Quest for Lost Heroes

CHAPTER ONE

Seventeen people watched the duel, and not a sound could be heard above the whispering of the blades and the discordant music of steel upon steel. The Earl rolled his wrist and sent a lancing stroke towards the face-mask of his opponent, but the man dropped his shoulder and swayed aside, flashing a riposte which the Earl barely parried. For some minutes the two duellists were locked in a strategic battle, then the Earl launched a blistering attack. His opponent — a tall, lean man wearing the grey habit of a monk beneath his mask and mail-shirt — defended desperately. With a last hissing clash the swords came together, the Earl's blade sliding free to touch the monk's chest.

The duellists bowed to one another, and a light ripple of applause came from the spectators. The Earl's wife and his three sons moved out on to the floor of the hall.

'You were wonderful, Father,' said the youngest, a blond-headed boy of seven. The Earl of Talgithir ruffled the boy's hair.

'Did you enjoy the exhibition?' he asked.

'Yes, Father,' the boys chorused.

'And what was the move by which your father defeated me?' asked the monk, pulling off his mask.

'The Classic Chare,' replied the eldest.

The monk smiled. 'Indeed it was, Lord Patris. You are studying well.'

The Earl allowed his wife to lead his sons from the hall and waved away his retainers. With the hall empty he took the monk's arm and the two men strode to the south gallery where a pitcher of fruit juice and two goblets had been set aside.

The Earl filled the goblets. 'Are you really content here?' he asked

The monk shrugged. 'As content as I would be anywhere, my lord. Why do you ask?'

The Earl gazed into the eyes of the man before him. The face he saw was strong, the nose long and aquiline, the mouth full below a trimmed moustache. 'There are many legends concerning you, Chareos,' he said. 'Some have you as a prince. Did you know that?"

'I have heard it,' Chareos admitted. 'It is unimportant.'

'What is important? You are the finest swordsman I ever saw. You were one of the heroes of Bel-azar. You could have been rich beyond the dreams of common men.'

'I am rich beyond the dreams of common men, my lord. And that is what is important. This life suits me. I am by nature a student. The libraries here in Gothir are among the best anywhere. Far south, they say, the libraries of Drenan contain more books, but here are the complete works of Tertullus. It will take me many years to study them all.'

'It doesn't seem right,' said the Earl. 'I remember my father putting me on his shoulder so that I could see the heroes of Bel-azar as they marched through the streets of New Gulgothir. I remember everything about that day. You were riding a white stallion of some seventeen hands, and wearing a silver mail-shirt and a helm with a white horsehair plume. Beltzer was behind you, carrying his axe. Then Maggrig and Finn. People in the crowd reached out to touch you, as if you were some lodestar. It was a wonderful day.'

'The sun shone,' agreed Chareos, 'but it was only a parade, my lord — and there are many parades.'

'What happened to the others?' asked the Earl. 'Did you remain friends? I have heard nothing of them for years.'

'Nor I,' Chareos answered. The dark-eyed monk looked away, seeing Beltzer as he had been on the last day — drunk, red-eyed and weeping, his axe auctioned to settle his debts. The farmer had become a hero, and it had destroyed him in a way the Nadir could not. Maggrig and Finn had been there; they had left Beltzer alone in the back room of the inn and walked with Chareos out into the sunshine.

'We are going back to the mountains,' said Finn.

'There's nothing there,' Chareos told him.

Finn had smiled. 'There's nothing anywhere, Blade-master.' Without another word the black-bearded archer had taken up his pack and moved off.

The youth Maggrig had smiled, offering Chareos his hand. 'We will meet again,' he said. 'He probably only needs a little time to himself, away from crowds.'

'How do you suffer his moods and depressions?' asked Chareos.

'I do not see them,' Maggrig answered. 'I see only the man.'

Now Chareos sipped his fruit juice and gazed out of the tall window. He was sitting too far back to see the courtyard and the gardens beyond. But from here he could look over the high wall of the monastery and off into the southern distance, where the forest lay like a green mist on the mountains. His gaze swept across to the east, and the ridges of hills which led to the Nadir Steppes. For a moment only, he felt the touch of icy fear.

