Quest for Lost Heroes

by David Gemmell

  “But you won,” persisted Kiall. “You were honored throughout the land.”

  “Aye, that was good—the honor, I mean. The parades and the banquets and the women. I never had so many women. Young ones, old ones, fat ones, thin ones: they couldn’t wait to open their legs for a hero of Bel-azar. That was the real glory of it, boy—what came after. By the gods, I’d sell my soul for a drink!”

  “Does Chareos feel as you do—about Bel-azar, I mean?”

  Beltzer chuckled. “He thinks I don’t know … but I know. The blademaster had a wife,” he said, twisting his head to check that Chareos was still high on the hill. “Gods, she was a beauty. Dark hair that gleamed like it was oiled and a body shaped by heaven. Tura, that was her name. She was a merchant’s daughter. Man, was he glad to be rid of her! Anyway, Chareos took her off his hands and built a house for her. Nice place. Good garden. They’d been married maybe four months when she took her first lover. He was a scout for the Sabers, just the first of many men who romped in the bed Chareos made for her. And him? The blademaster, the deadliest swordsman I ever saw? He knew nothing. He bought her presents, constantly talked about her. And we all knew. Then he found out … I don’t know how. That was just before Bel-azar. Man, did he try to die! He tried harder than anyone. But that’s what makes life such a bitch, isn’t it? No one could kill him. Short sword and dagger he carried, and his life was charmed. Mind you, he had me alongside him, and I don’t kill easy. When the Nadir rode away, you’ve never seen a man so disappointed.”

  Kiall said nothing but gazed into the fire, lost in thought.

  “Shocked you, did I, boy?” said Beltzer. “Well, life’s full of shocks. It’s all insane. There never was a better husband. Gods, he loved her. You know where she ended up?”

  Kiall shook his head.

  “She became a whore in New Gulgothir. The blade-master doesn’t know that, but I saw her there, plying her trade by the docks. Two copper coins.” Beltzer laughed. “Two of her front teeth were gone, and she wasn’t so beautiful. I had her then. Two copper coins’ worth. In an alley. She begged me to take her with me; she’d go anywhere, she said. Do anything for me. She said she had no friends and nowhere to stay.”

  “What happened to her?” whispered Kiall.

  “She threw herself from the docks and died. They found her floating among the scum and the sewage.”

  “Why did you hate her?” asked Kiall. “She did nothing to you.”

  “Hate her? I suppose I did. I’ll tell you why. Because in all the time she was cuckolding Chareos, she never once offered it to me. She treated me like dirt.”

  “Would you have accepted?”

  “Sure I would. I told you; she was beautiful.”

  Kiall looked into Beltzer’s face and remembered the song of Bel-azar. Then he looked away and added fuel to the fire.

  “Don’t want to talk anymore, young Kiall?” asked Beltzer.

  “Some things it is better not to hear,” said the villager. “I wish you hadn’t told me.”

  “Whores’ lives don’t make pretty stories.”

  “No, I suppose they don’t. But I wasn’t thinking of her; I was thinking of you. Your story is as disgusting as hers.”

  Kiall rose and walked away. The sun was fading, the shadows lengthening. He found Chareos sitting on a fallen tree, gazing at the sunset. The sky was aglow, red banners flowing over the mountains.

  “It is beautiful,” said Kiall. “I have always enjoyed the sunset.”

  “You are a romantic,” stated Chareos.

  “Is that bad?”

  “No, it is the best way to live. I felt that way once, and I was never happier.” Chareos stood and stretched his back. “Hold on to your dreams, Kiall. They are more important than you realize.”

  “I shall. Tell me, do you like Beltzer?”

  Chareos laughed aloud, and the sound, rich and full of good humor, echoed in the valley. “No one likes Beltzer,” he said. “Least of all, Beltzer.”

  “Then why do you have him with you? Why did Finn buy his ax?”

  “You are the dreamer, Kiall. You tell me.”

  “I don’t know. I can’t imagine. He is so gross; his speech is vile, and he doesn’t understand friendship or loyalty.”

  Chareos shook his head. “Don’t judge him by his words, my friend. If I was standing alone down there in the valley, surrounded by a hundred Nadir warriors, and I called his name, he would come running. He would do the same for Finn or Maggrig.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” said Kiall.

