Quest for Lost Heroes Read online

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

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

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

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

  “What is the most important to you, duty or freedom?” the khan had asked.

  “An interesting question, sir,” Chareos had replied. “Why not come up here and debate the point.”

  “Throw down a rope,” the khan had answered.

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

  “Am I disturbing you?” asked the old man.

  “Not at all, Parnio. Please join me.”

  The white-robed senior sat by the table and gazed up at the sky. “The heavens are incredible,” he whispered. “Everchanging yet constant in their beauty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “There would be—if I believed. But I do not.”

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

  “As you wish, Father.”

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

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

  “You admired the man?”

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

  “Did he not tell you?”

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

  “Did you understand him?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “I will pray on it, my son.”

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

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

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

  “No lectures, Mael. Have pity! My head …”

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

  “It was this year, I know that.”

  “When you’ve finished your breakfast, you will go to the woodshed. There you will work until you have settled your bill. Ax and saw will clear your head.”

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

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

  “He … owes me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Worse than death,” he replied, draining the tankard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I’ll send a jug out to you—and a hot meal. I’ll have some blankets brought out, too.”

  “You needn’t do this for me, Naza.”

  “I owe you, my friend.”

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

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

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

  “Might I ask why?” Patris, the earl’s eldest son, inquired. “Are we not supposed to learn the use of the sword?”

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

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

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

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

  “Who wishes to be first?” asked Chareos. No one spoke. “Then it will be you, young Lorin,” the monk said, pointing to the redheaded son of Salida, the earl’s captain of lance.

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

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

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

  “I know now how to descend it, Master Chareos,” said the boy.

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

  “I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Because you are the best,” answered Chareos.

  “I do not understand.”

  “Teach him.”

  “And who teaches me?”

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

  “So from now on he is my problem?”

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

  “We will see,” said Patris.

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

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

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

  “And who is this?” Chareos inquired.

  “My cousin, Aleyn,” answered Patris.

  “Where is Akarin?”