'You think the Nadir will attack come summer?' asked the Earl, as if reading his thoughts. Chareos considered the question. The Nadir lived for war — a dour, nomadic tribal people, joyous only in battle. For centuries Gothir kings had held them in thrall, sure in the knowledge that the tribes hated one another more than they detested the conquerors. Then had come Ulric, the first great warlord. He had united them, turning them into an invincible force, an army numbering hundreds of thousands of fierce-eyed warriors. The Gothir were crushed, the King slain and refugees fled here to the north-west to build new homes. Only the great Drenai citadel of Dros Delnoch, far to the south-east, had turned them back. But a century later another warlord arose, and he would not be thwarted. Tenaka Khan had crushed the Drenai and invaded the lands of Vagria, his armies sweeping to the sea at Mashra-pur and along the coastline to Lentria. Chareos shivered. Would they attack in this coming summer? Only the Source knew. But one point was as certain as death — one day the Nadir would come. They would sweep across the hills, their battle cries deafening, the grass churned to muddy desolation under the hooves of their war ponies. Chareos swallowed, his eyes fixed to the hills, seeing the blood-hungry hordes flowing across the green Gothir lands like a dark tide.

'Well?' queried the Earl. 'Do you think they will attack?'

'I could not say, my lord. I do not listen to the reports as once I did. It is said that the Drenai are in rebellion again, led by yet another who claims to be the Earl of Bronze reborn. I think that makes it the fifth in the thirty years since Tenaka Khan stormed Dros Delnoch. But perhaps such an uprising will put off the Nadir plans.'

'He went the way of all the others,' said the Earl. 'He was caught and crucified; the rebellion was crushed. It is said the new Khan has ordered his troops north.'

'People have been saying that for years,' said Chareos. There is little here for them. The spoils they took from the conquests of Drenan, Vagria and Lentria made them rich. We have nothing to offer them — we are not even a gateway to richer kingdoms. Beyond New Gulgothir is the sea. Perhaps they will leave us alone.' Even as he spoke, Chareos felt the lie sitting cold in his throat. The Nadir did not live for plunder but for blood, and death, and conquest. It would matter nothing to them that the riches were few. No, they would be fired with thoughts of ancestral revenge on the Gothir people.

'You do not believe that, Blademaster. I see it in your eyes,' said the Earl, standing. 'No, the Nadir hate us for the past, and they are tormented by the memory of Bel-azar — the only defeat to stain the reputation of Tenaka Khan.'

Chareos rose and assisted the Earl into his caped coat.

He looked into the younger man's face. 'Bel-azar was a miracle. I do not know how we did it — nor why Tenaka Khan allowed us to hold. But it was twenty years ago; I very rarely think of it now.'

'The old fortress is in ruins,' said the Earl. 'It's as good as Nadir territory now. Thank you for the lesson. I think I am getting closer to you.'

'Better than that, my lord. You beat me today.'

'Are you sure you did not let me win — just because my sons were watching?'

'You won fairly, my lord. But next week I will be better.'

'Next week, you come to the castle. Afterwards we will ride out into the Hunting Woods and see if we can flush out a boar or two.'

Chareos bowed as the Earl strode from the hall. There was still some juice in the pitcher, and he refilled his goblet and wandered to the window, watching as the Earl's retinue rode from the monastery.

It had been a long time since those names had been voiced: Beltzer, Maggrig and Finn. He could still see the red-bearded giant hammering his battle-axe into the Nadir as they swarmed over the gate-tower wall. And each evening the bowmen, Maggrig and Finn, would compare scores and write them in charcoal on the granite wall. Maggrig killed eleven today, making his tally 31. Death to the Nadir! Old Kalin would dispute their figures as he cooked the evening meal over the brazier. Such a way with food, that man, Chareos remembered — he could make sirloin steak taste like sheep's bowels. He had died on the last day.

The gate-tower section took the most casualties throughout. Of the original complement of forty-five only Beltzer, Maggrig, Finn and Chareos had survived. The Nadir had taken the fortress, but Beltzer had leapt from the gate-tower and singlehandedly retaken the Gothir standard, hacking and cutting his way back to the tower door. Once inside, the soldiers had barricaded themselves in and defied the encircling Nadir warriors. For most of the day the enemy had scaled the wall, only to be repulsed by the swords and axes of the defenders.

