Quest for Lost Heroes

CHAPTER TWO

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. 'The Nadir can afford it. Their treasuries are bulging with gold and jewels from Drenan, Lentria, Vagria and Mashrapur.'

'How do you know that Logar accepted a bribe?'

'How do I know that you are planning to leave the city on Petition Day? How do I know that you will not travel alone? How do I know that an old friend awaits you in the mountains? How? Because I am a seer. And today I wish I had never been born with the Talent.'

The old man turned his head away, gazing down at the cinder-strewn ground. Chareos rose, and as he walked back towards his stallion a tall figure stepped into his path.

'What do you want, Logar?' he asked.

'You insulted me. Now you will pay the price!'

'You wish to duel with me?'

'I do not know you, therefore the Laws of the Duel do not apply. We will merely fight.'

'But you do know me, Logar. Look closely, and picture this face above the robes of a grey monk.'

'Chareos? Damn you! Will you hide behind the rules of the Order? Or will you meet me like a man?'

'Firstly, I will see the Earl and discuss your. . curious behaviour today. Then I will consider your challenge. Good night to you.' He moved on, then turned. 'Oh, by the by… when you spend the gold you made today, think of the bodies that lie here. I noticed two children among the corpses. Perhaps you should help to bury them.'

The stallion stood quietly as Chareos stepped into the saddle. The rider looked back once at the smouldering remains of the village and then rode warily for the distant city.

'I am deeply sorry that you have decided to leave us,' said the Senior Brother, rising from his chair and leaning across the desk with one hand extended. Chareos accepted the handshake.

'I also am full of regrets, Father. But it is time.'

Time, my son? What is time but the breath between birth and death? I had thought you were coming to understand the purpose of Being, to establish the Will of the Source in all things. It saddens me greatly to see you armed in this way,' he said, pointing to the sabre and the hunting-knife.

'Where I am travelling I may have need of them, Father.'

'I learned long ago that the sword is no protection, Chareos.'

'I have no wish to argue, Father. Yet it must be said that the monks exist here in peace and security only because of the swords of the defenders. I do not belittle your views — I wish all men shared them. But they do not. I came to you as a broken man and you made me whole. But if all men lived as you and I, there would be no children and no humanity. Where then would be the Will of the Source?'

The Brother smiled. 'Oh, Chareos, how narrow is your thinking! Do you believe that this is all there is? You were an acolyte, my son. In five or ten years you would have been ready to study the true Mysteries, and you would have seen the magic of the universe. Give me your hand once more.'

Chareos reached out and the monk took his fingers and turned his palm upwards. The Senior Brother closed his eyes and sat statue-still, seeming not even to breathe. Slowly the minutes passed and Chareos found his shoulder stiffening as he sat with arm stretched. Easing his hand from the Brother's grip, he waited in silence. At last the monk opened his eyes, shook his head and reached for a goblet of water.

'Your journey will be long, my friend, and perilous. May the Lord of All Harmony travel with you.'

'What did you see, Father?'

'Some sorrows are not for sharing before their time, my son. But there is no evil in you. Go now, for I must rest.'

Chareos took a last stroll around the monastery grounds before walking on towards the Keep at the centre of the city. Several centuries ago the Keep had been built to guard the northern toll road, but when the Nadir hordes of Ulric first gathered they destroyed the great southern city of Gulgothir, the capital of the Gothir kingdom, and the land was torn in two. Refugees streamed north, over the mountains and far from Nadir tyranny. A new capital was built on the western edge of the ocean, and the Keep at Talgithir became the southernmost point of Gothir lands. It had grown in size since those early days, and now the Keep was but a small island at the centre of a bustling metropolis.

The Great Gates of Oak and Iron were shut, but Chareos joined the queue at the side gate which slowly filed through to the outer courtyard. There were the petitioners, men and women with grievances only the Earl could settle. There were more than two hundred people already present, and each carried a flat disc of clay stamped with a number. When that number was called, the petitioner would walk inside the main hall and present his case to the Earl. Of the hundreds waiting, only about a dozen would be dealt with, the rest returning next Petition Day.

