Quest for Lost Heroes

CHAPTER FOUR

An eerie silence covered the high forest like an invisible cloak as the dawn light bathed the tavern. Kiall gazed around the seemingly deserted settlement. There were few signs now of the battle, save for the dried bloodstains on the snow. Beltzer hoisted his pack to his shoulders and stamped his feet. 'I hate the cold,' he declared.

'We haven't started yet,' said Finn, 'and already you're complaining.'

Kiall struggled to get his arms through the pack ropes and Maggrig assisted him, lifting the loops over the thick goatskin jerkin Kiall now wore.

'It's too big for me,' said Kiall.

'There's gratitude,' snapped Beltzer, 'after all the trouble I took to get it for you.'

'You stripped it from a dead Nadren,' Chareos pointed out.

'Had to kill him first,' retorted Beltzer, aggrieved.

Chareos ignored him, and shrugged into his pack. Finn had loaned him a fur-lined cloak with a deep hood, which he lifted into place and tied under his chin. Moving away from the others, he drew his sabre. After several practice lunges and parries, he scabbarded the sword and adjusted the loops of the pack. He dropped his arms and the pack fell away… the sabre flashed into the air. Twice more Chareos repeated the manoeuvre. At last, satisfied, he rejoined the others. The pack was less comfortable now, the ropes biting into his shoulders, the weight too low on his back. But it could be swiftly jettisoned if the need arose, and that was worth a little discomfort.

The group set off on the ice-covered trail. Chareos had never enjoyed walking but on Finn's advice had left the horses in the settlement, paying Naza a retainer to feed and groom the mounts while they were gone.

Both the bowmen had declined the opportunity to join the three questors, but Finn had at least agreed to guide them to the Shrieking Gate. As he walked behind Finn, Chareos considered all aspects of the way ahead. The Nadren were still in the forest, but these were not a great fear. Five well-armed men should prove deterrent enough, especially after the mauling the raiders had received. No, the biggest problem was what awaited them beyond the Gate.

The Tattooed People were a mystery. Some said they had once been of this world, forced back by the migration of nations ten centuries before when the war-like Drenai, the Gothir and the ferocious Nadir tribes came sweeping from north, south and east. One legend claimed the Tattooed People used sorcery to open a doorway between worlds, allowing the tribe to escape to a hidden land of riches and plenty. Another maintained that the Gateway had been there from the days before the Ice Fall, a last remnant of a once proud civilisation and that beyond it lay mountains of gold.

But whatever the truth the Gateway did exist and, on rare occasions, one or more of the Tattooed People passed through it. Such had been the case when Okas had wandered into the army camp six months before the battle at Bel-azar. He had squatted down at Chareos' camp-fire and waited in silence until Beltzer offered him a plate of meat and bread. He was a small man, no more than five feet tall, pot-bellied and wearing only a loin-cloth decorated with pale stones. His entire body was covered in blue tattooes — some in the shape of leaves, others in runic symbols around what appeared to be camp-fire scenes. His face also was tattooed with curving lines and his beardless chin was completely blue, shaped like a beard with a waxed moustache above it. Amazingly he spoke a little of the Common Language and, more amazing still, in the four months Okas was with them the uncouth Beltzer mastered the tribesman's tongue. Okas proved invaluable during that time. In the skills of tracking he had no peers — at least not among the Gothir. And he was a great 'finder'. Chareos' senior officer, Jochell, lost a valuable golden ring and had the quarters of all enlisted men searched. Through Beltzer, Okas told the officer that he would find the missing item.

Jochell was dubious, yet he had seen Okas' skills in action during the hunt for Nadir raiders. Much to the amusement of the men Okas took the officer's hand and held it in silence for a while, eyes closed. Then he released his grip and trotted from the camp. Jochell saddled his horse and rode after him; Chareos and Finn followed, anxious to see the outcome. Two hours later they were at the scene of the previous day's battle with Nadir outriders. There was a small stream to the west of the battlefield. Okas moved to it and knelt by the water-line. Then he grunted and pointed. Jochell joined him. There, just below the surface, nestling among the pebbles was the gold ring, its pale central opal glistening blue.

Jochell was delighted and gave Okas two gold pieces. The tribesman stared at them for a while, then tossed them to Chareos. That night Okas left them, but not before he had sat with Beltzer for more than an hour. He said farewell to no one else, merely gathered up his blanket and walked from the camp.

In the morning Chareos had asked Beltzer, 'What did he say to you?'

'He told me to stay close to you, Maggrig and Finn during the coming days. He also told me that Jochell's ring would grace a Nadir hand before the winter moon.'

'I wish I hadn't asked,' Chareos said.

'He's only been gone a few hours — and already I miss him,' said Beltzer. 'You think we'll see him again?'