  “Let us hope you never see the proof of it.”

  At dawn the next morning the questers moved north into the shadowed pine woods, following a deer trail that wound down to a shallow stream. This they waded across, climbing a short, steep slope to a clearing beyond. The wind gusted, and an eerie, high-pitched scream echoed around them. Finn and Maggrig leapt from the trail, vanishing into the undergrowth. Beltzer lifted his ax from the sheath at his side, spit on his hands, and waited. Chareos stood unmoving, hand on sword hilt.

  Kiall found his limbs trembling and suppressed the urge to turn and sprint from the clearing. The scream came again, an ululating howl that chilled the blood. Chareos walked on, Beltzer following. Sweat dripping into his eyes, Kiall could not bring himself to move. He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself forward.

  At the center of the clearing, some fifty paces away, stood a huge stone edifice, and before it, on lances decorated with feathers and colored stones, were two severed heads.

  Kiall could not tear his eyes from the shrunken faces. The eye sockets were empty, but the mouths trembled with each scream. Maggrig and Finn stepped back into view.

  “Can we not stop that noise?” hissed Beltzer, and Chareos nodded. He walked swiftly to the first lance and held his hand behind the severed head. The scream stopped instantly. Chareos lifted the head and placed it on the ground, then repeated the action with the second. All was silent now, save for the gusting wind. The other questers approached. Chareos squatted down and lifted the silent head, turning it in his hands. Taking his hunting knife, he plunged it deep through the scalp, peeling back the skin, which stretched impossibly before snapping clear of the wooden skull beneath. Chareos stood and lifted the wood to his lips; immediately the bloodcurdling scream sounded. He tossed the object to Finn. “It is merely a kind of flute,” said the former monk. “The winds enter through the three holes in the base, and the reeds set in the mouth supply the sound. But it is beautifully crafted.” Stooping, he gathered the skin, lifting it by the hair. “I do not know what this is,” he said, “but it is not human flesh. See, the hair has been stitched in place.”

  Kiall picked up the second head and looked closely at it. It was difficult to know now why it had inspired such fear. He turned it. The wind whistled through it, and a low moan came out. Kiall jumped and dropped the head, cursing himself even as the others laughed.

  Chareos moved on to the edifice. There were two stone pillars, twelve feet high and three feet square, covered with an engraved script he did not recognize. An enormous lintel sat above the pillars, creating the impression of a gateway. Chareos squatted before it, running his eyes over the script.

  Kiall moved around to the rear. “There are symbols here,” he said, “and the stone seems a different color. Whiter, somehow …” He stepped forward.

  “Stop!” yelled Chareos. “Do not attempt to pass through.”

  “Why?” Kiall asked.

  Chareos picked up a round pebble. “Catch this,” he said, tossing it through the opening. Kiall opened his hands, but the stone vanished from sight. “Throw one to me,” commanded the blademaster. Kiall obeyed. Again the pebble disappeared.

  “Well, do we go through?” asked Beltzer.

  “Not yet,” Chareos told him. “Tell me again all that Okas told you of the Gateway.”

  “There was precious little. It leads to another world. That is all.”

  “Did he not say it leads
to many worlds?”

  “Yes,” admitted Beltzer, “but we do not know how the magic works.”

  “Exactly,” said Chareos. “Did Okas give an indication of when he would pass through the Gateway? Daytime, midnight, sunset?”

  “Not as I recall. Is it important?”

  “Did he say which side he entered, north or south?”

  “No. Let’s just go through and see what we find,” urged Beltzer.

  Chareos stood. “Take my hand and hold to it tightly. Count to five, then draw me back.” He moved to the entrance and held out his arm. Beltzer gripped his wrist, and Chareos leaned forward, his head slowly disappearing from view. Beltzer felt the body sag; he did not count but dragged Chareos back. The blademaster’s face was white, and ice had formed on his mustache; his lips were blue with cold. Beltzer laid him down on the grass while Finn began rubbing at the frozen skin. After a while Chareos’ eyes opened; he stared angrily at Beltzer.

  “I said count to five,” he said. “Not five thousand.”

  “You were in there for only a few heartbeats,” Finn told him. “What did you see?”

  “Heartbeats? It was an hour at least on the other side. I saw nothing save snow and ice blizzards. Not a sign of life. And there were three moons in the sky.” He sat up.