That night Tenaka Khan himself had walked, with his shaman, below the gate-tower.

'Surrender to me, and you may leave here alive,' he had called.

'That would be contrary to our orders,' Chareos had answered him.

'What is the most important to you, duty or freedom?' the Khan had asked.

'An interesting question, sir,' Chareos replied. 'Why not come up here and debate the point?'

'Throw down a rope,' the Khan had answered.

Chareos smiled at the memory now as he heard footsteps in the hall behind him and turned to see the Senior Brother approaching.

'Am I disturbing you?' asked the old man.

'Not at all, Parnio. Please join me.'

The white-robed Senior sat by the table and gazed up at the sky. 'The Heavens are incredible,' he whispered. 'Ever changing, yet constant in their beauty.'

'Indeed they are,' agreed Chareos, sitting opposite the old man.

'Have you touched the power of the Source yet, my son?'

'No, Father. I am still a doubter. Is this a concern to you?'

The Senior waved a slender hand. 'Not at all. Those who seek Him find Him. . but in His own time. But you have been here two years now, and I wonder what holds you. You do not need to wear the robes in order to use the library.'

Chareos smiled. 'There is comfort in belonging, Father. There is a certain anonymity.'

'If it was anonymity you were seeking, you would not have kept your own name, and certainly you would not have acceded to the Earl's request to teach him the finer techniques of swordsmanship.'

True. Perhaps the answer is, simply, that I do not know. Yet I have no desire to leave."

'By my lights, my son, you are a young man. You should have a wife and children; there should be love in your life. Am I at fault in my thinking?'

Chareos stood and moved once more to the window. 'Not at fault, Senior Brother. I loved once. . and in truth I could love again. But the pain of loss was too much for me. I would rather live alone than suffer it.'

'Then you are here to hide, Chareos, and that is not a good reason. The gift of life is too great to waste in such a fashion. Think on it. Why should the famed hero of Bel-azar fear such a wondrous joy as love?'

Chareos swung on the old man, his dark eyes hooded and angry. 'Bel-azar! I have heard that name twice today. It means nothing. I had a sword… I used it well. Men died. I see nothing heroic in that, Senior Brother. A long time ago I watched an old man, crippled in the joints, try to aid a woman who was being attacked. One blow from a fist killed that old man. But his action was heroic — for he, had no chance. Do you understand what I am saying? The soldier always has a chance. There are men and women in the world who perform heroic acts daily, and no one sees them. But I — because of a good eye and a fast arm — I am one of the heroes of Bel-azar. My name is sung in the long halls and the taverns.'

'You are wrong, Chareos. Men sing of you. But the action of that old man was sung before God. There is a difference.'

There would be — if I believed. But I do not.'

'Give it time — and beware of the Earl, my son. There is strength in him, but there is cruelty also. And when you go to teach him at his castle, do not wear the Grey. We are not warriors here; this is no Temple of the Thirty.'

'As you wish, Father.'

The old man rose. 'When I came upon you,' he said softly, 'you were lost in thought. Will you share your memories?'

'I was thinking of Bel-azar and Tenaka Khan. I was wondering about that last night when he climbed the wall alone and sat with us until the dawn. He talked of his life and his dreams and we spoke of ours. Beltzer wanted to hold him for a hostage, but I overruled him. At dawn he climbed down from the gate-tower and led his force away. We still had the Gothir standard so — in theory, at least — the victory was ours.'

'You admired the man?'

'Yes. There was a nobility of spirit. But I do not know why he let us live.'

'Did he not tell you?'

'No. But he was not a man to act without a reason and it has haunted me for years. When he died I journeyed into Nadir lands and stood before the great tomb of Ulric, where Tenaka Khan was buried. I was drawn there. I rode into the camp of the Wolves and knelt before the shaman. I asked him why we were spared on that day. He shrugged. He told me we were the Shio-kas-atra — the ghosts-yet-to-be.'

'Did you understand him?'

'No. Do you?'