Chareos walked up the wide stone steps towards the two guards at the top; their spears were crossed, but they lifted them to allow him to pass through into the inner chambers. Three times already he had tried to contact the Earl, to inform him of the deeds of his soldiers. But on each occasion he had been turned away and told that the Earl was too busy to be interrupted.

A servant led Chareos through to the Dining Hall. The long tables had been removed and now the Earl and his retainers sat facing the doors. The first petitioner was already before them, talking of a broken promise in the matter of the sale of three bulls; he had received half the payment on delivery, but the remainder had been denied him. The accused was a nobleman, a distant relative of the Earl. The case was found to be proved and the Earl ordered the money to be paid, plus five silver pieces to be given to the plaintiff to offset the waste of time the case had incurred. He also fined the nobleman twenty gold pieces.

The plaintiff bowed low and backed from the chamber. The next person to be called was a widow, who claimed that her inheritance had been stolen by a man who claimed to love her. The man was dragged into the hall, weighted down with chains. His face was bruised and bloody and he admitted the charge against him. The Earl ordered him hanged.

One by one the petitioners came forward until, at noon, the Earl rose. 'Enough for one day, by the gods,' he said.

A young man pushed through the main doors, the guards running after him. 'My lord, hear me!' he called. The two guards seized the man's arms and began to drag him away.

'Wait!' called the Earl. 'Let him speak.'

Chareos recognised the tall young villager and eased himself forward to hear him.

'My village was attacked by raiders. Eleven of our women were taken to be sold to the Nadir. We must get them back, my lord.'

'Ah yes, the village. A sad affair,' said the Earl. 'But there is little we can do. We followed their tracks to the mountains, but they escaped into Nadir lands and I have no jurisdiction there.'

Then you will do nothing?' the man shouted.

'Do not raise your voice to me, peasant!' roared the Earl.

'We pay taxes to you, and we look to you for protection. But when we asked for it, your men stayed hidden in a wood while our people were slaughtered. Do cowards now rule the Gothir?'

'Take him!' shouted the Earl and the guards leapt on the villager, pinning his arms. 'I want him flogged. Get him but of here.'

'Is that your answer?' yelled the youth. 'Is this justice?'

The Earl ignored him and the youth was hauled away, the doors closing behind him. 'Ah, Chareos,' said the Earl. 'Welcome. Are you ready for the exhibition?'

'I am indeed, my lord,' replied Chareos, stepping forward. 'But may I first say a word about the young man's claims?'

'You may not!' snapped the Earl. 'Logar!' The champion rose from his seat and walked out to stand with the two men. 'I hurt my shoulder during last week's exhibition,' said the Earl, 'and it is troubling me still. But rather than disappoint our guests, would you take my place against the hero of Bel-azar?'

'It would be a pleasure, my lord,' replied Logar. 'Might I suggest that it would imbue the spectacle with greater tension were we to exhibit our skills without masks and mail-shirts?'

'Is that not dangerous?' the Earl queried. 'I would not like to see a tragic accident.'

'There is danger, my lord, but it might add spice to the exhibition.'

'Very well,' agreed the Earl, ignoring Chareos. 'Let it be as you say.'

A page came forward bearing two rapiers. Chareos chose the left-hand blade and moved away to loosen his muscles. He laid his sabre and knife on a ledge, his mind racing. He had no doubt that Logar would try to kill him, yet if he killed Logar the Earl would have him arrested. Mechanically he went through his exercises, stretching the muscles of his arms, shoulders and groin. He glanced at the two rows of spectators, his eye catching the young Lord Patris. The boy was grinning wolfishly. Chareos turned away and approached Logar.

The two men lifted their blades high, saluting each other, then touched swords.

'Begin!' called the Earl.

