Quest for Lost Heroes (7 page)

'One should always hope.'

The woman smiled. 'Then hope for a handsome savage with kindly ways.'

*

The mountains towered before them like a fighting line of white-bearded giants and an icy wind drifted over the peaks into the faces of the riders. As Chareos pulled his fur-lined cloak about him and belted it, he glanced at the villager. Kiall's face was grey and he swayed in the saddle, but offered no complaint. Chareos gazed back towards the city. It was far behind them now, and only the tallest turrets could be seen beyond the hills. 'How are you faring?' he asked Kiall. The villager gave a weak smile. The
lirium
was wearing off and pain was eating into his back like hot coals. The old swayback gelding was a serene beast and normally the ride would have been comfortable, but now every movement pulled at Kiall's tortured flesh. 'We will stop in a while,' said Chareos, 'once we are in the trees. There are lakes there, with crystal-clear water. We will rest and I will see to your injuries.' Kiall nodded and gripped the pommel of his saddle. He felt sick, and sweat had formed a sheen on his face. Cursing inwardly, Chareos moved alongside the swayback. Suddenly the white stallion arched its neck and flashed a bite at the older animal. Chareos dragged on the reins and the gelding reared. Kiall all but toppled from the saddle. The stallion bucked and dipped its head, but Chareos clung on grimly, his thighs locked tight to the barrel of the animal's body. For several seconds the horse tried to unseat him, then settled down as if nothing had happened and stood calmly. Chareos stepped down from the saddle, stroking the stallion's long neck. Moving to stand before the horse's head, he rubbed at its nose, then blew a long slow breath into each of its nostrils. 'Know me,' whispered Chareos, over and over again. 'I will not harm you. I am not your master. I am a friend.'

At last he remounted and continued the journey south. Chareos had never travelled these hills, but travellers spoke of a settlement built around a tavern. He hoped the village was close - and that they had a healer. Kiall's fever was climbing, and for all Chareos knew the wounds could be festering. As a soldier, he had seen many men die from what appeared to be small wounds. The skin would swell and discolour; fever would deepen and flesh melt away. He recalled a young warrior at Bel-azar who cut his hand on a thorn. The hand had swelled to three times its size, then turned blue, and finally black. The surgeon had cut it from him. But the boy died . . . And he died screaming. Chareos glanced at Kiall and forced a smile, but the youth did not respond.

By late afternoon Kiall could ride no more. He was feverish and moaning, and two of the long wounds in his back had opened. Chareos had lashed the young man's wrists to the pommel and was now leading the gelding as he guided the horses along the shores of a wide lake; it was smooth as a mirror and the mountains were reflected on its surface. Dismounting, he hobbled the horses and helped Kiall to the ground. The villager sagged, his knees giving way. Chareos let him lie and built a fire. As a soldier he had seen many men flogged. Often the shock of the beating was what laid a man low, the humiliation more than the agony. With the fire blazing, he turned Kiall to his stomach and sniffed at the wounds. There was no smell of corruption. Chareos covered him with a blanket. The young man was strong and proud. He had not complained about his pain and Chareos admired that.

He sat by the fire, staring out over the mountains and the stands of pine which grew green through the snow. There was a time when such a view had made him think of freedom, the wide beauty, the towering grandeur of the peaks. Now, he realised, they spoke only of the futility of Man. Wars, plagues, kings and conquerors were as nothing to these peaks.

'What do you care for my dreams?' asked Chareos, his mind drifting back to Tura as it so often did when the reflective mood came upon him. Beautiful, black-haired Tura. She had made him feel more of a man than he could have wished for. With her he was complete. But what she seemed to give so freely, she had cruelly stolen back. Chareos' face reddened with the memory. How many lovers had she taken before Chareos discovered her infidelity? Ten? Twenty? How many of his friends had accepted the gift of her body? The hero of Bel-azar! If only they knew. Chareos the Bladesman had not gone there to fight; he had gone there to die.

