Quest for Lost Heroes

by David Gemmell

  A second warrior came at him. Finn killed him, but the man’s sword plunged into Finn’s side. There was little pain. He staggered on. Something struck him in the back, but he ignored it. Close to the body now, he fell to his knees and slashed his knife through the ropes binding Maggrig’s arms to the stakes. Dropping his knife, he lifted Maggrig’s head. Blood gushed into Finn’s throat, but he spit it clear.

  “You are nothing but trouble to me, boy,” he said, struggling to lift the stiffening corpse.

  A spear hammered into his back, smashing through his ribs and exiting from the chest. He felt Maggrig slipping from his hands and tried hard to lower the body gently to the earth.

  Slowly he toppled, his head resting on Maggrig’s chest.

  If he could just get Maggrig to the mountains, all would be well. The sky would be gray and overcast, the mist clinging to the trees.

  If he could just …

  Swords and knives plunged into Finn’s body, but he did not feel them.

  High on the ledge Chareos watched it all. His hands were trembling, and he tore his eyes from the scene, staring down at the ground. He sucked in a deep breath, then leaned back. For several minutes he sat in silence, remembering Finn and Maggrig as they had been back at Bel-azar. Then he turned to Harokas. “You had your chance,” he said softly. “It will not come again. Why did you not kill me?”

  Harokas spread his hands and said nothing. Chareos backed away from the ledge and returned to the horses. Beltzer was sitting on a rock, his ax on the ground beside him.

  “Did he die well?” asked the giant.

  “Yes … whatever that means,” answered Chareos. He stepped into the saddle. “Let’s get back.”

  “What are we going to do, Blademaster?” Beltzer asked. “Yesterday seems so far away now. Okas is dead. Finn and Maggrig are dead. Do we go on?”

  “What do we have to go back to? We go on.” Touching heels to the gray, Chareos rode out of the clearing. Beltzer gathered his ax, mounted, and followed him.

  For some time Harokas waited. Finally he vaulted into the saddle and rode after them. Chareos heard him coming and reined in as the assassin came alongside.

  “Well?” asked Chareos.

  “You can’t take on the Nadir army with three men,” said Harokas.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Four would even the odds.”

  12

  CHIEN-TSU OPENED HIS eyes. Around him the mountains reared like the spears of the gods, looming and threatening. An icy wind howled through the crags. His servant, Oshi, was huddled by a small fire, his face blue with cold. Chien shivered.

  “She is dead,” he said, picturing Mai-syn as he had last seen her, radiant and happy, her dress of yellow silk shining in the sunlight.

  “As always, then, lord, you were correct,” said Oshi.

  “I had hoped to be wrong. Come, let us find a cave.” Oshi was reluctant to leave even the illusory warmth of the small fire, but he rose without complaint, and the two men led their horses along the winding mountain path. There were no trees at this height, only an occasional stunted shrub cloaked in snow. The walls of the mountains rose sheer to the left and right of the travelers, and there was no sign of a cave or shelter of any kind beyond shallow depressions in the rock face. Oshi was convinced they would die there. It was three days since they had eaten, and that had been a stringy hare brought down by an arrow from Chien’s bow.

  They walked on. Chien did not feel the cold; he closed his mind to it and thought instead of the beautiful Mai-syn. He had spirit-searched the land, seeking her soul, listening for the music of her spirit.

  His mood was dark now and colder than the mountain winds.

  The trail dropped into a narrow valley, then rose again. For a while they rode, but it seemed colder to sit immobile on a saddle, and they dismounted. Oshi stumbled and fell, and Chien turned. “Are you weary, old man?”

  “A little, lord,” he admitted.

  Chien moved on. He could not stop the servant from addressing him with his title and had long since given up the effort.

  They rounded a bend in the trail and saw an elderly man sitting cross-legged on a rock. He seemed incredibly ancient, the skin of his face weathered like sandstone. He was wearing only a loincloth of pale skin and a necklace of human teeth; his body was emaciated, the bones sharp and jutting like knife blades under leather. Snow had settled on his skeletal shoulders.