Logar launched a sudden attack, rolling his wrist in the Classic Chare, but Chareos parried the blow, moving smoothly to his right. Logar's eyes narrowed. Three times the soldier hurled himself forward, and on each occasion was parried. Chareos was growing angry. Logar was making no attempt to defend himself, sure in the knowledge that Chareos could not — in an exhibition — deliver a killing thrust. Twice his blade flashed by Chareos' throat, and the monk knew it was only a matter of time before the Earl's champion found a way through his defences. Chareos blocked a thrust and leapt back, wrong-footing Logar. As the champion cursed and moved forward, Chareos took a deep breath and prepared to meet the attack, knowing now that Logar intended to kill him. But was it the Earl's plan, or merely the result of Logar's wounded pride? Logar's sword-blade lanced for his eye but he sidestepped, spun on his heel and jumped back. Logar swung and grinned broadly. Back and forth across the hall the two swordsmen battled. The spectators could not hold themselves in silence and began wildly cheering every attack made by Logar. Several minutes passed, and still there was no resolution to the encounter. Logar lunged. Chareos only partly blocked, and felt his opponent's sword blade slice into the skin of his cheek.

At the sight of blood a hush fell on the spectators, who looked to the Earl to end the exhibition. But he made no move. So it was the Earl's plan, thought Chareos and anger flared within him, but he held it trapped. He could not kill Logar, for then the Earl would have him arrested and on trial for murder. Coldly furious, Chareos circled, then moved swiftly to his right. Logar lunged forward. Chareos parried three thrusts, then slashed his own blade high over Logar's sword. The point of Chareos' rapier split the skin above Logar's right eye and sliced on across his brow. Blood billowed into the swordsman's eyes and he fell back.

Chareos turned to the Earl. 'Is the exhibition over, my lord?'

That was foul work,' said the Earl. 'You could have killed him.'

'Indeed I could, for he is not very skilful. But for good luck this blow,' said Chareos, pointing to the cut on his own cheek, 'would have pierced me to the brain. Happily there is little harm done; his cut is not serious. And now, with your permission. .' A sound from behind made him spin on his heel. Logar had wiped most of the blood from his face and was running at him with sword extended. Chareos sidestepped and rammed his hilt guard behind Logar's left ear and the champion fell unconscious to the marble floor. 'As I was saying,' said Chareos coldly, 'with your permission I will leave.'

'You are not welcome here,' hissed the Earl, 'nor anywhere within my jurisdiction.'

Bowing, Chareos backed three steps and took up his sabre and knife. He marched from the hall with head held high, feeling the hostility following him.

Out in the courtyard most of the petitioners had remained to watch the flogging. Chareos descended the steps, his eyes locked to the writhing form of the villager as the lash snaked across his skin.

Approaching the Captain of the Guard, he asked, 'How many strokes has he suffered?'

'Eighteen. We'll stop at fifty.'

'You'll stop at twenty,' Chareos told him. That is the penalty for insubordinate behaviour.'

'The Earl did not specify the number,' the officer snapped.

'Perhaps he thought you would know the law,' remarked Chareos as the lash sounded once more.

That's enough,' said the Captain. 'Cut him down.' They dragged the villager out through the postern gate and left him lying beside the path.

Chareos helped him to his feet. Thank you,' the man whispered.

'You'll not get home in that state,' Chareos told him. 'You'd best come with me. I'll book a room at the Grey Owl tavern and we'll see to your back.'

The Grey Owl tavern was a rambling building, built around an ancient inn which sat on the mountain road leading to Gulgothir. At its centre was an L-shaped hall, where drinkers and diners were waited upon by serving-maids. Two new buildings had been constructed on the east and west sides, and a stableyard added to the rear.

As Chareos eased his way through the milling taverners, his jutting scabbard cracked against a man's leg.

'Watch what you're doing, you whoreson!' hissed the drinker. Chareos ignored him, but as he walked on he gripped the hilt of his sabre, holding the scabbard close to his leg. It was a long, long time since he had worn a sword-belt and it felt clumsy, out of place.