'I will pray on it, my son.'

Beltzer awoke to a roaring sea of pain within his skull. He groaned and hauled himself to a sitting position, his stomach heaving. He pulled on his boots and staggered upright, wandered around the bed to the window and opened it. Fresh air drifted in on a light breeze. He hawked and spat; his lip was split and a little blood could be seen in the phlegm. There was a mirror on the dresser and he sank down into the seat before it and stared at his reflection. One eye was swollen and dark; his forehead was grazed and there was a shallow cut on his right cheek; his red and silver beard was matted with dried blood. He felt sick. The door opened behind him, causing the curtains to billow. He turned to see Mael entering, bearing a tray on which was a platter of toasted bread and cheese and a jug — he prayed it contained ale.

'Thank you,' he said, as she set down the tray. She looked at him and shook her head.

'You are a disgrace,' she told him, planting her hands on her ample hips.

'No lectures, Mael. Have pity! My head. .'

'Your pain is your own affair. And I have no pity for drunken louts. Look at the blood on these sheets! And the stink is enough to turn a decent man's stomach. How long since you bathed?'

'It was this year, I know that.'

'When you've finished your breakfast, you will go to the woodshed. There you will work until you have settled your bill. Axe and saw will clear your head.'

'Where's Naza?' he asked, straining to focus on the flaxen-haired woman.

'He's gone into the city. It's market day. When he returns you will be gone — you understand that?'

'He. . owes me.'

'He owes you nothing. You hear me? Nothing! You've been here two months. You've not paid a single Raq for food, lodging or ale, and in that time you've insulted our customers, picked fights and generally done your best to ruin the trade my husband lives on. You will chop wood and then you will go.'

His fist slammed down on the dresser and he surged to his feet. 'You dare to talk to me like that?' he stormed. 'You know who I am, woman?'

'I know,' she said, moving closer. 'You are Beltzer. Beltzer the drunkard. Beltzer the sloth. Beltzer the braggart. And you stink. You stink of sweat, sour ale and vomit. Of course I know who you are!'

He raised his hand as if to strike her, but she laughed at him. 'Go ahead, mighty hero of Bel-azar. Come on!'

Beltzer pushed past her and out into the empty room beyond, but she followed him, her anger lashing him with whips of fire. He stumbled out into the yard beyond the tavern, blinking in the harsh sunlight. The woodshed was to his right; open fields lay to his left.

He took the left path and headed off into the high country, but he had travelled only a half-mile when he sat down on a rock and gazed over the rugged countryside. Three miles ahead was his cabin. But there would be no one there: no food, no drink; merely the howling of the wolves and the emptiness only the lonely could know.

His heart full of shame, he turned back towards the woodshed.

Stopping at a stream he stripped himself of his bearskin jerkin and grey woollen tunic. Then placing his boots beside his clothes, he stepped into the water. With no soap to cleanse himself, he scrubbed at his body with mint leaves and washed the blood from his beard. When he returned to the bank and lifted his tunic the smell from it almost made him nauseous. 'You've fallen a long way,' he told himself. He washed the tunic, beating it against a rock to drive out the dirt, then wrung it clear of excess water and struggled into it. His bearskin jerkin he carried over his arm.

Mael watched him walk back into the yard and cursed softly under her breath. She waited until she heard the sound of the axe thudding into the tree rounds and then returned to the kitchen, preparing the pies and pasties the farm workers and labourers would require at noon.

In the woodshed Beltzer worked hard, enjoying the heft of the single-bladed axe and the feel of the curved wood. His arm had lost none of its skill and each stroke was clean, splitting the rounds into chunks that would burn on the iron-rimmed braziers at each end of the tavern's main room.

Just before noon he stopped and began to cart the wood across the yard. Then he carried it into the tavern to stack beside the braziers. Mael did not speak to him, and he had no desire to feel the sharpness of her tongue. She handed him a plate of broth and some bread when the noon-time custom died down and he ate it in silence, longing to ask for a tankard of ale but fearing the inevitable refusal.

Naza returned at dusk and carried a pitcher of ale out to the woodshed.

'How are you feeling, my friend?' he asked, filling a tankard and passing it to the grateful Beltzer.