  “Good evening, old father,” greeted Chien, bowing.

  The old man looked up, and as Chien met his gaze, he shuddered inwardly. The eyes were blacker than night and cold with an ancient malice. The man smiled, showing several blackened teeth.

  His voice whispered out like a breeze across tombstones. “Mai-syn angered Jungir Khan. He threw her to his Wolves, who used her and threw her back. In her despair she cut her throat with a pair of silver scissors. It happened less than a month after her arrival.”

  Chien felt his stomach heave, but he fought to keep all expression from his face.

  “A simple ‘good evening’ would have been sufficient to open the conversation, old father. But thank you for the information.”

  “I do not have the time for pleasantries, Chien-tsu, or the elaborate and inane rituals of the Kiatze.” The old man laughed. “Look around you—this is Nadir land. It is cold, inhospitable. Only the strong survive. Here there are no green fields, no verdant pastures. A warrior is old by the time he is thirty. We have no energy to spend on pretty words.” He waved one hand. “But that is of no matter. It is important only that you are here and that your desire for vengeance is strong. Follow me.” Nimbly he leapt from the rock and walked away into the snow.

  “He is a demon,” wailed Oshi. “That loincloth is human skin.”

  “I do not care for his lack of sartorial elegance,” said Chien. “If he is a demon, I will deal with him, but let us hope he is a demon with a warm cave.”

  They followed the old man to what seemed a sheer rock face. He disappeared, and Oshi began to tremble, but Chien walked to the rock wall and found a narrow opening that was almost invisible from the outside. He led his horse within, and Oshi followed him.

  Inside it was dark and cold. From somewhere in the shadows Chien heard a soft chanting. Torches sprang to life in rusted brackets on the walls. His horse reared, but he calmed the beast, stroking its neck and whispering soothing words. The travelers moved on into a torch-lit tunnel that branched out into a deep cave where a fire was burning without wood.

  “Sit,” said Asta Khan. “Warm yourselves.” He turned to Oshi. “I am not a demon; I am worse than demons. But you have no need to fear me.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you,” said Oshi, bowing deeply.

  Asta Khan ignored him, locking his gaze to Chien. “And you do not fear me at all, man of Kiatze. That is good. I am not comfortable around fearful men. Sit! Sit! Make yourselves comfortable. It is long since I had visitors.”

  “How long have you been here?” Chien asked, settling himself by the magical fire.

  “I came when my lord was murdered. He was Tenaka Khan, the Khan of Wolves, the Prince of Shadows,” related the old man, his eyes shining with pride. “He was the great one, the heir of Ulric.”

  “I believe I have heard the name,” Chien said. Anger flashed in Asta’s eyes, but he masked it and smiled thinly.

  “All men have heard it, even the soft-bellied Kiatze. But let it pass. Your people are renowned for cynicism, but I watched you fight, Chien-tsu. I saw you kill Kubai and the others. You are skillful and fast. Very fast.”

  “And you have need of my skills, old father?”

  “I see your mind works as swiftly as your body. Yes, I have need of you. And you have need of me. It makes for an interesting debate, I think. Which of us needs the other more?”

  “Not at the moment,” replied Chien. “As matters stand, I need you not at all.”

  “Then you know how to get into the khan’s palace?” asked Asta.

&nb
sp; “Not yet. But I will find a way.”

  “No,” Asta said, “you will not. But I can take you on a path which leads to the throne room. Alone you would not survive, for there are the dwellers in the dark to stop you. I will give you Jungir Khan. I will give you the means of vengeance.”

  “And in return, old father?”

  “You will aid the ghosts-yet-to-be.”

  “Explain further.”

  Asta shook his head. “First we will eat. I can hear your servant’s belly rumbling. Take your bow and walk from the cave. A deer is waiting there—kill it.”

  Chien rose and walked back to the cave entrance. The old man had been right, for a doe stood trembling near the entrance, her eyes open and unblinking. Chien notched an arrow and stood for a moment looking at the beast, then turned and retraced his steps.

