“Well, I don’t know him, and I don’t believe I care to,” the man retorted sourly.
“My name is Chareos. It would at least be polite if you told me yours.”
“I don’t need to be polite to the likes of you,” said the man. “Be off with you!”
Chareos spread his hands and stepped closer. Suddenly he seized the man’s tunic with his left hand, dragging him forward. His right hand flashed up, holding his hunting knife, the blade point resting against the man’s throat.
“I have an abhorrence for bad manners,” he said quietly. “Now order your men to lower their weapons or I will cut your throat.”
The man swallowed hard, the action causing his flabby skin to press on the knife point. A thin trickle of blood traced a line to his tunic.
“Put … put down your weapons,” the leader whispered.
“Louder, fool!” hissed Chareos, and the man did as he was told.
Reluctantly the archers obeyed, but they crowded in to surround the group. Still holding on to the fat man, Chareos turned to the crowd. “Where is Paccus the seer?” he called. No one answered him.
Kiall stepped forward. “Does no one remember me?” he asked. “What about you, Ricka? Or you, Anas? It’s me—Kiall.”
“Kiall?” said a tall, thin man with a pockmarked face. He moved closer to peer at the young warrior. “It is you,” he said, surprised. “But you look so different. Why have you come back?”
“To find Ravenna, of course.”
“Why?” asked Anas. “She’ll be some Nadir’s wife by now—or worse.”
Kiall reddened. “I will find her, anyway. What is going on here? Who is this man? And where is Paccus?”
Anas shrugged. “After the raid a lot of families chose to move north, to settle nearer Talgithir. New families moved in. He is Norral; he’s a good man and our leader. The stockade was his idea, as were the bows. We are going to defend ourselves in the future, Kiall. The Nadren will not find us an easy target the next time they ride into Gothir lands.”
“What about Paccus?”
“He died three days ago.”
In the background Chareos sheathed his knife and pushed Norral away from him. Beltzer and the others dismounted.
Kiall looked at the rest of the crowd. “We are not raiders,” he said. “I am of this village, and we will be leaving come morning to seek the women stolen in the raid. We will bring them back. These warriors with me may not be known to you by sight, but you do know of them. This one is Chareos the Blademaster, and this is Beltzer of the Ax. The man with the dark beard is the famed archer Finn, and beside him is his friend Maggrig. They are the heroes of Bel-azar, my friends. The other man is a mystic from the lands of the Tattooed People; he will follow the spirit trail that leads us to the saving of our people.”
Anas stared hard at Beltzer. “He is the famous axman?”
“Yes, I am, goat brain!” thundered Beltzer, drawing his ax and holding the shining blade under Anas’ chin. “Perhaps you’d like to see more proof.”
“Not at all,” Anas said, stepping back.
Norral stepped alongside Chareos. “A thousand apologies,” he whispered. “I didn’t know, of course. Please make my home your own. I would be honored if you would spend the night at my house.”
Chareos nodded. “That is kind,” he said at last, forcing a smile. “I also must apologize. You were quite right to be concerned at the appearance of six armed men, and your precautions were commendable.”
Norral bowed.
The food he supplied them was excellent, cooked by his two plump, comely daughters, Bea and Kara. But the evening was dominated by Norral, who told them the story of his largely uninteresting life in great detail, punctuating it with anecdotes concerning famous Gothir statesmen, poets, and nobles. Each story had the same ending: how the famous complimented Norral on his sagacity, wit, farsightedness, and intelligence.
Beltzer was the first to grab a jug of wine and wander out into the cool night air. Maggrig and Finn soon followed. Unconcerned by the stream of sound from Norral, Okas curled up on the floor to sleep.
Chareos and Kiall sat with the fat farmer until after midnight, but when he showed no sign of fatigue, Chareos yawned theatrically. “I must thank you,” he said, “for a most entertaining evening. But we will be leaving soon after dawn, and if you will excuse me, I will leave you in Kiall’s company. He is younger than the rest of us, and I am sure will learn much from you.”