  “What can we do?” asked Beltzer.

  “Build a fire. I’ll think on it. But tell me everything you can remember about Okas and his tribe. Everything.”

  Beltzer squatted down on the grass beside Chareos. “It’s not a great deal, Blademaster. I never had much of a memory for detail. They call themselves the People of the World’s Dream, but I don’t know what that means. Okas tried to explain it to me, but I lost hold of it—the words roared around my head like snowflakes. I think they see the world as a living thing, like an enormous god. But they worship a one-eyed goddess called the Huntress, and they see the moon as her blind eye. The sun is her good eye. That’s all.”

  Finn lit the fire and joined the two men. “I have seen them,” he said. “In the mountains. They move at night, hunting, I think.”

  “Then we will wait for moonlight,” said Chareos. “Then we shall try again.”

  The hours passed slowly. Finn cooked a meal of venison, the last of the choice cuts he had taken from the deer killed the previous evening. Beltzer wrapped himself in his blankets and slept, his hand on his ax. Kiall wandered away from the fire, walking to the crest of a nearby hill. There he sat down alone and thought of Ravenna, picturing the surge of joy she would feel when he rode to her. He shivered, and depression struck him like a blow. Would he ever ride to her? And if he did, would she just laugh, as she had laughed before? Would she point to her new husband and say, “He is my man. He is strong, not a dreamer like you”?

  A sound came from behind, and Kiall turned to see Finn walking toward him. “You wish to be alone?” asked Finn.

  “No, not at all.”

  Finn sat down and stared over the rugged countryside. “This is a beautiful land,” he said, “and it will remain so until people discover it and build their towns and cities. I could live here until my dying day and never regret it.”

  “Maggrig told me you hated city life,” said Kiall. The hunter nodded.

  “I don’t mind the endless stone and brick; it’s the people. After Bel-azar we were dragged from city to city so that crowds could gawp at us. You would have thought we were gods at the very least. We all hated it—save Beltzer. He was in a kind of heaven. Chareos was the first to say ‘No more.’ One morning he just rode away.”

  “He has had a sad life, I understand,” said Kiall.

  “Sad? In what way?”

  “His wife. Beltzer told me about it.”

  “Beltzer has a big mouth, and a man’s private business should remain so. I saw her in New Gulgothir three years ago. She is happy at last.”

  “She is dead,” said Kiall. “She became a street whore and killed herself.”

  Finn shook his head. “Yes, Beltzer told me that, but it’s not true. She was a whore, but she married a merchant—bore him three sons. As far as I know, they are still together. She told me she had seen Beltzer—it was the lowest point of her life. That I can believe. Every time I see Beltzer, I feel the same way. No, Beltzer heard of a whore who drowned, and the rest was wishful thinking. She was happy when I saw her—for the first time in her life. I was pleased for her.”

  “You did not hate her, then?”

  “Why should I hate her?” asked Finn.

  “She betrayed Chareos,” Kiall answered.

  “She was sold to him by her father. She never loved him. She was fey and high-spirited—reminded me of a fawn I saw once. I was hunting, and the creature saw me. It did not recognize a bow or a hunter; it had no fear. When I stood with bow bent, it trotted toward me. I dropped the arrow, and the fawn nuzzled my hand. Then it went its way. Tura was like that. A fawn in search of a hunter.”

  “You liked her, then?”

  Finn said nothing but stood and walked back down the hill. The sun was setting, and a ghostly moon could be seen shimmering behind the clouds.

  Chareos waited as the moon rose higher. Silver light bathed the clearing, and the ancient stone Gateway shimmered and gleamed like cold iron. He stood and rolled his head, stretching the muscles of his shoulder and neck, trying to ease the tension born of fear. Something deep within him flickered, a silent voice urging him to beware. He sensed himself on the verge of a journey that would take him where he did not want to go, on pathways dark and perilous. There were no words of warning, merely a feeling of cold dread.

  “Are you ready, then?” asked Beltzer. “Or would you like me to try it?”

  Chareos did not reply. He walked to the Gateway and held out his arm. Beltzer gripped his wrist as he leaned forward, half his body disappearing. Seconds later he drew back.

  “I do not know if that is the place, but it fits the description. There is jungle beyond. The sun is bright.” He swung toward Maggrig and Finn. “I need only Beltzer with me. The rest of you should stay here and await our return.”