  “Oshi, take a knife and dispatch the beast. There is no sport there.”

  Asta Khan cackled loudly, rocking back and forth on his haunches.

  Chien ignored him. “Tell me of Tenaka Khan,” he said, and the old man took a deep breath.

  “He was the sun and moon of the Nadir people, but he was cursed with tainted blood. Half Drenai, half Nadir, he allowed himself to love a woman. I do not mean to take her for his own, although he did this. But he surrendered his soul to her. She died giving birth to his daughter, Tanaki, and in dying she took part of the khan’s soul to hell or heaven. He ceased to care about his life, allowing the years to drift by. His son, Jungir, poisoned him. That is Tenaka Khan. What more do you wish to know?”

  “You were his shaman?”

  “I was, and I am. I am Asta Khan. I placed the helm of Ulric on his head. I rode beside him when he conquered the Drenai and the Vagrians, when the armies of the Nadir rode into Mashrapur and Lentria. He was the fulfilment of our dreams. He should never have died. He should have lived forever, like a god!”

  “And what do you seek, Asta Khan?” asked Chien. “Not merely vengeance?”

  Asta’s eyes shone for a moment, then he looked away. “What I desire is of no concern to you. It is enough that I can give you that which you desire.”

  “At this moment I desire nothing more than a hot bath.”

  “Then you shall have one,” said Asta, rising. “Follow me.” The old man rose and walked to the back of the cave, where a shallow pool had filled with melted snow from a fissure above. Asta knelt by it, dipping his hand to the water. He closed his eyes and spoke three harsh-sounding words that were lost on Chien. The water began to bubble and hiss, steam rising.

  “A hot bath for the Kiatze lord,” said Asta, standing. “Is there anything else you require?”

  “A young concubine to read me the works of Lu-tzan?”

  “Make do with the hot bath,” Asta told him, striding away.

  Chien stripped out of his clothes and slid into the pool. The water was hot but not uncomfortable despite having reached the boiling point. He recalled the story of Hai-chuan, a young man accused of stealing a royal gem. Hai-chuan had pleaded innocence and had been sentenced to trial by ordeal. He had to place his hands in a pot of boiling water. If he was innocent, the gods would protect his flesh; if he was guilty, his skin would blister and burst. He was from the mountains and begged the magistrate to allow him to suffer his ordeal directly under the gaze of the All-father in heaven. Touched by his piety, the magistrate agreed, and Hai-chuan was taken to the top of a high mountain. There they boiled a pot of water, and he placed his hands within it. There was not a mark on him, and he was freed. Later he sold the gem and lived like a prince. Chien smiled. It was due to the altitude, he knew. Water boiled at a much lower temperature in the mountains.

  He lazed for a while in the water, then climbed out and returned to the fire to sit naked by the flames.

  Oshi had cut the best pieces from the loins of the doe, and the smell of cooking meat filled with cave.

  “Now tell me of the ghosts-yet-to-be,” Chien said.

  Tanaki watched the men ride away, then eased herself to her feet, stifling a groan as pain roared through her. Unsteadily she rose and straightened her back. Nausea threatened to swamp her, but she forced her stomach to remain calm.

  “You should rest,” said Kiall, who had moved alongside her, one hand held out.

  She made no reply. Bending to one side, she gently stretched the muscles of her waist and hips. Lifting her arms over her head, she eased the tension in her neck and shoulders. Her father had taught her those exercises many years before. “The warrior’s body,” he had said, “must always be supple.” More confident now, she spun on her heel and leapt, twisting in the air. She landed clumsily.

  “Can I help?” asked Kiall.

  “Yes. Hold out your hands.” He did so, and her long leg swung up, her heel resting on his palms. She bent forward, grasping the back of her ankle, holding the position for a while and then switching to the other leg. Finally she lifted the blanket from her shoulders and stood naked before Kiall. He blushed and cleared his throat. “Place your hands on my shoulders,” she said, turning her back on him, “and gently press at the muscles with your thumbs. Where they are rounded and supple, move on. Where they are knotted and tense, ease them.”