He passed through a doorway and mounted the circular stair to the first-floor corridor. At the far end he entered the double room he had paid for that afternoon. The villager still slept, his breathing deep and slow; the draught of lirium administered by the apothecary would keep him unconscious until dawn. Chareos had cleaned the whip wounds and covered them with goose-grease, pressing a large square of linen to the villager's back. The lash cuts were not deep but the skin around them had peeled back, burnt by the leather of the whip.

Chareos banked up the fire in the hearth on the south wall. Autumn was approaching, and a chill wind hissed through the warped window-frames. He removed his sword-belt and sat in a wide, deep leather chair by the fire. Tired now, yet his mind would not relax. The sanctuary of the monastery seemed distant, and depression hit him like a physical blow. Today the Earl had tried to have him killed — and for what? All because of the actions of an arrogant child. He glanced at the sleeping villager. The boy had seen his village razed, his loved ones taken, and had now been whipped to add to his agony. Justice was for the rich… it always had been. Chareos leaned forward and threw a chunk of wood on the fire. One of the three lanterns on the wall guttered and died and he checked the others. They were low and he pulled the bell-rope by the west wall.

After some minutes a serving-maid tapped at the door. He asked for oil and ordered a meal and some wine. She was gone for half an hour, in which time a second lantern failed.

The villager groaned in his sleep, whispering a name. Chareos moved over to him, but the youth faded back into slumber.

The maid returned with a jug of oil. Tm sorry for the delay, sir, but we're full tonight and two of the girls have not come in.' She refilled the lanterns and lit them with a long taper. 'Your food will be up soon. There is no beef, but the lamb is good.'

'It will suffice.'

She stopped in the doorway and glanced back. 'Is he the villager who was scourged today?' she whispered.

'He is.'

'And you would be Chareos the monk?'

He nodded and she stepped back into the room. She was short and plump, with corn-coloured hair and a round, pretty face. 'Perhaps I shouldn't speak out of turn, sir, but there are men looking for you — men with swords. One of them has a bandage upon his brow.'

'Do they know I am here?'

'Yes, sir. There are three men in the stable and two others are now sitting in the main hall. I think there may be more.'

'Thank you kindly,' he said, pressing a half silver piece into her hand.

After she had gone he bolted the door, returned to the fire and dozed until there was another tap at the door. He slid his sabre from the scabbard. 'Who is it?' he called.

'It's me, sir. I have your food and wine.'

He pulled back the bolts and opened the door. She came in and laid the wooden tray on the narrow table by the chair. They are still there, sir. And the man with the bandage is talking to Finbale — the owner.'

'Thank you.'

'You could leave through the servants' quarters,' she offered.

'My horses are in the stable. Do not fear for me.'

She smiled. 'It was good what you did for him,' she said and then she left, pulling the door shut behind her. Chareos pushed home the bolt and settled down to his meal. The meat was tender, the vegetables soft and overcooked and the wine barely passable; even so, the meal filled his belly and he settled down to sleep in the chair. His dreams were troubled, but when he awoke they vanished like smoke in the breeze. Pre-dawn light had shaded the sky to a dark grey. The fire was almost dead, the room chill; Chareos added tinder to the glowing embers, blowing the flames to life, then piled on larger chunks. He was stiff and cold, and his neck ached. With the fire blazing once more, he moved to the villager. The youth's breathing was more shallow now. Chareos touched his arm and the villager groaned and opened his eyes.

He tried to sit up but pain hit him and he sank back.

'Your wounds are clean,' said Chareos, 'and though they must be painful I suggest you rise and dress. I have bought a horse for you. And we leave the city this morning.'

'Thank you… for your help. My name is Kiall.' The youth sat up, his face twisted by the pain clawing at his back.

'The wounds will heal well,' Chareos told him. 'They are clean and not deep. The pain is from the whip-burns, but that will pass in three or four days.'

'I do not know your name,' said Kiall.

'Chareos. Now get dressed. There are men waiting who will make our departure troublesome.'

'Chareos? The hero of Bel-azar?'