'Worse than death,' he replied, draining the tankard.

'You didn't have to do all this,' said Naza. 'You should have rested today. You took quite a beating last night.'

Beltzer shook his head. 'Your wife understands me better than you. This is what I need,' he said, lifting the tankard. 'You know, there's an insanity to it all, Naza. I was the most famous person in Gothir. I was the standard-bearer. I was wined and dined, money and presents poured into my hands. I was on top of the mountain. But there was nothing there. Nothing. Just clouds. And I found that you can't live on that mountain. But when it throws you off — oh, how you long for it! I would kill to climb it again. I would sell my soul. It is so stupid. With fame I thought I would be someone. But I wasn't. Oh yes, the nobles invited me to their castles for a while, but I couldn't talk to them in their own language, of poetry and politics. I was a farmer. I can't read or write. I stood with them and sat with them and I felt like the fool I am. There is only one skill I know — I can swing an axe. I killed a few Nadir. I took the standard. And now I can't even become a farmer again. The mountain won't let me.'

'Why don't you visit Maggrig and Finn? They still have that house in High Valley. They'd be glad to see you and you could talk of old times.'

They were always loners and we were never close. No, I should have died at Bel-azar. Nothing has gone right since then.'

'Death comes soon enough to all men,' said Naza. 'Don't wish for it. Come inside and have a drink.'

'No, tonight I will sit out here and think. No drinking. No fighting. I will sit here.'

Til send a jug out to you — and a hot meal. I'll have some blankets brought out too.'

'You needn't do this for me, Naza.'

'I owe you, my friend.'

'No,' said Beltzer sadly, 'you owe me nothing. And from now on I work for my food.'

Forty wooden pegs two inches in diameter had been driven into the lawn; each was set some three feet apart in rows of eight. The eight young students stood before the pegs awaiting instructions from Chareos. The morning sun was bright and a light breeze caressed the elm trees which bordered the lawn.

'Now, gentlemen,' said Chareos, 'I want you to walk along the pegs, turn and come back as swiftly as you can.'

'Might I ask why?' enquired Patris, the Earl's eldest son. 'Are we not supposed to learn the use of the sword?'

'Indeed you are, my lord. But you hold a sword in the hand, and that is only one aspect of the bladesman's skill. Balance is everything. Now kindly take your positions.'

The youngsters stepped on to the pegs and made a wary start. Patris moved smoothly out, turned and ran back to where Chareos waited. The other youths followed more carefully. Three slipped and had to make the attempt a second time; these three Chareos took aside.

'You will continue on the pegs until I return,' he told them. One was the fat child, Akarin, son of the city's Elder Magistrate. He would never be a swordsman, but he was a game boy and Chareos liked him.

He took the other five youths to the Run. It had been finished the day before and Chareos was well pleased with it. A long plank was angled up to join a platform of logs some six feet above the ground. The logs were balanced on greased spheres of wood, allowing them to roll gently. At the end of the log run was tied a knotted rope. With this it was possible to swing the twenty feet to the second set of logs and down a greased plank to the ground. The youths looked at the structure, then gazed one to the other.

'Who wishes to be first?' asked Chareos. No one spoke. 'Then it will be you, young Lorin,' said the monk, pointing to the red-headed son of Salida, the Earl's Captain of Lance.

Gamely the boy ran up the plank and on to the logs. They rolled and twisted under his feet and he half fell, but righted himself and slowly made it to the rope. With a leap he sailed over to the second run, released the rope and missed his footing, tumbling to the soft earth. The other youths did not laugh; they knew their turn would come. One by one each of them failed the Run until, at last, only Patris was left. He nimbly ran up the plank and on to the logs. Moving carefully, he reached the rope and then swung. Just before landing he angled his body sideways and, bending his knees, dropped into a crouch. Although the log rolled, his balance was perfect. But the greased plank at the end of the Run foxed him, and he slipped and fell sideways to the mud.

Chareos called them to him. Their fine tunics of embroidered silk were covered in mud and grime.