Rigid with boredom, Kiall contained his anger and settled himself for more of Norral’s history. But with the last of the heroes of Bel-azar gone, Norral had no wish to converse with a former villager. He excused himself and took to his bed.
Kiall stood and walked out into the night. Only Beltzer remained awake, and Kiall sat down beside him.
“Did the old windbag run out of stories?” the giant asked.
“No. He ran out of listeners.”
“By the gods, he doesn’t need a stockade; he could just visit a Nadren village for an evening. The raiders would avoid this place like a plague pit.”
Kiall said nothing but sat with his chin resting on his hands, staring at the homes around him. Golden light showed in thin beams from the closed shutters of the windows.
“What ails you, boy?” asked Beltzer, draining the last of his wine.
“It is all changed,” replied Kiall. “It’s not my home anymore.”
“Everything changes,” said Beltzer, “except the mountains and the sky.”
“But it was only a few months ago. Now … it’s as if Ravenna never existed.”
“They can’t afford to stay in mourning, Kiall. Look around you. This is a working village. There are crops to be planted, cultivated, harvested; animals to be fed, watered, cared for. Ravenna was last year’s crop. Gods, man, we’re all of us last year’s crop.”
“It shouldn’t be that way,” argued Kiall.
“Wrong, boy. It is the only way it can be.” He picked up the empty jug and passed it to Kiall. “What do you see?”
“What is there to see? You finished it all.”
“Exactly. The wine was good, but now it isn’t here anymore. Worse, I’ll piss it against a tree tomorrow; then no one could tell if it was wine or water.”
“We’re not talking about wine; we’re talking about people. About Ravenna.”
“There’s no difference. They mourned … now they’re living again.”
Soon after dawn Okas vanished into the hills to seek the spirit trails. Kiall wandered in search of Ravenna’s sister and found her at the house of Jarel. She smiled and invited him inside, where Jarel was sitting by the window, staring out over the mountains. Karyn poured Kiall a goblet of watered wine.
“It is good to see you again,” she said, smiling. She looked so like Ravenna that his heart lurched: the same wide eyes, the same dark hair gleaming as if oiled.
“And you,” he replied. “How are you faring?”
“I’m going to have Jarel’s child in the autumn,” she told him.
“I congratulate you both,” he said.
Jarel swung from the window. He was a strongly built young man with black, tightly curled hair and deep-set blue eyes.
“Why must you pursue this business?” he asked. “Why chase after the dead?”
“Because she is not dead,” answered Kiall.
“As good as,” snapped Jarel. “She is tainted … finished among civilized people.”
“Not for me.”
“Always the dreamer. She used to talk of you, Kiall; she used to laugh at you for your silly ideas. Well, don’t bring her back here; she won’t be welcome.”
Kiall put the goblet down on the tabletop and rose, his hands shaking. “I will say this once to you, Jarel. When I bring her back, if there is one evil word from you, I will kill you.”
“You?” snorted Jarel. “Dream on, Kiall.”
Kiall walked forward to where Jarel stood with hands on hips, grinning. He was a head taller tha
n Kiall and far heavier. Kiall’s fist slammed into the bigger man’s face, rocking him back on his heels. Blood spurted from his smashed lips, and his jaw dropped; then anger blazed in his eyes, and he sprang forward—only to jerk to a stop as he saw the long hunting knife in Kiall’s hand. Fear touched him then.
Kiall saw it and smiled. “Remember my warning, Jarel. Remember it well.”
“I’ll remember,” said the farmer, “but you remember this: no one here wants the women back. So what will you do? Build a new place for them? Two of the men whose wives were taken have remarried. Twenty other families have gone, and no one knows where. What do the captives have to come back to? No one cares anymore.”
“I care,” said Kiall. “I care very much.” He turned to Karyn. “Thank you for your hospitality.” She said nothing as he sheathed his knife and walked out into the sunlight.
