounting for myself sometimes. Didn’t like the thought of some northern nobleman hanging it on his wall, I guess. Wish I hadn’t now; we could do with some ready coin. Buy some salt. Damn, but I miss salt. I suppose we could trade some bows. You know, we should have stopped long enough to take the weapons from those Nadren. Could have got some salt for them, right enough.”
A wolf howl rent the night.
“Puking sons of bitches!” said Finn, standing and striding back into the main room.
Maggrig followed him. “Got it in for wolves now, have you?”
“Wolf call makes no echo, boy. Don’t you remember nothing at all?”
“I was raised to be a priest, Finn. My father didn’t think I’d have much need for wolf calls and echoes.”
Finn chuckled. “If they find the cabin, you can go out and preach to them.”
“How many do you think there are?”
“Hard to say,” Finn told him. “Usually they keep to bands of around thirty, but there may be less.”
“Or more?” suggested Maggrig, softly.
Finn nodded. The wolf call sounded once more.
And this time it was closer …
Chareos drew rein on a hilltop and glanced back down toward the valley. “What is it?” asked Kiall. “That’s the fourth time you’ve checked the back trail.”
“I thought I saw riders, sunlight gleaming from helms or lances. It could be a patrol.”
“They would not be looking for us, would they? I mean, we have broken no laws.”
Chareos looked into Kiall’s face and read the fear there. “I have no idea. The earl is a vengeful man and feels I have insulted him. But even he could find no way to accuse me in this matter. Let’s move. We should be in Tavern Town by midmorning, and I would sell my soul for a hot meal and a warm bed.”
The clouds above them were heavy with the promise of snow, and the temperature had dropped sharply during the past two days. Kiall wore only a woolen shirt and leggings, and just looking at him made Chareos more cold. “I should have bought gloves,” he said, blowing at his hands.
“It is not too cold yet,” said Kiall cheerfully.
“It is when you are my age,” Chareos snapped.
Kiall chuckled. “You don’t look much past fifty.”
Chareos bit back an angry retort and urged the stallion down the slope. All life is a circle, he reminded himself, remembering the days when he had chided Kalin for being nearly senile. Old Kalin? The man had been forty-two, nearly three years younger than Chareos was now.
The stallion slithered on the slope. Chareos pulled his head up and leaned back in the saddle. The gray recovered his balance and reached the foot of the hill without incident. The trail widened into a mountain road, flattened by the wide leather-rimmed wheels of the wagons that carried timber to Talgithir. The trees gave shelter from the wind, and Chareos felt more comfortable. Kiall rode alongside, but the gray nipped at the gelding, which reared. The villager clung on grimly.
“You should sell that beast,” said Kiall. “There is a devil in him.”
It was good advice, but Chareos knew he would keep the gray. “He is bad-temper
ed and a loner. But I like him. He reminds me of me.”
They emerged from the woods above a cluster of buildings at the center of which was a tavern. Gray smoke rose from its two stone chimneys, and men could be seen gathering outside the main doorway.
“Bad timing,” muttered Chareos. “The timber workers and laborers are waiting for their midday meal.”
The two men rode down into the settlement. The stables were at the rear of the tavern, and there Chareos unsaddled the gray and led him into a stall. He forked hay into the feeding box and brushed the animal’s back. Then he and Kiall walked through into the tavern. It was nearly full and there was no room close to the fires, so the two men sat at a bench table.
A plump woman approached them. “Good morning, sirs. We have pies and good roast beef and a rich honey cake served hot.”
“Do you have rooms available?” asked Chareos.
“Yes, sir. The upper guest room. I will have a fire lit; it will be ready shortly.”
“We will take our food there,” he told her. “But for now two goblets of mulled wine, if you please.”
She curtseyed and moved back into the throng. The crowd made Chareos uncomfortable; the air was close and reeked of wood smoke, sweat, and broiling meat. After a while the woman returned and led them through to the stairs and on to the upper guest room. It was large and cold despite the newly lit fire, but there were two soft beds, a table, and four deep leather chairs.
“It will warm up soon enough,” said the woman. “Then you’ll need to open the window. The left shutter is a little stiff, but a good push will move it; the wood has warped. I will bring your food presently.”
Chareos removed his cloak and dragged a chair to the fire. Kiall sat down opposite him, leaning forward; his back was healing fast, but still the wounds were sore.
“Where do we go from here?” he asked.
“Southwest into Nadir lands. There we’ll hear of the Nadren who raided your village. With luck, Ravenna will have been sold and we should be able to steal her back.”
“What of the others?”
“For pity’s sake, boy! They’ll be spread all over the Nadir lands. Some of them will be sold twice over, and we’d never find them all. Use your brain. Have you ever been to the steppes?”
Quest for Lost Heroes Page 6
