Quest for Lost Heroes (4 page)

*

The two-hour service was drawing to a close. Chareos enjoyed the singing of hymns, the chanting of the ritual prayers and the feeling of belonging that accompanied the morning worship. It did not matter to him that his faith was less than that of his brothers. He felt at one with the Grey Order, and that in itself was enough for the former soldier.

He rose from his knees and filed out with the others, head bowed, face shadowed by the deep hood. The morning sunshine was welcome after the cold of the Nave as Chareos stepped out into the Long Garden and down the terraces towards the southern gate. Once beyond it, the peace of the monastery was lost within the noise of the crowds heading for the market meetings. Chareos allowed himself to be swept along until he reached the main square, where he pushed clear of the crowd and moved down a narrow alleyway to the Livestock Market. Daily auctions were watched here by discerning farmers and noblemen, the pedigrees of bulls and horses discussed at length in the stalls surrounding the circular arena. Chareos eased himself on to the front bench by the rail, and sat in silence while the bulls were led into the circle. The bidding was brisk, especially for the Drenai bulls - powerful beasts, short-horned but weighed down with "flesh. After an hour the horses were led in. Chareos bid for a bay gelding, but lost out to a young nobleman sitting three rows back. He bid again for a dun mare, but this time was beaten by a bid from the back of the arena. Most of the other horses were swaybacks, or past their prime, and he began to lose interest. Then the grey was brought in. Chareos had no wish to bid for a grey; out in the Wildlands they stood out too much, unlike the bay or the chestnut. But this animal had the look of eagles about him. His neck was long and arched, his ears flat to his skull, his eyes fierce and proud. The man leading him had a nervous look, as if fearing that at any moment the beast would rear and smash his skull. Bidding was slow, and Chareos was surprised to find himself raising an arm, and even more surprised when he won the auction with a price less than half the sum he had bid for the gelding.

The man beside him leaned in close. 'Beware, brother, that is the mount that killed Trondian - threw him, then trampled him to death.'

'Thank you for your concern,' said Chareos, rising and moving to the rear of the arena. The stallion had been stabled there and the monk moved in alongside him, stroking his gleaming flank. 'I understand you are a killer, White One. But I daresay there is another side to your story.' Carefully he checked the stallion's legs. 'You are a fine beast.' Edging back, he made his way to the auction table.

'I will ride him this afternoon,' he said, 'but I wish him stabled with you until Petition Day.'

'As you wish,' replied the auction clerk. 'That will be twelve silvers for the horse, and six coppers for the week. Will you require a saddle? We have several that would suit.'

Chareos chose a Vagrian saddle with high pommel and a good harness, settled his account and left the market. After a short walk he entered Wool Street. Here he purchased riding clothes - soft leather boots, dark woollen troos, two thick white shirts and a leather topcoat, double-shouldered and vented at the ribs to allow for ease of movement. He also bought a cloak of shining black leather lined with fur.

'A fine choice, sir,' the merchant told him. 'The leather is Ventrian and will stay soft through the fiercest winter. It is deeply oiled and will repel rain.'

'Thank you. Tell me, who is the finest swordsmith here?'

'Well, that is a matter of debate, of course. But, my brother. . . .'

'Does your brother supply the Earl?'

'No, but . . .'

'Who does supply the Earl?'

The man sighed. 'It is not far from here. You are seeking Mathlin, he has a forge by the Eastern Gate. Follow Wool Street until you reach the Grey Owl tavern, turn right and continue to the Temple. Then it is the second on the left.'

Mathlin - a dark-bearded, powerfully built Drenai -took the monk through his workshop to a building behind the forge. Here on the walls hung swords of every kind -broad-bladed glaves, short stabbing swords, sabres and the rapiers carried by the Gothir noblemen. There were even tulwars and double-headed axes on display.

'What blade were you seeking, sir monk?'

'A cavalry sabre.'