Now, as he walked through the early morning frost, Chareos remembered that conversation and the many which had followed it. Beltzer told him of the land beyond the Gateway. It was hot and humid, with towering trees and vast open veldts and lakes. There were huge animals there, higher than houses, and hunting cats with fangs like long knives. It was a world of sudden storms and sudden deaths.

'Are you thinking of going there?' Chareos had asked. Beltzer looked away, his face reddening.

I would have liked to, but Okas said the Tattooed People kill any interlopers. Their history is full of massacres and the murder of their people by our races — they are terrified it will happen again.'

The sky darkened and thunder jolted Chareos' mind back to the present. Finn called a halt and turned to face Chareos. 'It will be dusk soon and there's going to be a heavy snowfall,' he said. 'I suggest we look for somewhere to camp and sit it out. We will build two shelters and gather wood for fires.' The group walked on into a thick stand of pine; Finn and Maggrig scouted the area, locating two good sites. Kiall watched as the hunters tied twine to the tops of four sapling trees. These were then pulled together and fastened. Finn sent Beltzer and Chareos out to cut branches from the surrounding pine, and these were threaded through the tied saplings to form a spherical shelter some ten feet across. The bowmen left Kiall, Chareos and Beltzer to complete the walls, then walked some thirty feet away to build their own shelter.

Snow began to fall — gently at first, then thick and fast. The wind strengthened, gusting the snow into the faces of the workers, ice forming on brows and beards. Chareos continued to pack the walls of the shelter while Beltzer and Kiall gathered dead wood for a fire. The temperature plummeted as the sun dipped below the peaks.

Chareos had left a rough doorway on the south side of the structure and Kiall and Beltzer crawled inside. A tiny fire surrounded by stones was burning at the centre of the circle, but there was not heat enough to warm a man's hands, let alone keep death from his body, thought Kiall miserably. The snow fell harder, covering the shelters blocking the gaps in the walls and cutting out the icy draughts. The temperature began to rise.

'Take off your cloaks and jerkins,' ordered Chareos.

'I'm cold enough already,' Kiall argued.

'As you please,' said Chareos, removing his fur-lined cloak and heavy woollen overshirt. Adding fuel to the fire he lay down, his head resting on his pack. Beltzer did likewise, having discarded his bearskin jerkin. Kiall sat shivering for some minutes. Neither of the others spoke for a while, then Kiall undipped the brooch which held his Nadren cloak in place. Immediately he struggled out of the goatskin jerkin, the warmth from the fire enveloped him.

'I don't understand,' he said. Chareos raised himself on one elbow and smiled.

'Wool and fur are made not just to keep cold out, but to keep warmth in. Therefore it will work in reverse. If your body is cold and there is heat outside, the furs will stop it getting through to you.'

'Why did you not just tell me?'

'I find some men learn best by suffering,' said Chareos.

Kiall ignored the rebuke. 'Why did Finn and Maggrig choose to have their own shelter?' he asked. 'Surely there is enough room in here with us?'

'They prefer their own company,' answered Beltzer. 'They always did. But I am sorry they will not be coming with us beyond the Gate. I never knew a better shot than Maggrig, nor a cooler fighting man than Finn.'

'Why won't they come with us?' Kiall asked.

'They have more sense,' Chareos told him.

Ravenna's dreams were strange and fragmented. She was a child in the arms of her mother — safe, warm and comforted. She was a doe running through the forest, pursued by wolves with long yellow fangs, sharp as swords. She was a bird, trapped in a gilded cage and unable to spread her wings.

She awoke. All around her the other women lay sleeping. The air was close and there were no windows. Ravenna closed her eyes. Tomorrow she would stand naked on the auction block. Her heart began to beat wildly; she calmed her breathing and tried to relax.

The dreams flowed once more. Now she saw a knight in shining armour riding through the gates, the Nadren scattering before him. Leaning from his saddle, he plucked her from the auction platform and rode out across the steppes. Safe in the trees he helped her down and dismounted beside her. He lifted his visor. . the face inside was rotted and long dead, the flesh hanging in leather strips from the grinning skull.

She screamed. .

And woke. The other women were still sleeping — the scream then had been part of the nightmare. Ravenna was glad of that. Wrapping the thin blanket round her shoulders, she sat up. Her dress of yellow-dyed wool was filthy, and she could smell stale sweat upon it.

'I will survive this,' she told herself. 'I will not give in to despair.'

The thought strengthened her for a moment only, but the weight of her captivity bore down on her, crushing her resolve.

She wept silently. The woman from the wagon rose from her blankets and walked over to her, putting a slender arm about her shoulders.

'Tomorrow,' she said, 'when you stand on the platform, do not try to entice a buyer. The Nadir put no stock in women. They view them like cattle. They fear proud women. You understand me? Keep your head down, and obey the commands of the auctioneer. Do not think of nakedness. Be meek and submissive.'

'If they fear proud women, perhaps no one would buy me.'

