Quest for Lost Heroes (14 page)

At first the atmosphere within the cabin was tense. Maggrig sat back on the bed, honing a hunting-knife with long, rasping sweeps against a whetstone while Kiall ladled out the broth. It was undercooked, but the Nadren wolfed it down. One of the men seemed weaker than the others. He had a wound to the shoulder; it was heavily bandaged, yet still blood seeped from it steadily. Kiall moved to him. 'Let me see that,' he said. The Nadren did not complain as Kiall gently unravelled the bandage. The flesh was sliced back, the cut angry and swollen. Kiall replaced the bandage and took herbs from his pack. Selecting the leaves he needed, he walked back to the man.

'What is that?' grunted the warrior. 'It looks like a weed.'

'It has many names,' Kiall told him. 'Mostly it is called Fat Hen. It is used to feed chickens.'

'Well, I'm no chicken!'

'It also heals festering wounds. But it is your choice.'

'You are a surgeon, too?' asked the leader.

'A warrior needs to know of wounds, and ways of healing them,' replied Kiall.

'Let him do it,' said the leader and the warrior settled back, but his dark, slanted eyes fixed to Kiall's face and the young man felt the hatred in his stare. He pushed the flap of skin in place and stitched the wound, then he laid the leaves on top of it. Maggrig brought a section of linen for a new bandage, and this Kiall applied.

The warrior said nothing. He moved to the wall and curled up to sleep on the floor. The Nadren leader approached Kiall. 'My name is Chellin,' he said. 'You have done well by us. I thank you for it.'

'I am Kiall.'

'I could use a man like you. If ever you travel south past the Middle Peaks, ask for me.'

'I'll remember that,' Kiall said.

The tension in the room eased and the Nadren settled back. Kiall built up the fire, and helped himself to a little broth. He offered food to Maggrig, who shook his head and smiled.

As the afternoon sun began its slow descent towards the western mountains, Chellin roused his men and walked with Kiall out into the sunlight. Just as they gathered their weapons Chareos, Finn and Beltzer appeared. Chareos had his sabre in his hand.

Kiall waved to them casually, then turned to Chellin. 'Good luck on your journey,' he said.

'And you. I am glad the ice warrior was not here when we arrived.'

Kiall chuckled. 'So am I.'

The warrior whose arm Kiall had treated approached him. 'The pain has mostly gone,' he said, his face expressionless. He held out his hand and gave Kiall a golden Raq.

'That is not necessary,' Kiall told him.

'It is,' retorted the man. 'I am no longer in your debt. Next time I see you I will kill you - as you killed my brother during the raid.'

When the Nadren had gone Kiall wandered back to the cabin. Chareos' laughter came to him as he mounted the three steps to the doorway. Inside Maggrig was regaling them with the tale of Kiall the Arrow-slayer. Kiall flushed. Chareos rose and walked to him, clapping a hand to his shoulder.

'You did well,' he said. 'You thought fast and took control. But how did you deflect the arrow?'

'It was an accident - I didn't even know they were there. I was practising with the sabre and I spun round. The arrow hit the sword-blade.'

Chareos smiled broadly. 'Even better. A warrior needs luck, Kiall, and those Nadren will carry the tale of your skill. It could hold you in good stead. But it was an enormous risk. Maggrig told me how you threatened to kill them all single-handed. Let's walk awhile.'

Together the Swordmaster and the young villager walked out into the fading sunshine. 'I am pleased with you,' said Chareos, 'but I think it is time I gave you a little instruction. Then perhaps the next time you face armed men, you will not need to bluff.'

For an hour Chareos worked with the villager, showing him how to grip the sabre, how to roll his wrist, to lunge and parry. Kiall was a swift learner and his reflexes were good. During a break from the exercise, Chareos and his student sat on a fallen log.

