Quest for Lost Heroes

by David Gemmell

  Snow began to fall, gently at first, then thick and fast. The wind strengthened, gusting the snow into the faces of the workers, ice forming on brows and beards. Chareos continued to pack the walls of the shelter while Beltzer and Kiall gathered dead wood for a fire. The temperature plummeted as the sun dipped below the peaks.

  Chareos had left a rough doorway on the south side of the structure, and Kiall and Beltzer crawled inside. A tiny fire surrounded by stones was burning at the center of the circle, but there was not heat enough to warm a man’s hands, let alone keep death from his body, thought Kiall miserably. The snow fell harder, covering the shelters, blocking the gaps in the walls, and cutting out the icy drafts.

  The temperature began to rise. “Take off your cloaks and jerkins,” ordered Chareos.

  “I’m cold enough already,” Kiall argued.

  “As you please,” said Chareos, removing his fur-lined cloak and heavy woolen overshirt. Adding fuel to the fire, he lay down, his head resting on his pack. Beltzer did likewise, having discarded his bearskin jerkin. Kiall sat shivering for some minutes. Neither of the others spoke for a while, then Kiall unclipped the brooch that held his Nadren cloak in place. As soon as he struggled out of the goatskin jerkin, the warmth from the fire enveloped him.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  Chareos raised himself on one elbow and smiled. “Wool and fur are made not just to keep cold out but to keep warmth in. Therefore, it will work in reverse. If your body is cold and there is heat outside, the furs will stop it from getting through to you.”

  “Why did you not just tell me?”

  “I find some men learn best by suffering,” said Chareos.

  Kiall ignored the rebuke. “Why did Finn and Maggrig choose to have their own shelter?” he asked. “Surely there is enough room in here with us.”

  “They prefer their own company,” answered Beltzer. “They always did. But I am sorry they will not be coming with us beyond the gate. I never knew a better shot than Maggrig or a cooler fighting man than Finn.”

  “Why won’t they come with us?” Kiall asked.

  “They have more sense,” Chareos told him.

  Ravenna’s dreams were strange and fragmented. She was a child in the arms of her mother—safe, warm, and comforted. She was a doe running through the forest, pursued by wolves with long yellow fangs, sharp as swords. She was a bird, trapped in a gilded cage and unable to spread her wings.

  She awoke. All around her the other women lay sleeping. The air was close, and there were no windows. Ravenna closed her eyes. Tomorrow she would stand naked on the auction block. Her heart began to beat wildly; she calmed her breathing and tried to relax.

  The dreams flowed once more. Now she saw a knight in shining armor riding through the gates, the Nadren scattering before him. Leaning from his saddle, he plucked her from the auction platform and rode out across the steppes. Safe in the trees, he helped her down and dismounted beside her. He lifted his visor … the face inside was rotted and long dead, the flesh hanging in leather strips from the grinning skull.

  She screamed …

  And woke. The other women were still sleeping; the scream, then, had been part of the nightmare. Ravenna was glad of that. Wrapping the thin blanket round her shoulders, she sat up. Her dress of yellow-dyed wool was filthy, and she could smell stale sweat upon it.

  I will survive this, she told herself. I will not give in to despair.

  The thought strengthened her for a moment only, but the weight of her captivity bore down on her, crushing her resolve.

  She wept silently. The woman from the wagon rose from her blankets and walked over to her, putting a slender arm about her shoulders.

  “Tomorrow,” she said, “when you stand on the platform, do not try to entice a buyer. The Nadir put no stock in women. They view them like cattle. They fear proud women. You understand me? Keep your head down and obey the commands of the auctioneer. Do not think of nakedness. Be meek and submissive.”

  “If they fear proud women, perhaps no one would buy me.”

  “Do not be a fool!” snapped the older woman. “If you look defiant, the auctioneer will have you whipped into submission or you’ll be bought by a man who enjoys inflicting pain on women. What you need is a master who will treat you casually. There is no such animal as a gentle Nadir, but better to be bedded swiftly by an indifferent savage than to be beaten like a dog.”