  “I do not know how,” he told her, but tentatively his hands touched her skin. She sat down on her blanket with Kiall kneeling behind her. Her skin was smooth and white, the muscles beneath it strong and firm, as his fingers moved over her.

  “Relax, Kiall. Close your eyes. Think of nothing. Let your hands search.”

  His fingers slid down over the shoulder blades. The muscles on the right side felt as if pebbles had been inserted into them. With great care he rubbed at them, growing more confident as the tautness faded. “That is good,” she told him. “You have fine hands, healing hands.”

  He could feel himself becoming aroused and hated himself for it. After what she had been through, it was wholly wrong for a man to react to her in that way. His hands losing their sureness, he stood and walked away. Tanaki covered herself with the blanket cloak and lay back on the ground. The pain of her body was less severe now, but she would never forget the abject humiliation she had suffered. The memory of the sweating men, the stink of them, the pawing and the pain would remain with her always. She shivered and rolled to her feet. Kiall’s horse stood tethered nearby; she saddled him and stepped into the stirrup, easing herself to his back. Kiall saw her and ran forward. “Where are you going?” he asked, his voice full of concern.

  “I cannot start the rest of my life dressed like this,” she said. “My clothes are down there in the hall. And I will need weapons.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he offered, holding out his hand. She took it, and he vaulted to the saddle behind her. “This is not wise, Tanaki.”

  “The merits cannot be decided until we are done,” she told him.

  The bodies had been removed from the settlement, but dried blood still stained the ground and the wood of the auction platform. Tanaki slid from the saddle and entered the hall. Kiall tethered his horse and moved to the ramparts, keeping watch for Nadir warriors. As the minutes passed, he felt the tension rise. Hearing the sound of booted feet on the steps, he whirled, scrabbling for his saber. Tanaki laughed at him. She was clad now in trousers of soft oiled leather and high riding boots. Her upper body was clothed in a matching hooded tunic, and two short swords were belted at her hips. Over her shoulder was slung a fur-lined cloak of black leather, and in her hand she carried a canvas pack.

  “You have all you need?” he asked.

  “Not quite. I need the head of Tsudai—but that will come to me.”

  They rode back to the campsite and tethered the horse. Tanaki drew her swords. “Come,” she said to Kiall, “show me your skill.”

  “No, I … I’m not very good. I am not a warrior, you see.”

  “Show me.”

  Embarrassed, he drew his saber and dropped into the stance Chareos had taught him. As she leapt forward, his saber blocked her thrust, but she s
pun, her second sword blade falling to touch his neck. “You are too stiff,” she told him.

  “I loosen up when I am afraid,” he said with a smile.

  “Then be afraid!” she said, her voice low and chilling. Her sword swept toward his head, and he jumped back, but she followed him in. He blocked one thrust, then a second … she spun, but he dropped to his knees, her blade slashing the air where his head had been. As her sword sliced down, he dived to his left and rolled. “That is better,” she said, “but unless you are a master—which you are not—you should fight with saber and knife. That would double your killing power.”

  Sheathing her blades, she walked to the brow of the hill, staring out over the land.

  Kiall joined her. “You still intend to rescue your lady?” she asked him.

  “Yes, if I can. But she is not my lady; she never was. I know that now.”

  “You blame me for that, Kiall.”

  “I blame you for nothing, Princess. I was foolish. I had a dream, and I thought that dream was real.”

  “We are full of dreams,” she said. “We long for the unattainable. We believe in the nonsense of fables. There is no pure love; there is lust and there is need.”

  “I do not believe that, Princess.”

  “Another dream you think is real?”

  “I hope not. There is so much sadness and hatred in the world. It would be a terrible thing if love was an illusion.”

  “Why did you walk away from me earlier, when you were touching me?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “You lie, Kiall. I could feel the growing warmth in your hands. You wanted to bed me, did you not?”

  “No!” he replied instinctively, then looked away, reddening. “Yes, I did,” he said angrily. “And I know it was wrong.”