'Might I suggest that you try Benin's establishment? His weapons are cheaper than mine, and would probably suit you just as well.'

Chareos smiled. 'What suits me, swordsmith, is the best. Show me a sabre.'

Wandering to the far wall, Mathlin lifted clear a shining weapon. The blade was only slightly curved, the hilt topped with a crossguard of iron. He tossed it to Chareos, who caught it expertly, then hefted the blade, slashed the air twice, rolled his wrist and executed a lunge. 'The weight is wrong,' he said. 'The lack of balance makes it unwieldy. Perhaps you should direct me to Benin.'

Mathlin smiled. 'That was made by my apprentice and he has much to learn. Very well, sir monk. Perhaps you would follow me.' He led the way through to a second room. The swords here were beautifully fashioned, but without adornment - no gold leaf, no filigree silver. Mathlin took down a sabre and passed it to Chareos. The blade was no wider than two fingers and sharp as a razor. The hilt-guard extended around the fist, protecting the sword hand.

'Forged of the finest Ventrian steel, and tempered with the blood of the smith,' said Mathlin. 'If there is a finer sabre, then I have not seen it. But can you afford it?'

'What are you asking?'

Three gold pieces.'

'I could buy five horses for that sum.'

'That is the price. There is no haggling to be done here, sir monk.'

'Throw in a hunting-knife and a good scabbard and we will strike the bargain,' said Chareos.

Mathlin shrugged. 'So be it. But the knife will be one made by my apprentice. Nothing I make comes cheap.'

That afternoon, in his new clothes, Chareos prepared to ride the grey for the first time. He checked the saddle's underblanket for rucks or folds which would rub at the beast's back, then examined the bridle and bit. The latter was heavy and ridged.

'Take it out,' Chareos told the hostler.

'This is a trouble beast, sir. You may need that bit.'

'I want a sound horse. That . . . monstrosity . . . will tear his mouth to pieces.'

'Maybe so. But it will keep him in check.'

Chareos shook his head. 'Look at his mouth - there are scars there already . . . old scars. And on his flanks. His masters have been hard men.'

He took an apple from the barrel by the door and cut it into quarters with his new hunting-knife. Then he offered a quarter to the grey, who turned his head away. Standing to one side of the horse, Chareos ate the first quarter himself; then he offered another. This time the grey accepted the gift, but his eyes were still wary.

'I reckon he'll be fast,' said the hostler. 'He's built for it. And with that colour he'll need to be. You using him for afternoon rides, sir?'

'Perhaps. I may take him on a journey or two.'

The hostler chuckled. 'Don't try the Wildlands. They'll see a horse of this colour from a mile away and you'll have robbers around you thicker than flies on dog droppings.'

'I'll bear that in mind,' said Chareos irritably. Stepping into the saddle, he steered the stallion out into the back street behind the auction yard.

Twenty minutes later he was in the foothills to the south of the city, with the wind in his hair and the stallion galloping at full stretch. He let the beast have his head for a full quarter mile and then drew him back, pulling left to climb a gentle rise. At the top he allowed the horse to walk for a while, watching the beast's breathing. He need not have been concerned; within a few minutes the stallion was no longer snorting, and there was little evidence of sweat on his flanks.

'You are strong,' said Chareos, stroking the long sleek neck, 'and fast. But when will you let me know why you are such a troubled beast?'

The stallion plodded on, but when Chareos urged him into a canter over the hills the horse responded instantly. At the end of an hour's riding the city was far behind, though Chareos could still see its turrets in the misty distance. He made up his mind to turn back, for dusk was fast approaching and the great stallion was finally tired. Angling the beast down a short slope, he spotted billowing clouds of smoke from the south, beyond the hills. He rode on, entering a circle of trees. In a clearing he came on a group of soldiers sitting around several small fires. He recognised the officer - who was sitting apart from his men - as Logar, the Earl's champion.

There is a large fire south of you beyond the hill,' Chareos told him. 'Have you not noticed the smoke?'