'Do not be a fool!' snapped the older woman. 'If you look defiant, the auctioneer will have you whipped into submission — or you'll be bought by a man who enjoys inflicting pain on women. What you need is a master who will treat you casually. There is no such animal as a gentle Nadir, but better to be bedded swiftly by an indifferent savage than to be beaten like a dog.'

'How is it you know so much?' asked Ravenna.

'I have been sold before,' said the woman. 'I spent three years as a whore in New Gulgothir. Before that I was sold to a Nadir chieftain.'

'But you escaped?'

'Yes. And I will escape again.'

'How is it you are so strong?'

'I was once wed to a weak man. Sleep now. And if you cannot sleep, rest. You will not want dark rings under those pretty eyes.'

'What is your name?'

'What does it matter?' the woman answered.

Salida strode into the main hall, his armour dust-stained and dull, his eyes bloodshot and weary. Yet still he kept his back straight, his chin high. There were more than forty noblemen present. He bowed before the Earl and their eyes met.

'Do you bring me Chareos?' asked the Earl softly.

'No, my lord. But I bring you Logar's sabre.' He held the scabbarded blade high and placed it on the dais before the Earl. 'Also I bring you the owner of the Grey Owl tavern, who witnessed the fight; he is outside. He says that Logar and two others attacked the monk, and that Chareos defended himself nobly. The man Kypha was lying.'

'You took this investigation on yourself?' said the Earl, rising from his ebony chair, his eyes cold.

'I know, my lord, how highly you value justice. I must also tell you that Chareos and the villager, Kiall, fought alongside myself and the men from Talgithir against a

large band of Nadren. Chareos slew at least six of them in a pitched battle. Without him, and Beltzer, Maggrig and Finn, we might well have lost the encounter. I judged — perhaps wrongly — that you would not appreciate the waste of time involved in bringing Chareos back.'

The Earl stood in silence for several seconds, then he smiled. 'I like my officers to show initiative, Salida, and this you have done. You also destroyed a band of raiders and showed, I understand, great personal courage. You are to be commended — both for your action in battle and your discretion. Go now. Rest. You have earned it.'

Salida bowed and backed two paces before turning and striding from the hall. Aware that all eyes were on him, the Earl turned back to his guests. For an hour he moved among them, his mood light, his humour good. Just before dusk he left the hall and walked swiftly through the stone corridors of the Keep until he reached the stairway to his private rooms.

He entered the study and pushed shut the door. A tall man was standing at the window. Lean and hawk-faced, with pale eyes separated by a curved beak of a nose, a scar ran from his brow to his chin in an angry white line. He wore a black leather cloak that shimmered in the lantern light, and three knives hung from a baldric on his chest.

'Well, Harokas?' said the Earl.

'The man, Kypha, is dead. Somehow he contrived to drown in his bath,' answered Harokas. 'I hear the other business is finished.'

The Earl shook his head. 'Nothing is finished. The man insulted me, through my son, then disgraced me publicly. Find him — and kill him.'

'I am skilful with a blade, my lord — but not that skilful.'

'I did not say fight him, Harokas. I said kill him.'

'It is not for me to criticise…"

'No, it is not!' stormed the Earl.

Harokas' green eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

'I want him to know why he is dying,' the Earl continued.

'What should I tell him, my lord?' asked Harokas. 'That a hero of Bel-azar is doomed because he disciplined an arrogant boy?'

'Beware, Harokas,' the Earl hissed. 'My patience is not limitless — even with those who have served me well and faithfully.'

'It will be as you order,' said Harokas. He bowed and left the study.

Kiall's dreams were troubled. Again and again he saw the Nadren sweep down on the village, heard their wild battle cries and saw the sunlight gleaming on their swords and helms. He had been high in the woods, supposedly gathering herbs for the apothecary — but in reality he had been wandering, dreaming, imagining himself as a knight, or a bard singer, or a nobleman on a quest. In his fantasy he was a man of iron courage and lethal skills. But when the Nadren war cries sounded he had stood frozen to the spot, watching the carnage, the looting, raping and burning. He had seen Ravenna and the others hauled across the saddles of the conquering raiders and taken away to the south. And he had done nothing.

He knew then, as he knew now, why Ravenna had rejected him, and suffered again the pain of their meeting in the high meadow by the silver stream.

'You are a dreamer, Kiall,' she had said, 'and I like you. Truly I do. But I need more than dreams. I want a man who will build, who will grow. I need a strong man.'

'I can do all these things,' he had assured her.

'Only in your head. Now you must leave me. If Jarel sees you talking to me, he will be jealous. And it would not be wise for you to make Jarel angry.'

'I am not afraid of Jarel. But I love you, Ravenna. I cannot believe that means nothing to you.'

'Poor Kiall,' she whispered, stroking his cheek. 'Still the dreamer. Love? What is love?' She had laughed at him then and walked away.