'To be skilful requires hard work, Kiall, but to be deadly requires a little more. There is a magic in sword-play that few men master. Forget the blades, or the footwork - the battle is won in the mind. I once fought a man who was more skilful than I, faster and stronger. But he lost to a smile. He thrust, I parried and, as our blades locked, I grinned at him. He lost his temper, perhaps feeling that I mocked him. He came at me with great frenzy and I killed him . . . just like that. Never let anger, or outrage, or fear affect you. That is easy advice to give, but hard to follow. Men will bait you, they will laugh at you, they will jeer. But it is just noise, Kiall. They will hurt the people you love. They will do anything to make you angry or emotional. But the only way you can make them suffer is to win. And to do that you must remain cool. Now let us eat - if the Nadren left us any broth.'

*

Chareos sat beneath the stars, his cloak wrapped loosely around his shoulders, the night breeze cool upon his face. Inside the cabin all was silent, save for Beltzer's rhythmic snoring. A white owl soared and dived. Chareos could not see its prey, nor whether the owl made a kill. A fox eased itself from the undergrowth and loped across the snow, ignoring the man.

Memories crowded into Chareos' mind, days of youth and ambition, times of wonder and glory, nights of despair and dark melancholy. What have you achieved, he asked himself? Indeed, what was there to achieve? He remembered the parting from his parents and the long, cold journey that followed it; that had been hard on a young boy. The memories were jagged, and he pushed them away. His adolescence in New Gulgothir had been lonely - despite the friendship and guidance of Attalis, his Swordmaster and guardian. Chareos was never at ease among the boys of his own age but, worse than this, he could not adapt to the curious lifestyle of the Gothir nobility. It was on a journey north that he began to understand them. He had passed a village that nestled against a mountain. Above the settlement was a monstrous overhang of rocks and boulders.

'That looks perilous,' Chareos observed to Attalis and the old man nodded.

'It will fall one day,' he said. 'Few will survive it.'

'Then why do people live there?'

They always have, lad. And after a while they don't notice it any more. You can only live with fear so long, then you absorb it and it loses its power.'

The Gothir were like that, living always with the threat of a Nadir invasion they could not prevent. The nobility organised endless feasts, banquets, dances and diverse entertainments: keeping only a token army to man the ramparts of Bel-azar. Chareos had come to manhood in those days of apathy and instant gratification. An expert swordsman, thanks to the tutelage of Attalis, he won a commission to the Sabres - the elite force formed by the Lord Regent. He recalled now with embarrassment his pride when the white cloak and silver sabre had first been presented to him. He had stood with two hundred other young men before the gallery, his back straight, his eyes fixed on the Lord Regent on his ebony throne. He felt like a man, and destiny was smiling upon him.

Two weeks later his world lay in ashes. Attalis, always a proud man, became involved in a minor dispute with Targon, the Lord Regent's champion. The dispute festered into a blood feud and Targon challenged the old man publicly. The duel was fought in the Royal Courtyard. It did not last long. Chareos, on patrol with the Sabres, heard of it two days later. Attalis had been crippled by a piercing thrust to the shoulder and had fallen to his knees, his sword clattering to the stone. Targon had then stepped forward and sliced open the old man's throat.

Chareos asked for compassionate leave to attend the funeral and this was granted. He used his meagre savings - and a pledge against next year's pay - to purchase a plot of ground, a marble sarcophagus and a statue above the grave. This done, he sought out Targon. The man was taller by a head than Chareos, and whip-lean; he was fast, and confident of his talents. Once more, the duel took place in the Royal Courtyard.

Targon had flashed a mocking grin at the young officer. 'I hope you'll offer more sport than the old man,' he said. Chareos did not reply. His dark eyes fixed on Targon's swarthy features as he drew his borrowed rapier. 'Frightened, boy?' asked Targon. 'You should be.'

The Lord Regent lifted his arm and both men presented their swords. The duel began in a blistering series of thrusts, parries and ripostes. Chareos knew within seconds that he was outclassed but he remained calm - sure in the knowledge that, no matter what, his blade would find its home in the flesh of the man he faced. Back and forth across the courtyard the two warriors fought, their blades shimmering in the early morning sunlight. Three times Chareos felt his opponent's sword nick his skin - twice on the upper arm, once on the cheek. A thin trickle of blood dripped to his chin. But Targon could find no opening for the killing thrust. Beginning to lose patience, he attacked with greater fury, but his young opponent blocked him at every turn.