'Gentlemen, you are in sorry condition. But war will render you yet more sorry. The soldier will fight in rain and mud, snow and ice, drought and flood. It is rare that a warrior ever gets to fight in comfort. Now make the attempt twice more — in the same order, if you please. Patris, walk with me a moment.' He led the Earl's son some way from the others. 'You did well,' he said, 'but it was not innovative thought. You watched and you learned from the errors of your friends. The greased plank fooled you because you did not consider the problem.'

'I know now how to descend it, master Chareos,' said the boy.

'I don't doubt it. But in real war an officer may have only one chance to succeed. Consider each problem.'

'I will.'

Chareos wandered back to the three youths on the pegs. Each was coping more ably with the course, save Akarin. 'Let me look at you,' said the monk and the boy stood red-faced before the Swordmaster as Chareos gripped the flesh above the youth's hips. 'You know, of course, that you are carrying too much weight. Your legs are strong, but your body is out of balance. If you truly wish to become a swordsman, then limit your diet to one meal a day. Make it a broth, with meat and vegetables. No honey-cakes. No sweetmeats. You are a fine boy, but your mother spoils you.'

The other two boys were allowed to attempt the Run, but they fared badly. Akarin pleaded with Chareos to be allowed to try.

'They will make fun of me,' he pleaded. 'Please let me attempt it.'

Chareos nodded and the fat youngster ran at the plank, made it to the logs and wobbled towards the rope. Under his great weight the logs did not roll as badly as with the other youths. He swung on the rope, but lost his grip and dropped into a mud pool. A huge splash went up, followed by a roar of laughter from the other boys.

Akarin hauled himself clear of the pool and stood blinking back his tears.

There was always one, Chareos knew, who had to endure the taunting. It was the nature of the pack.

He led them to a nearby pasture and opened the chest containing swords, masks and mail-shirts. Then he paired off the youngsters, partnering Patris with Akarin. The Earl's son stalked across to the monk. 'Why must I have the Piglet?' he demanded.

'Because you are the best,' answered Chareos.

'I do not understand.'

'Teach him.'

'And who teaches me?'

'As an officer, my lord, you will have many men under your command and not all will be gifted. You must learn to use each man to his best advantage. Akarin will gain more from partnering you than he would with any other boy. . and I will teach you.'

'So from now on he is my problem?'

'I believe that will be in his best interests — and yours.'

'We will see,' said Patris.

When the afternoon session ended, Akarin had learned a great deal from Patris, but his arms and legs were bruised from the countless blows the older boy landed with their wooden practice blades.

'I will see you tomorrow, gentlemen,' said Chareos, watching as they trudged wearily back to their homes. 'Wear something more in keeping tomorrow,' he called after them.

The following afternoon the youths assembled by the pegs and Chareos came out to them. Akarin was not present; instead, a slim boy stood beside Patris.

'And who is this?' enquired Chareos.

'My cousin, Aleyn,' answered Patris.

'Where is Akarin?'

'He has decided not to continue his lessons.'

'And you arranged this, my lord?' asked Chareos softly.

'I did. You were wrong, master Chareos. When I am an officer I will have no one in my force who is not excellent in every department. I shall certainly have no pigs.'

'Neither will I, my lord. I suggest that you and your cousin remove yourselves immediately. The rest of you gentlemen can begin on the pegs.'

'No one move!' ordered Patris and the youths froze. 'You dare to insult me?' the boy demanded of Chareos.

'You have brought discredit on yourself, my lord,' Chareos answered him icily, 'and I will no longer be at your service. Since these youngsters are your friends, and in some way dependent on your good graces, I shall not ask them to remain and incur your displeasure. There will be no more lessons. Good day to you.'

Chareos bowed to the group and walked away.

'You'll pay for this!' Patris shouted.

The monk ignored him and returned to his rooms, his fury hard to control. He was not angry with Patris, but with himself; he should have seen it coming. The Earl's son was a fine athlete, but his personality was flawed. There was in him an arrogance which could not be curbed, and a cruelty which would never be held in check.

After a while he calmed his emotions and walked to the library. Here in the cold, stone quiet of the reading hall he sat and studied the writings of the philosopher Neucean.

Lost in his studies, he did not feel the hours flow by. A hand touched his shoulder.