Kiall awoke. His body was warm under the blanket, but his face was cold. Raising himself on one elbow, he saw that the fire was dying. He added wood and sat up. Beltzer was snoring and Chareos remained in a deep sleep. The flames licked the fuel and rose. Kiall wanned his hands and wrapped his blanket around his shoulders.

He sniffed. The air inside the shelter was close and full of smoke, but still he could smell the rank odour emanating from Beltzer. This was no dream. Here he sat with the heroes of Bel-azar, on a quest to rescue a beautiful maiden from the clutches of evil. Yet in no way did the reality match the fantasies. A bad-tempered Swordmaster, a vile-smelling warrior, and two hunters who spoke barely a civil word to anyone but each other.

Beltzer snorted and turned over, his mouth open. Kiall saw that he had lost several teeth and that others were discoloured and bad. How could this fat old man ever have been the golden-haired hero of legend?

I should have stayed in the village, he told himself, and learned the apothecary's skills. At least then I would have been able to afford to take a wife, and build a home. But no, the dreamer had to have his way.

He heard the crunching of boots on the snow outside, and fear rose in him as he pictured the Nadren creeping up on them as they slept. He scrambled to his feet and dressed swiftly. Then he heard Maggrig's voice. Pulling on his boots, he dropped to his knees and eased himself out into the snow-covered clearing. The sky was a rich velvet blue, and the sun was just rising above the mountains to the east. Maggrig and Finn were skinning four white rabbits, the nearby snow spattered with blood.

'Good morning,' said Kiall. The younger man smiled and waved, but Finn ignored the villager. Kiall moved alongside them. 'You're out early,' he remarked.

'Early for some,' grunted Finn. 'Make yourself useful.' He tossed a rabbit to Kiall, who skinned it clumsily. Finn gathered up the entrails and threw them out into the bushes, then he scraped the fat from the furs and pushed them deep into his pack.

Kiall wiped his blood-covered hands on the snow and sat back on a rock. Finn's bow was resting against it and Kiall reached for it.

'Don't touch it!' snapped Finn.

Kiall's anger rose. 'You think I would steal it?'

'I don't much care — but don't touch it.'

Maggrig moved alongside Kiall. 'Don't take it to heart,' he said softly. 'No bowyer likes another man to touch his bow. It is… a superstition, I suppose. You see, each bow is made for one archer. It is designed for him alone. Finn makes his own bows. Even I am not allowed to use them.'

'No need to make excuses for me,' said Finn sourly.

Maggrig ignored him. 'When we get to the cabin,' he told Kiall, 'you will see many bows. Finn will probably give you one — a weapon to suit your length of arm and your pulling strength.'

'It would be no use,' said Kiall. 'I have no eye for archery.'

'Neither had I when I first met Finn. But it is amazing what a man can learn when he is paired with a master. Finn won every prize worth the taking. He even took the Lord Regent's talisman against the best archers of six lands: Drenai, Vagrians, Nadir, Ventrians, and even bowmen from Mashrapur. None could compete with Finn.'

'Not then or now,' muttered Finn, but his expression softened and he smiled. 'Don't mind me, boy,' he told Kiall. 'I don't like people much. But I don't wish you harm — and I hope you find your lady.'

'I am sorry you will not be travelling with us,' said Kiall.

Tm not. I have no wish to have my head shrunk on a pole, or my skin flayed outside a Nadir tent. My battle days are long gone. Quests and the like are for young men like you.'

'But Beltzer is coming,' Kiall reminded him.

Finn grunted. 'He never grew up, that one. But he's a good man in a scrap, right enough.'

'Chareos too,' said Maggrig softly.

'Yes,' agreed Finn. 'A strange man, Chareos. But you watch him, boy, and learn. His kind don't come around so often, if you catch my meaning.'

'I'm not sure that I do.'

'He's a man with iron principles. He knows the world is shades of grey, but he lives like it's black and white. There's a nobility in him — a gallantry, if you like. You'll see what I mean, come the finish. Now that's enough of talking. Wake your companions. If they want to break their fast, they'd better be up. I'll not wait for them.'

The snow held off for several days, but even so the travellers made slow progress across the peaks. On the fifth day Maggrig, leading the group, came too close to the lair of a snow leopard and her cubs. The leopard seemed to explode from the undergrowth, spitting and snarling. Maggrig was hurled from his feet, a jagged tear across one arm of his tunic. Beltzer and the others ran forward, shouting at the tops of their voices — but the animal crouched before them, ears flat to her skull and fangs bared. Finn dragged Maggrig clear and the travellers gave the beast a wide berth. Maggrig's arm was slashed, but not deeply, and the wound was stitched and bound by Finn.

On the following morning they reached the valley where the hunters' cabin was hidden. A blizzard blew up around them and they forced their way, heads bowed against the wind, to the frozen doorway. Snow had banked against it, blocking the door and filling the window-frame alongside. Beltzer cleared it, shovelling it aside with his huge hands. Inside was icy, but Finn got a fire going; it was more than an hour before the heat wanned the cabin.