There was little heroism in that. But the bards did not care for realism. They sang of silver blades and dashing deeds - the cuckold's shame had no place in the saga of Bel-azar.

He stood and wandered to the lakeside, kneeling to drink, closing his eyes against his reflection. Returning to the fire he saw that Kiall was sleeping peacefully. The sun drifted low in the west and the air grew cooler. Chareos loosened the saddle cinches on the horses and stretched out his blanket close to the fire.

Lying back, he stared at the stars. He had wanted to forgive Tura, to take her far from the fort and start a new life, but she had laughed at him. She liked it where she was - where there were men to hand, strong men, lusty men, men who would give her presents. In his mind's eye he could see himself striking her and smashing her beauty beneath his fists. But he never had. He had backed from the room, forced by the strength of her laughter - the love he had allowed into his heart torn away by the talons of treachery. He had never loved again, never taken a woman to his heart or his bed.

A wolf howled in the distance, a lonely mournful sound. Chareos banked the fire and slept.

Bird-song drifted through his dreams and he awoke. He did not feel refreshed for his sleep, and knew that he had dreamt of Tura. As always he could remember little, save her name echoing in his mind. He sat up and shivered. The fire was near gone and he knelt before it, blowing the embers to life and adding twigs to the tiny flames. Then he rose and wandered from the camp-site, gathering dead wood.

With the fire blazing once more he moved to the stallion, stroking its neck. He took some cold meat from his sack of provisions and returned to the warmth of the blaze. Kiall woke and carefully sat up. His colour had returned, and he smiled at Chareos.

The former monk sliced the ham with his hunting-knife and passed it to the villager.

'Where are we?' asked Kiall.

'About ten miles from the old toll road. You look better.'

'I am sorry to be a burden to you. And even more sorry that you had to kill for me.'

'It wasn't for you, Kiall. They were hunting me. A haughty child is disciplined and now three men are dead. Insane.'

'You were amazing in the fight. I have never seen anything like it. You were so cool.'

'You know why they died?' Chareos asked.

They were not as good as you?' ventured Kiall.

'No, they weren't, but that's not the whole reason. They died because they had something to live for. Finish your breakfast.'

*

For three days they moved higher into the range, crossing streams and rivers. Above them the snow-geese flew, heading for their distant breeding grounds. In the waters the beaver battled against the floods, building their dams. Kiall's wounds were healing fast in the clean mountain air, and now he wore Logar's sabre at his side.

The companions had spoken little during the climb and at night, at the camp-fire, Chareos would sit facing north, lost in thought.

'Where are we going?' asked Kiall as they saddled their horses on the fifth morning.

Chareos was silent for a moment. 'We are heading into a settlement called Tavern Town. There we will purchase supplies. But after that
I
will be riding south across the Steppes. And I will be riding alone, Kiall.'

'You will not help me rescue Ravenna?' It was the first time since the tavern that the villager had spoken of the raid. Chareos tightened the saddle cinch on the stallion before turning to face the young man.

'You do not know which direction the raiders took. You do not know the name of their leader. By now the women will be sold. It is a hopeless cause, Kiall. Give it up.'

'I cannot,' said the young man. 'I love her, Chareos. I have loved her since a child. Have you ever been in love?'

'Love is for fools. It is a surging of blood in the loins . . . there is no mystery, and no magic. Find someone else, boy. By now she has been raped a dozen times and she may even have found she likes it.'

Kiall's face went white and Logar's sabre flashed into the air. Chareos leapt back. 'What in the devil's name are you doing?'

'Apologise! Now!' ordered Kiall, advancing with sabre pointing at Chareos' throat.

'For what? For pointing out the obvious?' The sabre lanced forward but Chareos swayed aside from the point and drew his own sword. 'Don't be a fool, boy. You are in no condition to fight me. And even if you were, I could cut you to pieces.'

'Apologise,' repeated Kiall.