'Yes,' snapped Chareos, 'the wondrous giant of song and tale. Did you hear me, boy? We are in danger. Now get dressed.'

Kiall pushed himself to his feet and struggled into his troos and boots, but could not raise his arms to pull on his shirt. Chareos helped him. The lash marks extended all the way to Kiall's hip and he could not fasten his belt. 'Why are we in danger?' he asked.

Chareos shrugged. 'I doubt it is to do with you. I had a duel with a man named Logar and I would imagine he is feeling somewhat humiliated. Now I want you to go down to the stable. My horses are there. Mine is the grey and the saddle is by the stall. You know how to saddle a horse?'

'I was once a stable-boy.'

'Good. Make sure the cinch is tight enough. Two stalls down, there is a swaybacked black gelding; it was the best I could find for you. He's old and near worn out, but he will get you back to your village.'

'I will not return to the village,' said Kiall softly. 'I will hunt down the raiders who took Ravenna and the others.'

'A sound and sensible idea,' said Chareos irritably, 'but for now be so good as to saddle my horse.'

Kiall reddened. 'I may owe you my life, but do not mock me,' he said. 'I have loved Ravenna for years and I will not rest until she is free, or I am dead.'

'The latter is what you will be. But it is your life. My horse, if you please?'

Kiall opened his mouth, but said nothing. Shaking his head, he left the room. Chareos waited for several minutes and then walked down the stairs to the kitchen where two scullery servants were preparing the dough for the day's bread. He summoned the first and asked her to pack some provisions for him — salt beef, a ham, corn biscuits and a small sack of oats. With his order filled, he paid her and wandered through the now deserted main hall. The innkeeper, Finbale, was hanging freshly washed tankards on hooks above the bar. He nodded and smiled as Chareos moved towards the door and Chareos stopped and approached the man.

'Good morning,' said Finbale, a wide grin showing the gaps in his teeth.

'And to you,' responded Chareos. 'Will you have my horse brought to the door?'

'The stable is only across the yard, sir. And my boy is not here yet.'

'Then do it yourself,' said Chareos coldly.

'I'm very busy, sir,' Finbale answered, the smile vanishing and he turned back to his chores.

So, thought Chareos, they are still here. Holding his provisions in his left hand, he stepped out into the yard. All was quiet, and the dawn was breaking to the east. The morning was chill and fresh, and the smell of frying bacon hung in the air. Glancing around the yard, Chareos saw a wagon close by and a short wall leading to the chicken-run. To the left the stable door was open, but there was no sign of Kiall. As Chareos moved out into the open, a man ran towards him from the side of the building; he dropped his provisions and drew his sabre. Two more men came into view from behind the wagon and then Logar appeared from the stable. His forehead was bandaged, but blood was seeping through the linen.

'You are very good with a rapier,' said Logar. 'But how do you fare with the sabre?'

'I am better with a sabre,' Chareos answered.

'In that case we will take no chances,' hissed Logar. 'Kill him!'

As two swordsmen leapt forward Chareos blocked a wild slash, spun on his heel to avoid a second thrust and backhanded his blade across the first man's throat. Blood welled from the cut and the attacker fell, dropping his sword and thrusting his fingers at the wound in a vain attempt to stem the flow of his life. The second attacker sent a cut at Chareos' head but he ducked under it and thrust his own blade through the man's chest. A third swordsman fell back, his eyes widening.

'Well?' said Chareos, glaring at Logar, and the Earl's champion screamed and launched an attack. Chareos blocked the first slash, leapt back from a sweeping slice which would have disembowelled him, then swept a flashing riposte that plunged into Logar's groin, severing the huge artery at the top of the inner thigh. Logar dropped his sabre and stared in disbelief at the blood drenching his leggings; then his legs gave way and he fell to his knees before Chareos. He looked up at his killer and blinked before toppling sideways to the ground. Chareos moved to the body, pulling free the sword-belt and sliding the dead man's sabre back into the scabbard. When Kiall rode into the yard, leading Chareos' grey, the former monk tossed Logar's sabre to the villager, gathered his provisions and swung into the saddle. The last swordsman stood by, saying nothing. Chareos ignored him and steered his mount towards the southern gate.