That was good luck,' said Beltzer, finally stripping his bearskin jerkin and squatting on the rug beside the fire. 'That blizzard could have hit us days ago, and we'd have been trapped out in the mountains for weeks.'

'It may be lucky for you, dung-brain,' said Finn, 'but I do not relish my home being rilled with sweating bodies for days on end.'

Beltzer grinned at the black-bearded hunter. 'You're the least welcoming man I've ever known. Where do you keep the drink?'

'In the well outside. Where else?'

'I mean the ale, or the wine, or even the malt spirit?'

'We have none here.'

'None?' asked Beltzer, eyes widening. 'None at all?'

'Not a drop,' answered Maggrig, smiling. 'Now how lucky do you feel?' His face was white and sweat dripped into his eyes. He tried to stand, but sank back in his chair.

'What's the matter with you?' said Finn, rising and moving to the younger man.

Maggrig shrugged. 'I don't. . feel. .' He sagged sideways from the chair. Finn caught him and carried him to the bed, where Chareos joined him.

'He has a fever,' said Chareos, laying his hand on the hunter's brow. Maggrig's eyes opened.

'Room's going round. . thirsty…" Finn brought him a goblet of water and lifted his head while he drank.

Kiall cleared his throat. 'If you boil some water, I'll make a potion for him.'

Finn swung on him. 'What are you… a magician?'

'I was an apothecary's assistant, and I bought some herbs and powders back in Tavern Town.'

'Well, come and look at him, boy. Don't just stand there!' stormed Finn. Kiall moved to the bedside. First he examined the wound on Maggrig's temple; it had closed and healed well, but his master had always told him that blows to the head often shocked the system. Perhaps the second injury, caused by the leopard's attack, had caught the hunter in a weakened state. Trying to remember what Ulthen had told him of such wounds, he removed the bandage from Maggrig's arm; the cut was jagged and angry, but there was no pus or obvious sign of infection.

Kiall filled a small copper pot with water and hung it over the fire. Within a few minutes the contents were boiling. Then he opened his pack and took out a thick package, wrapped in oiled paper. Inside were a dozen smaller packages, each decorated with a hand-drawn leaf or flower. Kiall selected two of the packets and opened them. Bruising the leaves, he dropped them into the water and stirred the brew with a spoon. Then lifting the pot from the fire, he laid it in the hearth to cool.

'Smells fine,' said Beltzer.

'How would you know?' hissed Finn. 'What have you made there, boy?'

'It's a potion from willow leaves and comfrey. Both are good for fighting fevers, but the comfrey helps to clean the blood and give strength to a sick man.'

'What else is it good for?' asked Beltzer.

'It helps to heal bones and reduce swellings, and stops diarrhoea. It has also — so my master told me — been used to prevent gangrene in wounds. Oh yes… it is good for rheumatic pain too.'

'Then while you have the ingredients there, my boy,' said Beltzer, 'better make another pot. I have the rheumatism in my knee. Hurts like Hades.'

When the mixture had cooled, Kiall carried it to Mag-grig's bedside and Finn held the hunter's head while he drank. At first he choked, but he swallowed half of the contents and sank back. Kiall covered him with a blanket and Finn sat at the bedhead, mopping the sweat from Maggrig's brow. Beltzer strolled over and finished the brew, belching loudly.

For an hour or more there was no change in Maggrig's condition, but at last he drifted off into sleep. 'His colour is a little better,' said Finn, looking to Kiall for confirmation. The youngster nodded, though he could see little change. 'Will he be all right now?' Finn asked.

'We'll see tomorrow,' answered Kiall cagily. He stood and stretched his back. Looking around, he saw that Beltzer had fallen asleep by the fire and Chareos was nowhere in sight. The back-room door was open and Kiall wandered through. It was colder here, but not uncomfortable. Chareos was sitting at the work-bench examining sections of wood shaped for a long-bow.

'May I join you?' asked the villager.

Chareos looked up and nodded. 'How is Maggrig?'

'I don't really know,' whispered Kiall. 'I have only been working with Ulthen for a few months. But the potion will reduce the fever. I'm not sure, though, about the arm wound. Perhaps the cat had something trapped beneath its claws — dung, rotting meat. .'

'Well, he has two choices — live or die,' said Chareos. 'Keep an eye on him. Do what you can.'

There's nothing much I can do at the moment. That's a thin bow, isn't it?' he went on, looking at the slender length of wood in Chareos' hand.

'It is just a section: one of three. Finn will bond them together for more flexibility. You know what wood this is?'

'No.'

'It is yew. A curious wood. When you slice it there are two shades — light and dark. The light is flexible, the dark compactable.' He lifted the piece and showed it to Kiall. 'You see? The light wood is used for the outer curve, where maximum flexibility is needed; the dark for the inner, where it compacts. It is beautiful wood. It will be a splendid weapon.'