  “How is it you know so much?” asked Ravenna.

  “I have been sold before,” said the woman. “I spent three years as a whore in New Gulgothir. Before that I was sold to a Nadir chieftain.”

  “But you escaped?”

  “Yes. And I will escape again.”

  “How is it you are so strong?”

  “I was once wed to a weak man. Sleep now. And if you cannot sleep, rest. You will not want dark rings under those pretty eyes.”

  “What is your name?”

  “What does it matter?” the woman answered.

  Salida strode into the main hall, his armor dust-stained and dull, his eyes bloodshot and weary. Yet still he kept his back straight, his chin high. There were more than forty noblemen present. He bowed before the earl, and their eyes met.

  “Do you bring me Chareos?” the earl asked softly.

  “No, my lord. But I bring you Logar’s saber.” He held the scabbarded blade high and placed it on the dais before the earl. “Also I bring you the owner of the Gray Owl tavern, who witnessed the fight; he is outside. He says that Logar and two others attacked the monk and that Chareos defended himself nobly. The man Kypha was lying.”

  “You took this investigation on yourself?” said the earl, rising from his ebony chair, his eyes cold.

  “I know, my lord, how highly you value justice. I must also tell you that Chareos and the villager, Kiall, fought alongside myself and the men from Talgithir against a large band of Nadren. Chareos slew at least six of them in a pitched battle. Without him and Beltzer, Maggrig, and Finn, we might well have lost the encounter. I judged—perhaps wrongly—that you would not appreciate the waste of time involved in bringing Chareos back.”

  The earl stood in silence for several seconds, then he smiled. “I like my officers to show initiative, Salida, and this you have done. You also destroyed a band of raiders and showed, I understand, great personal courage. You are to be commended both for your action in battle and for your discretion. Go now. Rest. You have earned it.”

  Salida bowed and backed two paces before turning and striding from the hall. Aware that all eyes were on him, the earl turned back to his guests. For an hour he moved among them, his mood light, his humor good. Just before dusk he left the hall and walked swiftly through the stone corridors of the keep until he reached the stairway to his private rooms.

  He entered the study and pushed shut the door. A tall man was standing at the window. He was lean and hawk-faced, with pale eyes separated by a curved beak of a nose. A scar ran from his brow to his chin in an angry white line. He wore a black leather cloak that shimmered in the lantern light, and three knives hung from a baldric on his chest.

  “Well, Harokas?” said the earl.

  “The man Kypha is dead. Somehow he contrived to drown in his bath,” answered Harokas. “I hear the other business is finished.”

  The earl shook his head. “Nothing is finished. The man insulted me through my son, then disgraced me publicly. Find him—and kill him.”

  “I am skillful with a blade, my lord, but not that skillful.”

  “I did not say fight him, Harokas. I said kill him.”

  “It is not for me to criticize—”

  “No, it is not!” stormed the earl.

  Harokas’ green eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  “I want him to know why he is dying,” the earl continued.

  “What should I tell him, my lord?” asked Harokas. “That a hero of Bel-azar is doomed because he disciplined an arrogant boy?”

  “Beware, Harokas,” the
earl hissed. “My patience is not limitless—even with those who have served me well and faithfully.”

  “It will be as you order,” said Harokas. He bowed and left the study.

  Kiall’s dreams were troubled. Again and again he saw the Nadren sweep down on the village, heard their wild battle cries, and saw the sunlight gleaming on their swords and helms. He had been high in the woods, supposedly gathering herbs for the apothecary, but in reality he had been wandering, dreaming, imagining himself a knight, or a bard singer, or a nobleman on a quest. In his fantasy he was a man of iron courage and lethal skills. But when the Nadren war cries had sounded, he had stood frozen to the spot, watching the carnage, the looting, raping, and burning. He had seen Ravenna and the others hauled across the saddles of the conquering raiders and taken away to the south. And he had done nothing.

  He knew then, as he knew now, why Ravenna had rejected him, and he suffered again the pain of their meeting in the high meadow by the silver stream.