8
OKAS SAT CROSS-LEGGED beneath a spreading elm and concentrated on the village below. His vision swam, and the buildings blurred and faded like mist under sunlight. He had no control now, and time ceased to have meaning. He saw mountains of ice swelling on the land, filling the hollows, rearing from the peaks. Slowly, reluctantly through the centuries, the ice gave way and the long grass grew. Huge lumbering creatures moved across the face of the valley, their massive limbs brushing against new trees and snapping the stems. Eons passed, and the grass grew. The sharp hills were smoothed by the winds of time. The first oak tree took root on the southern hill, binding the soil. Birds flocked to its branches. Seeds in their droppings caused other trees to grow, and soon Okas saw a young forest stretching across the hills.
The first group of men appeared from the west, clad in skins and furs and carrying weapons of bone and stone. They camped by the stream, hunted the great elk, and moved on.
Others followed them, and on one bright day a young man walked the hills with a woman by his side. He pointed at the land, his arm sweeping to encompass the mountains. He built a home with a long sloping roof. There was no chimney; two holes were left at the points of the roof’s triangle, and Okas saw the smoke drifting from them as the snows fell. Other travelers settled close by over the years, and the young man, now a leader, grew old.
A savage tribe entered the valley, slaying all who lived there. For some time they took over the homes, but then, like all nomads, they moved on. The houses rotted and fell to feed the earth; grass grew over the footings.
Okas watched as the centuries slid by, waiting with limitless patience, judging the passage of time by the movement of the stars. At last he saw the familiar buildings of the near present and moved his spirit close to the village. Focusing on Kiall, he found himself drawn to a small house on the western side. There he watched the birth of a boy, saw the proud smile on the face of the weary mother, saw the happiness in the eyes of Kiall’s father as he tenderly lifted his son.
Okas relaxed and let the vision flow. He saw Kiall’s mother die of a fever when the boy was first walking, saw the father injured in a fall and losing his life to gangrene from the poisoned wound. He watched the boy, raised by strangers, grow tall. Then he saw the dark-haired girl, Ravenna.
At last he came to the raid, the Nadren thundering into the village with bright swords and gleaming lances.
Okas pulled his gaze from the slaughter and waited until the raiders had taken their captives back into the hills, where wagons stood loaded with chains and manacles.
He followed them for a hundred miles to a stockaded town, but there the vision faded.
He opened his eyes and stretched his back, suppressing a groan as the ligaments above his hip creaked and cracked. The wind was cold on his skin, and he was mortally tired.
Yet still there was another flight to be made. The call was still strong, and he allowed himself to link to it, his spirit lifting from his body to be drawn swiftly across the steppes. The mountains were beautiful from this height, cloaked in snow and crowned with clouds. His spirit fell toward the tallest peak, passing through it deep into the dark. At last he entered a cavern where torches flickered on the walls and an old man sat before a small fire. Okas looked at him closely. He wore a necklace of lion’s teeth around his scrawny throat, and his thin white beard had no more substance than wood smoke. When the man’s dark eyes opened and fixed on Okas, there was pain in them and a sorrow so deep that Okas was almost moved to tears.
“Welcome, Brother,” said Asta Khan. The Nadir shaman winced and cried out.
“How can I help you?” asked Okas. “What are they doing to you?”
“They are killing my children. There is nothing you can do. Soon they will send their forces against me, and that is when I shall require your aid. The demons will fly, and my strength will not be enough to send them fleeing back to the pit. But with you I have a chance.”
“Then I shall be here, Brother … and I will bring help.”
Asta Khan nodded. “The ghosts-yet-to-be.”
“Yes.”
“Will they come if you ask it?”
“I think that they will.”
“They will face nightmares beyond description. The demons will sense their fears and make them real.”
“They will come.”
“Why do you do this for me?” asked Asta. “You know what I desire. You know everything.”
“Not everything,” said Okas. “No man knows it all.”