'I didn't know you were an archer?'

'Nor am I, Kiall, but I was a soldier and it pays a soldier to understand the workings of all weapons of death. I'm getting cold in here — and hungry.' Chareos replaced the wood and strolled out into the main room where Finn was

asleep beside Maggrig, while Beltzer lay unmoving on the floor. Chareos stepped over the giant and added wood to the fire, then he took dried meat and fruit from his pack and shared it with Kiall.

Thank you for agreeing to help me,' said Kiall softly. 'It means much to me. Finn told me you were gallant.'

Chareos smiled and leaned back in his chair. 'I am not gallant, Kiall. I am selfish, like most men. I do what I want, go where I want. I am answerable to no one. And do not thank me until we have freed her.'

'Why did you come with me?'

'Why must there always be answers?' countered Chareos. 'Perhaps I was bored. Perhaps it was because my mother's name was Ravenna. Perhaps it is because I am secretly a noble prince who lives to quest for the impossible.' He closed his eyes and was silent for a moment. 'And perhaps I do not know myself,' he whispered.

By mid-morning Maggrig's fever had broken and he was awake and hungry. Finn showed no relief, gathered his bow and quiver and, with Chareos and Beltzer, set off into the snow to scout the trail to the Valley of the Gateway. Kiall remained with the younger hunter; he prepared a breakfast of oats and honey and built up the fire. Then he dragged a chair to Maggrig's bedside and the two men sat and talked for much of the morning.

Maggrig would not speak of the battle at Bel-azar, but told Kiall how he had been a student at a monastery. He had run away on his sixteenth birthday and joined a company of bowmen from Talgithir. He had spent two months with them before being sent to the fortress; there he had met Finn and the others.

'He is not the friendliest man I have known,' said Kiall.

Maggrig smiled. 'You learn to look beneath the harsh words and judge the deeds. Had I not met him, I would not have survived Bel-azar. He's canny and a born fighter. There's more give in a rock than Finn. But he's never liked company much. Having you all here must be driving him insane.'

Kiall glanced around the cabin. 'How do you stand it? Living here, I mean? You are days from civilisation and the mountains are savage and unwelcoming.'

'Finn finds cities savage and unwelcoming,' said Mag-grig. 'This is a good life. Deer are plentiful, and mountain sheep. There are pigeons and rabbits, and many roots and tubers to spice a broth. And you should see the mountains in spring, ablaze with colour under a sky so blue it would bring tears to your eyes. What more could a man need?'

Kiall looked at the blond hunter — at the clear blue eyes and the handsome, almost perfect features. He said nothing. Maggrig met his gaze and nodded, and an understanding passed between them.

'Tell me of Ravenna,' invited Maggrig. 'Is she beautiful?'

'Yes. Her hair is dark and long, her eyes brown. She is long-legged and her hips sway when she walks. Her laughter is like sunlight after a storm. I will find her, Maggrig. . one day.'

'I hope that you do,' said the hunter, reaching out and patting Kiall's arm, 'and I also hope that you will not be disappointed. She may be less than you remember. Or more.'

'I know. She may be wed to a Nadir warrior and have babes at her heels. It does not concern me.'

'You will raise them like your own?' enquired Maggrig. His expression was hard to read and Kiall reddened.

'I had not thought of it. But. . yes, if that is what she wished.'

'And if she wishes you to leave her be?'

'What does that mean?'

'I am sorry, my friend — it is not my place to criticise. But, as I understand it, the lady turned you down once. Perhaps she will do so again. When a woman has children she changes; they become her life. And if their father loves them — and the Nadir are fond of their children — then she may wish to remain with him. Have you considered that possibility?'

'No,' answered Kiall honestly, 'but how much must I consider? She could be dead, or sold as a whore. She could be diseased. She could be wed. But whatever the situation, short of death, she will know that someone cared enough to come after her. That is important, I think.'

Maggrig nodded. 'You are correct in that, my friend. You have a wise head on those young shoulders. But answer me this, if you can: does the lady have any virtues other than beauty?'

'Virtues?'

'Is she kind, loving, understanding, compassionate?'

'I… I don't know,' admitted Kiall. 'I never thought of it.'

'A man should not risk his life for beauty alone, Kiall, for that fades. You might as well risk it for a rose. Think on it.'

Finn walked around the deserted camp-site. The snow was packed tight by heavy boots, and there were three abandoned shelters.

'How many men?' asked Chareos.

'I'd say around seven, maybe eight.'

'How long ago?' questioned Beltzer.

'Last night. They moved off to the east. If they come across our tracks, they will be led straight back to the cabin.'

'Can you be sure they are Nadren?' Chareos asked.

'There is no one else up here,' said Finn. 'We should be heading back. Maggrig is in no condition to fight, and your villager is no match for them.'