The yard had been roped off and guards stood by the entrances. Behind them a crowd had gathered, straining to see the stiffening corpses. The Earl stood over the body of Logar, staring down at the grey, bloodless face.

'The facts speak for themselves,' he said, pointing at the body. 'See, he has no sword. He was murdered and I want the killer brought to justice. Who would have thought that a hero of Bel-azar would stoop to such a base deed?' The retainers grouped around him said nothing, and the surviving swordsman turned his eyes from the Earl.

'Take twenty men,' the Earl ordered Salida, his Captain of Lancers, 'and bring Chareos back here.'

Salida cleared his throat. 'My lord, it was not like Logar to walk unarmed — and these other two men had swords drawn. Chareos is a master bladesman. I cannot believe. .'

'Enough!' snapped the Earl and swung to the survivor. 'You. . what is your name again?'

'Kypha, my lord,' replied the man, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

'Was Logar armed when Chareos slew him?'

'No, my lord.'

'There you have it then,' said the Earl. 'And you have the evidence of your eyes. Do you see a sword?'

'No, my lord,' said Salida. 'I will fetch him. What of the villager?"

'He was an accessory to murder; he will hang alongside Chareos.'

The twenty-two captive women sat close together in four open wagons. On either side, warriors rode, grim men and fierce-eyed. Ravenna was in the second wagon, separated from her friends. Around her were women and girls taken in two other raids. All were frightened, and there was little conversation.

Two days before a girl had tried to escape; she had leapt from a wagon at dusk and run for the trees, but they had ridden her down in seconds and dragged her back. The captives had been assembled in a circle to watch the girl being whipped, and her whimpering screams still sounded in Ravenna's ears.

After that, several of the men had dragged her away from the camp and raped her. Then her arms were tied and she was flung down near the other prisoners.

'There is a lesson to be learnt here,' said a man with a scarred face. 'You are slaves and you will begin to think like slaves. That way, you will survive. Any slave who attempts to run will be treated more harshly than this one. Remember these words.'

Ravenna would remember. .

The time to escape would not be while the Nadren held them. No, it was necessary to be more cunning. She would wait until she was bought by some lecherous Nadir. She would be pliant and helpful, loving and grateful. . and when he had grown confident of her emotions — then she would run.

'Where are you from?' whispered the woman beside her. Ravenna told her.

'I visited your village once. For the Summer Solstice Fair.' Ravenna looked at the bony figure, scanning the lean, angular face and the shining black hair. She could not remember her.

'Are you wed?' she asked.

'Yes,' said the woman, shrugging. 'But that does not matter any more.'

'No,' Ravenna agreed.

'And you?'

'I was due to marry. Eighteen — no, seventeen — days from now.'

'Are you a virgin?' asked the woman, her voice dropping lower.

'No.'

'You are from now on. They will ask. Virgins fetch higher prices. And it will mean these. . pigs. . will not touch you. You understand?'

'Yes. But surely the man who buys me. . '

'What do they know? Men! Find yourself a sharp pin, and on the first night cut yourself.'

Ravenna nodded. 'Thank you. I will remember that.'

They lapsed into silence as the wagons moved on. The raiders rode warily and Ravenna could not stop herself scanning the horizon.

'Do not expect help,' the woman told her.

'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 / 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.

" 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.

The bowman sat alongside him on the stone seat. 'She didn't love you, man,' said Finn, and Chareos had wept like a child. For some time Finn sat in silence, then he placed his hand on Chareos' shoulder and spoke softly. 'Men dream of many things, Blademaster. We dream of fame we can never know, or riches we can never win. But the most foolish of all is the dream of love, of the great abiding love. Let it go.'

'I can't,' answered Chareos.

'Then mask it, for the troops are waiting and it is a long ride to Bel-azar.'