  “You are a dreamer, Kiall,” she had said, “and I like you. Truly I do. But I need more than dreams. I want a man who will build, who will grow. I need a strong man.”

  “I can do all these things,” he had assured her.

  “Only in your head. Now you must leave me. If Jarel sees you talking to me, he will be jealous. And it would not be wise for you to make Jarel angry.”

  “I am not afraid of Jarel. But I love you, Ravenna. I cannot believe that means nothing to you.”

  “Poor Kiall,” she had whispered, stroking his cheek. “Still the dreamer. Love? What is love?” She had laughed at him then and walked away.

  Kiall awoke. His body was warm under the blanket, but his face was cold. Raising himself on one elbow, he saw that the fire was dying. He added wood and sat up. Beltzer was snoring, and Chareos remained in a deep sleep. The flames licked the fuel and rose. Kiall warmed his hands and wrapped his blanket around his shoulders.

  He sniffed. The air inside the shelter was close and full of smoke, but still he could smell the rank odor emanating from Beltzer. This was no dream. Here he sat with the heroes of Bel-azar, on a quest to rescue a beautiful maiden from the clutches of evil. Yet in no way did the reality match the fantasies; a bad-tempered swordmaster, a vile-smelling warrior, and two hunters who spoke barely a civil word to anyone but each other.

  Beltzer snorted and turned over, his mouth open. Kiall saw that he had lost several teeth and that others were discolored and bad. How could this fat old man ever have been the golden-haired hero of legend?

  I should have stayed in the village, he told himself, and learned the apothecary’s skills. At least then I would have been able to afford to take a wife and build a home. But no, the dreamer had to have his way.

  He heard the crunching of boots on the snow outside, and fear rose in him as he pictured the Nadren creeping up on them as they slept. He scrambled to his feet and dressed swiftly. Then he heard Maggrig’s voice. Pulling on his boots, he dropped to his knees and eased himself out into the snow-covered clearing. The sky was a rich velvet blue, and the sun was just rising above the mountains to the east. Maggrig and Finn were skinning four white rabbits, the nearby snow spattered with blood.

  “Good morning,” said Kiall. The younger man smiled and waved, but Finn ignored the villager. Kiall moved alongside them. “You’re out early,” he remarked.

  “Early for some,” grunted Finn. “Make yourself useful.” He tossed a rabbit to Kiall, who skinned it clumsily. Finn gathered up the entrails and threw them out into the bushes, then scraped the fat from the furs and pushed them deep into his pack.

  Kiall wiped his blood-covered hands on the snow and sat back on a rock. Finn’s bow was resting against it, and Kiall reached for it.

  “Don’t touch it!” snapped Finn.

  Kiall’s anger rose. “You think I would steal it?”

  “I don’t much care—but don’t touch it.”

  Maggrig moved alongside Kiall. “Don’t take it to heart,” he said softly. “No bowyer likes another man to touch his bow. It is … a superstition, I suppose. You see, each bow is made for one archer. It is designed for him alone. Finn makes his own bows. Even I am not allowed to use them.”

  “No need to make excuses for me,” said Finn sourly.

  Maggrig ignored him. “When we get to the cabin,” he told Kiall, “you will see many bows. Finn will probably give you one—a weapon to suit your length of arm and your pulling strength.”

  “It would be no use,” said Kiall. “I have no eye for archery.”

  “Neither had I when I first met Finn. But it is amazing what a man can learn when he is paired with a master. Finn won every prize worth the taking. He even took the lord regent’s talisman against the best archers of six lands: Drenai, Vagrians, Nadir, Ventrians, and even bowmen from Mashrapur. None could compete with Finn.”

  “Not then or now,” muttered Finn, but his expression softened and he smiled. “Don’t mind me, boy,” he told Kiall. “I don’t like people much. But I don’t wish you harm, and I hope you find your lady.”

  “I am sorry you will not be traveling with us,” said Kiall.

  “I’m not. I have no wish to have my head shrunk on a pole or my skin flayed outside a Nadir tent. My battle days are long gone. Quests and the like are for young men like you.”

