Quest for Lost Heroes (11 page)

'They don't care about riches, they live for war. And what do we have to oppose them? The army has been cut to two thousand men. We couldn't even hold Bel-azar now.' He drained his wine and held out the cup for more. Chareos filled it and sat silently.

'I was born out of my time,' continued Salida, forcing a smile. 'I should have been an officer in the great days when the Gothir swept across Nadir lands all the way to the Delnoch mountains.'

'It is all a circle,' Chareos told him. 'The Gothir had their day, as did the Drenai and the Vagrians. Now we live in Nadir days. Their time will come, and then an officer just like you will sit at the last outpost of the Nadir empire bewailing his fate, and wondering about the dreams of his sons.'

Salida nodded. 'May that day come soon,' he said, grinning. 'Is it true that you were once a Drenai prince?'

Chareos smiled and refilled his own cup. 'So the singers would have us believe.'

'Have you never thought to return to your homeland?'

'This is my homeland. But yes, I have considered crossing the Delnoch mountains . . . one day, perhaps.'

'I once visited Castle Tenaka,' said Salida. 'It is an incredible place: six great walls and a keep with walls three feet thick.'

'I knew it as Dros Delnoch,' Chareos told him. 'It was said that it could never be taken. I was raised on stories of Druss the Legend, and Rek, the Earl of Bronze. Strange that it should have been conquered by one of Rek's descendants. Castle Tenaka? I don't like the sound of the name.'

'You met him once, did you not? The Great Khan?'

'Yes. A very long time ago. Another lifetime.' Chareos rose. 'If you do not object, I would like to find my companion another sabre. I doubt the Nadren had anything of similar workmanship, but then he is no swordsman.'

'There's no point in going through the Nadren weapons - poor iron, badly fashioned. I gave a sword to my valet. It is a good blade, and he will have no further use for it. Take it with my blessing.' Salida walked across to the wagon and lifted clear a cavalry sabre in a wooden, leather-covered scabbard. 'The balance is good, the edge keen.'

'Thank you, my friend,' said Chareos, offering his hand. Salida gripped it.

'At least I can tell my sons I fought alongside a hero of Bel-azar.'

'May the Source go with you, Salida.'

The Captain watched as Chareos swung into the saddle. The stallion reared and came down at a run. Salida stood for several minutes as the rider grew ever smaller, then he returned to the tasks at hand - ordering the wagon hitched, and the riderless horses tied to the rear.

It would be a sad ride back to Talgithir.

An eerie silence covered the high forest like an invisible cloak as the dawn light bathed the tavern. Kiall gazed around the seemingly deserted settlement. There were few signs now of the battle, save for the dried bloodstains on the snow. Beltzer hoisted his pack to his shoulders and stamped his feet. 'I hate the cold,' he declared.

'We haven't started yet,' said Finn, 'and already you're complaining.'

Kiall struggled to get his arms through the pack ropes and Maggrig assisted him, lifting the loops over the thick goatskin jerkin Kiall now wore.

'It's too big for me,' said Kiall.

'There's gratitude,' snapped Beltzer, 'after all the trouble I took to get it for you.'

'You stripped it from a dead Nadren,' Chareos pointed out.

'Had to kill him first,' retorted Beltzer, aggrieved.

Chareos ignored him, and shrugged into his pack. Finn had loaned him a fur-lined cloak with a deep hood, which he lifted into place and tied under his chin. Moving away from the others, he drew his sabre. After several practice lunges and parries, he scabbarded the sword and adjusted the loops of the pack. He dropped his arms and the pack fell away ... the sabre flashed into the air. Twice more Chareos repeated the manoeuvre. At last, satisfied, he rejoined the others. The pack was less comfortable now, the ropes biting into his shoulders, the weight too low on his back. But it could be swiftly jettisoned if the need arose, and that was worth a little discomfort.

The group set off on the ice-covered trail. Chareos had never enjoyed walking but on Finn's advice had left the horses in the settlement, paying Naza a retainer to feed and groom the mounts while they were gone.

Both the bowmen had declined the opportunity to join the three questors, but Finn had at least agreed to guide them to the Shrieking Gate. As he walked behind Finn, Chareos considered all aspects of the way ahead. The Nadren were still in the forest, but these were not a great fear. Five well-armed men should prove deterrent enough, especially after the mauling the raiders had received. No, the biggest problem was what awaited them beyond the Gate.