Kiall stood in the doorway, feeling the warm sun on his face. The long icicles hanging from the roof were dripping steadily. He turned back inside.

'How bizarre,' he said to Maggrig, who was slicing venison into a large iron pot. 'The sun is as warm as summer and the ice is melting.'

'It is only autumn,' Maggrig told him. 'The blizzard was a foretaste of winter. We often get them. The temperature plummets for several days, and then it is like spring. The snow will clear within a day or two.'

Kiall pulled on his boots and took up the sabre Chareos had given him.

'Where are you going?' asked Maggrig.

Kiall grinned. 'Before they get back, I'd like to practise a little with this blade. I am not much of a swordsman, you know.'

'Nor I. I could never master it.' Maggrig turned back to the broth, adding vegetables and a little salt. Having hung the pot over the fire, he sank back into a chair. He felt weak and dizzy and his head was spinning.

Kiall stepped out into the sunshine and slashed the air with the sabre, left to right. It was a fine blade, keen-edged, with a leather-covered hilt and an iron fist-guard. Many was the time during his youth when he had walked alone in the woods holding a long stick, pretending to be a warrior knight — his enemies falling back from the demon blade he carried, dismayed by his awesome skills. He hefted the sabre, cutting and lunging at imaginary opponents: three, four, five men died beneath the glittering steel. Sweat dripped from his back, and his arm was growing tired. Two more opponents died. He spun on his heel to block a thrust from behind… his blade clanged against an arrow-head, shattering the shaft. Kiall blinked and gazed down at the ruined missile on the snow.

Then he looked up and saw the Nadren at the edge of the undergrowth. One man held a bow, his mouth open in surprise. There were seven men in all — four of them with bandaged wounds to head or arms. All were standing silently, gazing at the swordsman. Kiall stood frozen in terror, his mind racing.

That was a pretty trick,' said one of the newcomers — a short, stocky man, with a black and silver beard. 'I have never seen an arrow cut in flight, nor believed any man could move so swiftly.'

Kiall glanced once more at the arrow and took a deep breath. 'I was wondering when you would show yourselves,' he said, surprised that his voice was smooth and even.

'I did not tell him to shoot,' said the Nadren leader.

'It does not concern me,' replied Kiall loftily. 'What do you want here?'

'Food. That's all.' He saw the man's eyes flicker to his right and glanced back. Maggrig now stood in the door of the cabin with his bow in his hands, an arrow notched to the string. An uneasy silence developed. The Nadren were tense, hands on their weapons.

One warrior eased himself alongside the leader and whispered something Kiall could not hear. The leader nodded; he looked at Kiall.

'You were one of the swordsmen back in the town. You were with the tall one — the ice warrior.'

'Yes,' admitted Kiall. 'It was quite a battle, was it not?"

'He cut us to pieces. I have never seen the like.'

'He is quite skilled,' said Kiall, 'but a hard taskmaster for a student like myself.'

'He is your Swordmaster?'

'Yes. It would be hard to find a better.'

'I can see now why you find it so easy to cut an arrow from the air.' The Nadren spread his hands. 'However, since we must fight or starve, I think it is time we put your skills to the test.' He drew his short sword from the leather scabbard at his hip.

'Is this wise?' asked Kiall. 'There are four of you wounded. It does not seem much of a contest — and warriors should fight over something more valuable than a pot of broth.'

The man said nothing for a moment, then he smiled at Kiall. 'You would allow us inside?' he asked softly.

'Of course,' Kiall told him. 'But naturally, as a token of good manners you would leave your weapons here.'

'Ha! And what then would stop you from butchering us?'

'What stops me now?" countered Kiall.

'You are a cocky young snipe,' snapped the leader. 'But then I've seen you in action, and I guess you've reason to be.' He slammed his sword back in its scabbard, loosened the buckle on his belt and dropped the weapon to the ground. The other Nadren followed his lead. 'Now where is the broth?' Kiall sheathed his blade and gestured towards the cabin. Maggrig stepped back inside. Kiall took a deep, slow breath, calming himself, then followed them.

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

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

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

'Well, I'm no chicken!'

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

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

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

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

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

'I am Kiall.'

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

Til remember that,' Kiall said.

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

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

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

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

Kiall chuckled. 'So am I.'

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

'That is not necessary,' Kiall told him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Then why do people live there?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What will you do?'

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

'You don't need to ask, Finn.'

'Good,' said Finn, rising. 'That's a burden off my heart. Maybe we'll even find the girl. Who knows?'

Tsudai watched the auction with little interest. He had no taste for these pale-skinned Gothir women with their cold blue eyes and their huge cow-like breasts. He swung away from the window and looked at the dark-haired woman seated on the satin-covered divan. Now here was a real Nadir beauty.