  “But Beltzer is coming,” Kiall reminded him.

  Finn grunted. “He never grew up, that one. But he’s a good man in a scrap, right enough.”

  “Chareos, too,” said Maggrig softly.

  “Yes,” agreed Finn. “A strange man, Chareos. But you watch him, boy, and learn. His kind don’t come around so often, if you catch my meaning.”

  “I’m not sure that I do.”

  “He’s a man with iron principles. He knows the world is shades of gray, but he lives like it’s black and white. There’s a nobility in him, a gallantry, if you like. You’ll see what I mean, come the finish. Now, that’s enough talking. Wake your companions. If they want to break their fast, they’d better be up. I’ll not wait for them.”

  The snow held off for several days, but even so the travelers made slow progress across the peaks. On the fifth day Maggrig, leading the group, came too close to the lair of a snow leopard and her cubs. The leopard seemed to explode from the undergrowth, spitting and snarling. Maggrig was hurled from his feet, a jagged tear across one arm of his tunic. Beltzer and the others ran forward, shouting at the tops of their voices, but the animal crouched before them, ears flat to her skull and fangs bared. Finn dragged Maggrig clear, and the travelers gave the beast a wide berth. Maggrig’s arm had been slashed, but not deeply, and the wound was stitched and bound by Finn.

  On the following morning they reached the valley where the hunters’ cabin was hidden. A blizzard blew up around them, and they forced their way, heads bowed against the wind, to the frozen doorway. Snow had banked against it, blocking the door and filling the window frame alongside. Beltzer cleared it, shoveling it aside with his huge hands. The inside was icy, but Finn got a fire going; it was more than an hour before the heat warmed the cabin.

  “That was good luck,” said Beltzer, finally stripping his bearskin jerkin and squatting on the rug beside the fire. “That blizzard could have hit us days ago, and we’d have been trapped out in the mountains for weeks.”

  “It may be lucky for you, dung brain,” said Finn, “but I do not relish my home being filled with sweating bodies for days on end.”

  Beltzer grinned at the black-bearded hunter. “You’re the least welcoming man I’ve ever known. Where do you keep the drink?”

  “In the well outside. Where else?”

  “I mean the ale, or the wine, or even the malt spirit.”

  “We have none here.”

  “None?” asked Beltzer, eyes widening. “None at all?”

  “Not a drop,” answered Maggrig, smiling. “Now how lucky do you feel?” His face was white, and sweat dripped into his eyes. He tried to stand but sank back in his chai
r.

  “What’s the matter with you?” said Finn, rising and moving to the younger man.

  Maggrig shrugged. “I don’t … feel …” He sagged sideways from the chair. Finn caught him and carried him to the bed, where Chareos joined him.

  “He has a fever,” said Chareos, laying his hand on the hunter’s brow. Maggrig’s eyes opened.

  “Room’s going around … thirsty …” Finn brought him a goblet of water and lifted his head while he drank.

  Kiall cleared his throat. “If you boil some water, I’ll make a potion for him.”

  Finn swung on him. “What are you … a magician?”

  “I was an apothecary’s assistant, and I bought some herbs and powders back in Tavern Town.”

  “Well, come and look at him, boy. Don’t just stand there!” stormed Finn. Kiall moved to the bedside. First he examined the wound on Maggrig’s temple; it had closed and healed well, but his master had always told him that blows to the head often shocked the system. Perhaps the second injury, caused by the leopard’s attack, had caught the hunter in a weakened state. Trying to remember what Ulthen had told him of such wounds, he removed the bandage from Maggrig’s arm; the cut was jagged and angry, but there was no pus or obvious sign of infection.

  Kiall filled a small copper pot with water and hung it over the fire. Within a few minutes the contents were boiling. Then he opened his pack and took out a thick package wrapped in oiled paper. Inside were a dozen smaller packages, each decorated with a hand-drawn leaf or flower. Kiall selected two of the packets and opened them. Bruising the leaves, he dropped them into the water and stirred the brew with a spoon. Then, lifting the pot from the fire, he laid it in the hearth to cool.