Asta screamed and rolled to the floor. Okas sat quietly and waited until the old shaman pushed himself upright, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Now they are killing the little ones; I cannot block out their anguish.”
“Nor would you wish to,” said Okas. “Come forth and take my hand.”
The spirit of Asta Khan rose from the frail body. In that form he seemed younger, stronger. Okas took the outstretched hand and allowed his own strength to flow into the shaman.
“Why?” asked Asta once more. “Why do you do this for me?”
“Perhaps it is not for you.”
“Who, then? Tenaka? He was not your lord.”
“It is enough that I do it. I must return to my flesh. When you have need, I will be here.”
* * *
Kiall’s anger was short-lived. As the questers waited on the edge of the woods for Okas, the young man sat beside Chareos and vented his rage.
Chareos cut across his words. “Follow me,” he said sharply. The blademaster stood and walked away into the trees, out of earshot of the others. Once there, he turned on Kiall, his dark eyes angry, his face set.
“Do not waste your self-righteous wrath on me, boy. I’ll not have it. When the raiders came, you—and all these villagers—did nothing. Of course they think they don’t want the captives back. And why? Because it would be like looking in a mirror and seeing their own cowardice. They would have to live every day with that mirror. Every time they passed a former prisoner, they would see their own shortcomings. Now, stop whining about it.”
“Why are you so angry?” Kiall asked. “You could have just explained it to me.”
“Explained …?” Chareos threw back his head and stared at the sky. He said nothing for several seconds, and Kiall realized he was fighting for control of his temper. Finally he sat down and indicated that Kiall should join him. The young man did so. “I don’t have time to explain everything, Kiall,” the older man said patiently, “and I do not have the inclination. I have always believed that a man should think for himself. If he relies on others for his thoughts and his motives, then his brain becomes an empty, useless thing. Why am I angry? Let us examine that for a moment. How do you think the Nadren know which villages to hit, where attractive young women live?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then think, damn you!”
“They send out riders to scout?” ventured Kiall.
“Of course. How else?”
“They listen to traders, merchants, tinkers who pass through such villages?”
“Good. And what do you think they are listening for?”
&
nbsp; “Information,” Kiall answered. “I do not understand where this is taking us.”
“Then give me time. How does one village know what is going on at another village?”
“Traders, travelers, poets—all carry news,” said Kiall. “My father said it was one way in which they encouraged trade. People would gather around their wagons to hear the latest gossip.”
“Exactly. And what gossip will the next trader carry?”
Kiall reddened and swallowed hard. “He will tell the tale of the heros of Bel-azar who are hunting Ravenna,” he whispered.
“And who will hear of this band of heroes?” asked Chareos, his eyes narrowing, his mouth a thin tight line.
“The Nadren,” admitted Kiall. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“No, you did not!” stormed Chareos. “I heard of your dispute with the farmer and your threat with the knife. Bear this in mind, Kiall. What we do is easy. Understand that. Easy! What the villagers do is hard. Hoping and praying for just enough rain to make the seeds grow and just enough sun to ripen the harvest, never knowing when drought, famine, or raiders will destroy your life and take away your loved ones. Do not ever ask me for explanations. Use your mind.”
Finn pushed through the undergrowth. “Okas is back. He says we have a hundred miles to travel. And it’s rough country for the most part. I’ve sent Maggrig back to purchase supplies. Is that all right, Blademaster?”
“Yes. Thank you, Finn. We’ll set off once he’s back and camp away from here. I couldn’t stand another night with that sanctimonious bore.”
“Just think, Blademaster. Tonight he’ll be entertaining the villagers with how you complimented him. You’ll be remembered in future times as Chareos, the friend of the great Norral.”
“There’s probably truth in that.” Chareos chuckled.
He strode through the undergrowth to where Okas was sitting quietly with Beltzer. The old man looked dreadfully weary.
“Would you like to rest for a while?” Chareos asked him.
Quest for Lost Heroes Page 17