The first time he had seen her was when Tenaka Khan brought her to Ulrickham. She had been fourteen years old, her skin golden, her eyes proud. Tsudai had always believed proud women were the devil's curse and he had longed to take a whip to her, to see her kneeling at his feet. Even now the memory brought a surge of arousal.

He moved to sit beside her. As she smiled thinly and edged back from him, his face reddened, but he forced himself to remain calm.

'Your brother, Jungir, sends greetings. He hopes that you are in good health,' said Tsudai. 'I will tell him that you are, for I have never seen you look more beautiful, Tanaki.'

'Why should I not be in good health?' she asked him. 'Did Jungir not send me to this desolate land in order that I might enjoy the freshness of the air?'

'It was for your own safety, Princess. There were rumours of plots and fears for your life.'

She laughed then, the musical sound doing little to ease Tsudai's physical discomfort. Her eyes met his, and for the first time it seemed to him that she smiled with genuine warmth.

'Why do we play such foolish games, Tsudai? There is no one else here, and we both know why my brother sent me here. He killed his own brothers and, possibly, his own father. Why should he baulk at slaying his sister? I'll tell you why. Because I am the only hope the Nadir have for providing a male heir. For all his skill with horses and weapons, Jungir is sterile.'

Tsudai blanched. 'You must not say that! If I was to repeat that to the Khan. .'

'Not even you would dare to voice that, even at second hand. Now why are you really here, Tsudai?'

He swallowed his anger, feeling uncomfortable sitting here dressed in the full armour of his rank. He reached for the buckle of his black and silver breastplate.

'Do not undress,' she chided him. That would not be seemly.'

'Seemly? What would you know of seemly? You take a succession of barbarian lovers, discarding them daily. That is no way for a person of your blood-line to behave.'

Tanaki stood and stretched her arms over her head. Her figure was slim and lithe and the short, silken tunic rode up to show smooth golden thighs.

'You do this to fire my blood,' snapped Tsudai, rising to his feet aware of arousal coursing through him.

'A volcano could not fire you,' she said. 'Now, for the last time, tell me why you are here.'

He looked hard into her violet eyes and suppressed the desire to strike her, to hammer her to her knees before him.

'Your brother merely wishes to know of your well-being,' Tsudai said. 'Is that so hard to understand?'

She laughed, the sound rippling across his emotions like bee-stings. 'My well-being? How sweet of him! I saw your aide looking over the new slaves. The great warrior, Tsudai, now reduced to finding concubines. Have you seen any that please you, Tsudai?'

'I do not find any of them attractive, though there are one or two that may suit. But you wrong me, Tanaki. I came here in order that I might speak with you. You know how perilous is your position. You know that at any time your death could become expedient. Four years ago you had the opportunity to become my wife. Now I offer that gift to you once more. Agree and you will be safe.'

She moved closer, her perfume washing over him. Lifting her hands, she rested them on his shoulders and looked deeply into his dark, slanted eyes.

'Safe? With you? I remember when you sought my hand. I considered it with due seriousness. I sent spies into your palace, Tsudai. Not one of your women lacks scars from the whip. I know what you want,' she whispered huskily, 'and you will never have it!' Then she laughed again and stepped back. His hand lashed out. She swayed out of his reach, then stepped inside. Tsudai froze as the dagger-point touched his neck. 'I could kill you now,' she told him.

It was his turn to laugh as he pushed her hand away. 'You still want to live, though, do you not? And an attack on me would bring you down. I offered you my hand, Tanaki. But now I will wait. And when the day comes for you to suffer, it will be Tsudai who rides to you. It will be Tsudai to whom you will beg. And I tell you now that no pleas will be heard. When next we meet, you will not be so haughty.'

The warrior spun on his heel and stalked from the room. Tanaki returned the small dagger to its sheath and poured herself a goblet of wine.

It had been foolish to anger Tsudai. As Jungir Khan's most trusted adviser, his was a friendship it would have been wise to court. But there was something about the man, a coldness within the soul, a meanness of spirit that she could not tolerate. Her father, Tenaka, had distrusted him. 'I have nothing against a man who disciplines his household,' Tenaka told his daughter, 'but any man who needs a whip to deal with a woman has no place in my service.'

Tanaki swallowed hard as she pictured her father, his violet eyes full of warmth, his smile like the dawn light — welcoming, reassuring. Her stomach knotted and tears welled in her eyes. How could he be dead? How could the greatest man in the world be dead?

Blinking away her tears, she wandered to the window and watched the auction, wondering which of the women Tsudai would purchase. Rarely did she feel sorry for any of the slaves. But today. .

She saw a dark-haired young woman pulled to the block, her yellow dress stripped from her. She had a good figure and her breasts were not over-large. Tanaki's eyes flickered to Tsudai's bidder and she saw his hand rise.

There were several other bidders, but the woman was sold to the Nadir general.

Tread warily, girl,' whispered Tanaki. 'Your life depends on it.'