The two men stepped back from one another, sweat on their faces. 'You take a long time to die, boy,' remarked Targon.

Chareos smiled. 'You have the sword skill of a Nadir tent-wife,' he said. Targon flushed red and launched another attack. Chareos blocked the blade, rolled his wrist and lanced his rapier deep into Targon's right shoulder, slicing the muscles and tearing through ligament and sinew. Targon's rapier fell from his hand and for the first time fear showed in his pale eyes. For several seconds Chareos stood watching his opponent, then his blade cut the air with a hissing slash to rip across Targon's throat.

The Lord Regent's champion staggered back, clutching the wound. Blood bubbled through his fingers as he fell to his knees. Chareos walked forward and placed his boot against the dying man's chest. With one contemptuous push, he hurled Targon to his back. There was silence among the spectators and then the Lord Regent called Chareos forward, while pages ran to Targon, seeking to stem the bleeding.

'You took not only his life, but his dignity,' said the Lord Regent.

'If I could, my lord, I would follow him into Hell and destroy his soul as well,' Chareos told him.

That afternoon Chareos had stood alone by Attalis' tomb. 'You are avenged, my friend,' he said. 'He died as you died. I don't know if that is important to you. But I remembered your teaching and I did not allow my hatred to control me. You would have been proud of that, I think.' He was silent for a moment, and his eyes filled with tears. 'You were a father to me, Attalis. I never told you how much you meant to me, nor ever thanked you for your friendship and your company. But I do so now. Rest easy, my friend.'

A quarter of a century later, outside Finn's cabin, Chareos the Blademaster wept again for the old man, for the ruin of his hopes and the failure of his dreams.

It had always been Attalis' wish that one day they would return home and restore all that had been lost. Without the old man Chareos had viewed that dream with cold logic - and ruthlessly pushed it aside.

Now he dried his eyes with the edge of his cloak. 'What would you think of this quest, Attalis?' he whispered. 'The hunt for the pig-breeder's daughter? Yes, I can almost hear your laughter.'

He stood and entered the cabin where the fire was low, the room warm and cosy. Kiall and Beltzer were asleep before the hearth, Maggrig deep in dreams in the bed by the far wall. Lantern light was streaming from the back room and Chareos walked quietly across the cabin floor and looked in. Finn was sitting with his feet on the workbench, idly cutting flights for new arrows.

'I couldn't sleep,' said Chareos, moving in to sit opposite the black-bearded hunter.

Finn swung his legs to the floor and rubbed his eyes. 'Nor me. What happened to us, eh?'

Chareos shrugged. In the lantern light Finn looked older, his face seemingly carved from teak. Deep shadows showed at his eyes and neck, and silver hairs glistened within his matted beard. 'You seem to have found peace, my friend,' said Chareos. 'Up here in the mountains you have freedom and more land than some kings.'

'Not much of a life for the boy - though he doesn't complain.'

'The
boy
must be thirty-six years old. If he doesn't like the life he is old enough - and man enough - to say so.'

'Maybe,' said Finn, unconvinced. 'And then again, maybe it is time to move on.'

'You'll find nowhere more beautiful, Finn.'

'I know that,' snapped the hunter, 'but there's more to it. I'm no youngster, Chareos, I feel old. My bones ache in winter, and my eyes are not what they were. One day I'll die. I don't want to leave the . . . Maggrig ... up here alone. I don't like people much - nasty minds, foul manners, always looking to steal, or lie or slander. But maybe that's just me. Maggrig, he gets on with folks, likes company. It's time he learned how to live with people again.'

'Think about it some more, Finn,' advised Chareos. 'You are happy here.'

'I was. But nothing lasts forever, Blademaster. Not life, not love, not dreams. I reckon I've had more than my share of all three. I'm pretty much content.'

'What will you do?'

Finn looked up and met Chareos' gaze. 'I never had many friends. Never needed them, I reckon. But you -and that fat pig - are the closest I got to family. So we'll come with you - if you want us, that is.'