'The Earl is waiting for you in the Long Hall,' said the Senior Brother.

Chareos left the library and walked through the arched gardens towards the steps to the Long Hall. He had expected some reaction to his dismissal of Patris — but a visit from the Earl? And so swiftly? It made him feel uneasy. In Gothir the old feudal laws had been much revised, but the Earl was still the ultimate power in the Southlands and, on a whim, he could have a man flogged or imprisoned or both.

Chareos gathered his thoughts and climbed the stairs to the Hall. The Earl was standing alone by the south window, his fingers tapping rhythmically at the sill.

'Welcome, my lord,' said Chareos and the slim young man turned to him, forcing a smile. His face was fine-featured, his hair long and blond, heat-curled in the manner of the Lord Regent's Court.

'What are we to do about this business, Chareos?' asked the Earl, beckoning the monk to a seat by the window. Chareos sat but the Earl remained standing.

'You are speaking of the lessons?'

'Why else would I be here? You have caused quite a stir. My wife wants you flogged; the Captain of the Guard wishes to challenge you; my son wants you hanged — though I pointed out that withdrawing from lessons is hardly a crime. So, what can we do?'

'Is the subject so important, my lord? There are many swordmasters.'

'That is not the point and you know it, Chareos. You have insulted the heir to the earldom and, in doing so, it could be argued that you have insulted me.'

'The question of right and wrong must be considered,' said the monk.

'The fat boy? Yes. But I want this business resolved. I suggest you invite the child — what's his name? Akarin? — to return to the classes. You can then pair him with someone else, and the lessons can continue.'

Chareos considered the question and shook his head. 'I am indeed sorry that you feel the need to be involved in this. . petty matter. What with thoughts of the Nadir, the Slave raids and the many duties you face, this is an unnecessary irritant. However, I do not see that the resumption of lessons is what is called for here. Your son is highly gifted, but arrogant. Resumption of lessons will, for him, be a victory. It will be the better for the boy if he is placed with another master.'

'You speak of arrogance?' snapped the Earl. 'He has every right to be arrogant. He is my son — and we of the House of Arngir are used to victory. The lessons will resume.'

Chareos rose and met the Earl's icy stare. 'I should point out, my lord, that I receive no pay. I chose — as a free man — to administer the lessons. I choose as a free man to cease them. I am contracted to no one, and therefore am not under the law.'

'Then you are telling me that the insult to my family stands? Be careful, Chareos. Think of what that means.'

The monk took a deep, slow breath. 'My lord,' he said at last, 'I hold you in the highest regard. If you feel that my actions have brought discredit to you, then accept my sincerest apologies. But at the beginning it was made clear to the students that, in the matter of my lessons, they had no rank. There would be no privilege. Patris not only dismissed one of my pupils, but stopped the others from obeying a command. By all the rules that he — and you — agreed, he had to go. I cannot reverse that decision.' 'Cannot? Say it honestly, man. You will not.' 'I will not.' A cold silence grew between the men, but the Earl seemed unwilling to end the meeting and paced by the window for several minutes.

'Very well,' he said finally. 'It will be as you say. Logar will take over the duties of Swordmaster. I will see you, as agreed, at the castle hall on Petition Morning.' 'You still wish me to practise with you, my lord?' 'I do. Or are you withdrawing from that duty also?' 'Not at all, sir. I will look forward to it.' The Earl smiled. 'Until then,' he said, turning on his heel and striding from the hall. Chareos sat down, his hands trembling and his heart beating wildly.

It did not make sense for the Earl to retain him, and he had an uneasy feeling that the next practice would not be a pleasant experience. Was he to be publicly humiliated?

He wandered to the window. Now would be a good time to leave. He could travel north to the capital, or south-east into Vagria. Or even south through the lands of the Nadir and on to Drenan and the Great Library.

He thought of the twelve gold coins he still had hidden in his room. He could buy two horses and supplies for a journey. His gaze flickered around the Hall; he had been almost content here.

His mind journeyed back to the last night on the gate-tower, as they sat with Tenaka Khan, the violet-eyed Lord of the Nadir. 'Why did you let us live?' whispered Chareos.

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.'