The Tattooed People were a mystery. Some said they had once been of this world, forced back by the migration of nations ten centuries before when the war-like Drenai, the Gothir and the ferocious Nadir tribes came sweeping from north, south and east. One legend claimed the Tattooed People used sorcery to open a doorway between worlds, allowing the tribe to escape to a hidden land of riches and plenty. Another maintained that the Gateway had been there from the days before the Ice Fall, a last remnant of a once proud civilisation and that beyond it lay mountains of gold.

But whatever the truth the Gateway did exist and, on rare occasions, one or more of the Tattooed People passed through it. Such had been the case when Okas had wandered into the army camp six months before the battle at Bel-azar. He had squatted down at Chareos' camp-fire and waited in silence until Beltzer offered him a plate of meat and bread. He was a small man, no more than five feet tall, pot-bellied and wearing only a loin-cloth decorated with pale stones. His entire body was covered in blue tattooes - some in the shape of leaves, others in runic symbols around what appeared to be camp-fire scenes. His face also was tattooed with curving lines and his beardless chin was completely blue, shaped like a beard with a waxed moustache above it. Amazingly he spoke a little of the Common Language and, more amazing still, in the four months Okas was with them the uncouth Beltzer mastered the tribesman's tongue. Okas proved invaluable during that time. In the skills of tracking he had no peers - at least not among the Gothir. And he was a great 'finder'. Chareos' senior officer, Jochell, lost a valuable golden ring and had the quarters of all enlisted men searched. Through Beltzer, Okas told the officer that he would find the missing item.

Jochell was dubious, yet he had seen Okas' skills in action during the hunt for Nadir raiders. Much to the amusement of the men Okas took the officer's hand and held it in silence for a while, eyes closed. Then he released his grip and trotted from the camp. Jochell saddled his horse and rode after him; Chareos and Finn followed, anxious to see the outcome. Two hours later they were at the scene of the previous day's battle with Nadir outriders. There was a small stream to the west of the battlefield. Okas moved to it and knelt by the water-line. Then he grunted and pointed. Jochell joined him. There, just below the surface, nestling among the pebbles was the gold ring, its pale central opal glistening blue.

Jochell was delighted and gave Okas two gold pieces. The tribesman stared at them for a while, then tossed them to Chareos. That night Okas left them, but not before he had sat with Beltzer for more than an hour. He said farewell to no one else, merely gathered up his blanket and walked from the camp.

In the morning Chareos had asked Beltzer, 'What did he say to you?'

'He told me to stay close to you, Maggrig and Finn during the coming days. He also told me that Jochell's ring would grace a Nadir hand before the winter moon.'

'I wish I hadn't asked,' Chareos said.

'He's only been gone a few hours - and already I miss him,' said Beltzer. 'You think we'll see him again?'

Now, as he walked through the early morning frost, Chareos remembered that conversation and the many which had followed it. Beltzer told him of the land beyond the Gateway. It was hot and humid, with towering trees and vast open veldts and lakes. There were huge animals there, higher than houses, and hunting cats with fangs like long knives. It was a world of sudden storms and sudden deaths.

'Are you thinking of going there?' Chareos had asked. Beltzer looked away, his face reddening.

'I would have liked to, but Okas said the Tattooed People kill any interlopers. Their history is full of massacres and the murder of their people by our races - they are terrified it will happen again.'

The sky darkened and thunder jolted Chareos' mind back to the present. Finn called a halt and turned to face Chareos. 'It will be dusk soon and there's going to be a heavy snowfall,' he said. 'I suggest we look for somewhere to camp and sit it out. We will build two shelters and gather wood for fires.' The group walked on into a thick stand of pine; Finn and Maggrig scouted the area, locating two good sites. Kiall watched as the hunters tied twine to the tops of four sapling trees. These were then pulled together and fastened. Finn sent Beltzer and Chareos out to cut branches from the surrounding pine, and these were threaded through the tied saplings to form a spherical shelter some ten feet across. The bowmen left Kiall, Chareos and Beltzer to complete the walls, then walked some thirty feet away to build their own shelter.

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 centre 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 draughts.

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 woollen 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 undipped the brooch which held his Nadren cloak in place. Immediately 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 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, nor 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 armour 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.'