  “I get bored just sitting,” said Finn. “We’ll come with you.”

  Chareos nodded. “Then let us go before good sense can assert itself.”

  He turned and was gone from sight. Beltzer followed him, and Maggrig and Finn stepped through together. Kiall found himself alone in the clearing. His heart was beating wildly, and fear surged through him. For several heartbeats he stood rooted, and then, with a wild cry, he leapt through the Gateway, cannoning into Beltzer’s back and sprawling to the mud-covered trail. Beltzer swore, leaned down, and hoisted Kiall to his feet. Kiall smiled apologetically and looked around. Huge trees festooned with vines surrounded them. Plants with leaves like spears and heavy purple flowers grew at their bases. The heat was oppressive, and the questers began to sweat heavily in their winter clothes. But what impressed Kiall most was the smell—overpowering and cloying, decaying vegetation mixed with the musky scent of numberless flowers, plants, and fungoid growths. A throaty roar sounded from some distance to their left, answered by a cacophony of chittering cries in the trees above them. Small, dark creatures with long tails leapt from branch to branch or swung on vines.

  “Are they demons?” whispered Beltzer.

  No one answered him. Chareos looked back at the Gateway. On this side it shone like silver, and the runic script was smaller, punctuated by symbols of the moon and stars. He gazed up at the sun.

  “It is near noon here,” he said. “At noon tomorrow we will make our way back. Now, I would suggest we follow this trail and see if we can locate a village. What do you think, Finn?”

  “It is as good an idea as any. I will mark the trail in case any should become lost.” Finn drew his hunting knife and carved an arrowhead pointing at the Gateway. Beside it he sliced the number 10. “That represents paces. I will swing a wide circle around our trail, marking trunks in this manner. If we do become separated, seek out the signs.” Aware that Finn wa
s directing his remarks to him, Kiall nodded.

  The group set off warily, following a meandering trail for almost an hour. In that time Finn disappeared often, moving to the left and reappearing from the right. The small, dark creatures in the trees traveled with them, occasionally dropping to the lower branches, where they hung from their tails and screeched at the newcomers. Birds with glorious plumage of red and green and blue sat on tree limbs preening their feathers with curved beaks.

  At the end of the hour Chareos called a halt. The heat was incredible, and their clothes were soaked with perspiration. “We are traveling roughly southeast,” Chareos told Kiall. “Remember that.”

  A movement came from the undergrowth to their right. The spearlike leaves parted … and a monstrous head came into sight. The face was semihuman and black as pitch, the eyes small and round. It had long sharp fangs, and as it reared to its full height of around six feet, its enormous arms and shoulders came into view. Beltzer dragged clear his ax and let out a bellowing battle cry. The creature blinked and stared.

  “Move on. Slowly,” said Chareos. Warily the group continued on the trail, Chareos leading and Finn, an arrow notched to his curved hunting bow, bringing up the rear.

  “What an obscenity,” whispered Kiall, glancing back at the silent creature standing on the trail behind them.

  “That’s no way to talk about Beltzer’s mother,” said Maggrig. “Didn’t you notice the way they recognized each other?” Finn and Chareos chuckled. Beltzer swore. The trail widened and dropped away toward a low bowl-shaped depression cleared of trees. There were round huts there, and cooking fires still burned. But no one would use them. Bodies lay everywhere, some on the ground, some impaled, others nailed to trees at the edge of the village. Huge, bloated birds covered many of the corpses or sat in squat and ugly rows along the roofs.

  “I think we’ve found the Tattooed People,” Finn said.

  Kiall sat on the slope above the devastated village and watched his companions moving about the ruins. Finn and Maggrig skirted the round huts, reading sign, while Beltzer and Chareos walked from hut to hut looking for survivors. There were none. Kiall felt a sense of despair creeping over him. This was the third time in his young life he had seen the results of a raid. In the first Ravenna had been taken, but other, older women had been raped or abused. Men had been slain. The second he had witnessed—and taken part in—a wild, frenzied slashing of swords and knives, his blood hot, fired by a need to kill. Now here was the third—and the worst of all. From his vantage point he could see the bodies of women and children, and even his unskilled eye could read the mindless savagery that had taken place here. This was no slave raid. The Tattooed People had been exterminated.