'What business is it of yours?' asked Logar, rising smoothly. A tall, lean young man with cold eyes and a dark trident beard, he moved forward to stand close to the stallion. The horse did not like the proximity of the soldier and backed away; Chareos calmed him.

'It is not my business,' he said. 'Good day to you.' He rode from the clearing, topped the rise and gazed down on a scene of devastation. There were twelve homes burning, and several bodies lay sprawled on the ground. Elsewhere people were trying to bring the blaze under control at a large communal barn. Chareos cursed and returned to the soldiers' camp.

Logar was dicing with a junior officer and both men looked up as Chareos rode in. 'There is a village close by,' said Chareos, 'which has been under attack. You will take your men and help with the fire-fighting. And know this - I shall report you to the Earl for dereliction of duty.'

All colour fled from Logar's face as he rose and grasped the hilt of his sabre. 'Step down, you whoreson! I'll not be insulted by the likes of you.'

'You have been,' said Chareos. 'Now do as I told you.' Swinging the stallion he rode to the village, tethering the horse upwind of the smoke before running to help the villagers. The fire at the barn was out of control. As a man ran by him bearing a bucket of water, Chareos dragged him to a halt. 'You must get out what you can. The barn is beyond saving,' he told him. The man nodded, and ran on to the others as the soldiers arrived and hurled themselves into the work. Three of the homes were saved, but the barn fire raged on. Several axemen hammered an entrance at the rear of the building, allowing others to enter and drag clear what grain sacks could be saved. The battle went on long into the evening, but finally the fires died down.

Chareos walked to a nearby stream and washed his face and hands of grime. He looked down at his new clothes. The jerkin was singed, as were the troos; the shirt was blackened by smoke, the boots scuffed.

He sat down. His lungs felt hot, and his mouth tasted of woodsmoke. A young man approached him.

'They took eleven of our women, sir. When will you ride after them?'

Chareos stood. 'I am not a soldier, I was merely passing by. You need to see the officer with the troop; his name is Logar.'

'A thousand curses on him!' spat the young man. Chareos said nothing, but looked more closely at the villager. He was tall and slender, with long dark hair and keen blue eyes under thick brows. The face was handsome, despite the blackening of the smoke and charcoal.

'Be careful what you say, youngster,' warned Chareos. 'Logar is the Earl's champion.'

'I don't care. Old Paccus warned us of the raid and we sent to the Earl for aid three days ago. Where were the soldiers when we needed them?'

'How did he know of the raid?'

'He's a seer: he told us the day and the hour. We tried to fight them, but we've no weapons.'

'Who were they?'

'Nadren. Outlaws who trade with the Nadir. For slaves! We must get them back. We must!'

'Then see the officer. And if that does not satisfy you, go to the Earl. It will soon be Petition Day.'

'Do you think he will care about what happens to a few poor farmers?'

'I do not know,' said Chareos. 'Where is Paccus?'

The young man pointed across the ruined village to where an old man was sitting on the ground, wrapped in a blanket. Chareos made his way over to him.

'Good day, sir.'

The old man looked up, his eyes bright in the moonlight. 'So, it begins,' he said softly. 'Welcome, Chareos. How can I help you?'

'You recognise me? Have we met?'

'No. How can I help you?'

'There is a young man who claims you knew of the raid. He is angry - understandably so. How did you know?'

'I saw it in a dream. I see many things in dreams. I saw you in the clearing beyond the hill asking the vile Logar about the smoke. He and his men have been camped there all day but he did not want to be involved in a battle. Who can blame him?'

'I can. There is no place for cowardice in an army.'

'You think it cowardice, Chareos? We are talking of a man who has killed sixteen men in duels. No, he was paid by the Slavers. Since slavery was outlawed in Gothir lands the price per head has quadrupled. Our eleven women will fetch perhaps fifteen gold pieces each; Ravenna will fetch more.'

'That is a great deal of money,' Chareos agreed.