'No,' said Chareos softly. The villager attacked wildly, but Chareos parried with ease and, off balance, Kiall tumbled to the ground, dropping the sabre. He reached for it, but Chareos' boot trapped the blade. Kiall twisted and dived, his head ramming into Chareos' belly, and both men fell. Kiall's fist cracked against Chareos' chin. The former monk blocked a second blow, but a third stunned him and he lost his grip on his sabre. Kiall swept up the blade and lurched upright. Chareos tried to rise, but the point of his own sabre touched the skin of his throat.

'You are a surprising lad,' remarked Chareos.

'And you are a whoreson,' hissed Kiall, dropping the sabre to the snow and turning away. His wounds had opened and fresh blood was seeping in jagged lines through the back of his tunic.

Chareos rose and slid the sabre back in its scabbard.

'I am sorry,' he said and Kiall stopped, his shoulders sagging. Chareos moved to him. 'I mean it. I am not a man who likes women very much, but I do know what it is to be in love. Were you married long?'

'We were not wed,' Kiall told him.

'Betrothed?'

'No.'

'What then?' asked Chareos, mystified.

'She was going to marry another man. His father owns the whole of the east pasture land and it was a good match.'

'But she loved you?'

'No,' admitted Kiall. 'No, she never did.' The young man hauled himself into the saddle.

'I don't understand,' said Chareos. 'You are setting off on a quest to rescue a woman who doesn't love you?'

'Tell me again what a fool I am,' Kiall said.

'No, no, forgive me for that. I am older than you, and cynical, Kiall. But I should not mock. I have no right. But what of her betrothed? Is he dead?'

'No. He has made an arrangement with Ravenna's father and now he will marry her younger sister, Karyn - she was not taken.'

'He did not grieve for long then,' Chareos observed.

'He never loved her; he just wanted her because she is beautiful and her father is rich - he breeds pigs, cattle and horses. He is the ugliest man I ever saw, but his daughters have been touched by Heaven.'

Chareos picked up the boy's sabre and handed it to him, hilt first.

Kiall gazed down at the blade. 'There's little point in my carrying this sword. I have no skill with such things.'

'You are wrong,' said Chareos, smiling. 'You've a good hand, a fast eye and a proud heart. All you lack is tuition. I'll supply that - as we search for Ravenna.'

'You'll come with me? Why?'

'Never count the teeth of a gift horse,' answered Chareos, moving to the grey and stepping into the saddle. The horse trembled.

'Oh no,' whispered Chareos. The stallion bucked violently, then reared and twisted in the air and Chareos flew over his head to land in the snow with a bone-jarring thud. The stallion walked forward to stand over him. He pushed himself upright and remounted.

'A strange beast,' observed Kiall. 'I don't think he likes you.'

'Of course he does, boy. The last man he didn't like he trampled to death.'

Chareos touched his heels to the stallion and led the way south.

He stayed some lengths ahead of Kiall as they rode through the morning, aware that he had no answers which the boy would understand. He could have told him of a child thirty years ago who had no hope, save that a warrior named Attalis had rescued him and become a father to him. He could tell him of a mother also named Ravenna, a proud, courageous woman who had refused to leave the husband she adored, even for the son she loved. But to do so would mean sharing a secret that Chareos carried with shame - a duty unfulfilled, a promise broken. He felt the fresh breeze whispering against his skin, and could smell the trees and the promise of snow. He glanced at the sky.

There was nothing he could say to Kiall. The boy was happy. The legendary Blademaster had agreed to accompany him and in Kiall's mind success was assured.

Chareos' thoughts turned to the farm-girl and the man who loved her - just as he had loved Tura, a hopeless one-sided emotion. Yet even now, after the bitterness and the pain, Chareos would walk through a lake of fire if Tura needed him. But she did not need him ... she never had.

No, the one in need was a pig-breeder's daughter. He twisted in the saddle and looked back at Kiall, who smiled and waved.

Returning his gaze to the mountains ahead, Chareos remembered the day Tura had left him. He was sitting alone in the small courtyard behind the house. The sun was sinking behind the clouds, which seemed to burn like red fire. Finn had found him there.