Quest for Lost Heroes Read online

  “No,” admitted Kiall.

  “It’s a big land. Huge. Endless prairies, hidden valleys, deserts. The stars seem close, and a man could walk for a year without seeing a single tent village. The Nadir are a nomadic people. They could buy a slave in … Talgithir, say … and three months later be in Drenan. They go where they will unless they are summoned to war by the khan. It will be task enough merely to find Ravenna. Believe me!”

  “I keep thinking of her,” said Kiall, turning to stare at the fire. “How frightened she must be. It makes me feel guilty to be sitting in comfort by a fire.”

  “Nothing worthwhile was ever done in haste, Kiall. She is a beautiful woman, you say. Therefore, they will not harm her. Is she virgin still?”

  “Of course!” hissed Kiall, face reddening.

  “Good. Then they will not rape her, either. They will set a high price, and that might mean they keep her for a month or two. Relax, boy.”

  “With respect, Chareos, would you mind not calling me ‘boy’? I last heard that more than five years ago. I am nineteen.”

  “And I am forty-four—that makes you a boy to me. But I am sorry if it offends you … Kiall.”

  The villager smiled. “It does not offend me. I think I am too sensitive. It is just that in your company I feel … young and useless. I am an apothecary’s assistant; I know herbs and medicines but nothing of swordplay. I wouldn’t know where to begin to look for Ravenna. Calling me ‘boy’ just highlights my … lack of worth in this quest.”

  Chareos leaned forward and added a chunk of wood to the blaze. Then he looked up into the earnest gray eyes of the young man. “Do not speak of lack of worth,” he said. “You proved your worth when you spoke out before the earl … and more. Not one man in a hundred would set out on a quest such as this. You will learn, Kiall. Every day. And this is your first lesson: A warrior has only one true friend. Only one man he can rely on. Himself. So he feeds his body well; he trains it; works on it. Where he lacks skill, he practices. Where he lacks knowledge, he studies. But above all he must believe. He must believe in his strength of will, of purpose, of heart and soul. Do not speak badly of yourself, for the warrior that is inside you hears your words and is lessened by them. You are strong, and you are brave. There is a nobility of spirit within you. Let it grow—you will do well enough. Now, where is that damned food?”

  Outside two hunters were loping into the settlement. The taller man glanced back and cursed.

  From the woods came forty riders, swords in their hands.

  Finn ran up the tavern steps, hurled open the door, and all but recoiled from the mass of humanity wedged inside. “Raiders!” he bellowed, then turned and sprinted across to the barn, where Maggrig was scaling a rope to the hayloft. The rolling thunder of hooves grew louder. Finn did not look back but leapt for the rope and hauled himself up to kneel alongside his slender companion. Maggrig notched an arrow to his bow. “We should have stayed in the woods,” he said. “I don’t believe it will be safer here.”

  Finn said nothing. The riders galloped in to the settlement, screaming war cries and slashing the air with their curved blades. Some among them were Nadir warriors in lacquered breastplates; others were renegade Gothir outlaws bearing axes and knives. All carried small round bucklers strapped to their left forearms. As they leapt from the horses and ran for the buildings, Finn sent an arrow that skewered a man’s neck. Maggrig loosed a shaft, but it struck a horned helm and glanced away to tear at the flesh of another warrior’s arm. Seven of the raiders charged toward the barn, and Finn cursed. A second shaft sang from his bow but thudded against a raised buckler. Maggrig’s next arrow hammered into a man’s groin, and the man stumbled and fell. The six remaining raiders ran into the barn below.

  Finn stood and scanned the hayloft, seeing a ladder by a trapdoor some ten paces back. He moved to it and began to haul it up, but before he could lift it out of reach, a tall raider leapt and dragged it back. Pulled forward, Finn almost toppled into the trap.

  “I remember you, you puking bastard,” yelled the Nadren warrior at the foot of the ladder, staring up at Finn. “You are dead meat. I’ll rip your guts out through your bowels.”

  Holding his buckler ahead of him, he began to climb. Finn swore and ran back to Maggrig.

  “Good place you chose,” whispered Finn. Maggrig drew back on his bowstring and sent an arrow slicing into the back of a man running toward the tavern.

  “You think we should leave?” he asked.

  “No, I think we should stay and plant flowers,” muttered Finn. Behind them the Nadren warrior had reached the hayloft. Finn sent a shaft at him, but the man blocked it with his buckler and began to haul himself through the opening. Dropping his bow, Finn launched himself at the warrior feetfirst, his right foot cracking home against the man’s chin. Half-stunned, he slumped back, but he still had a grip on his sword, which he swung wildly. Finn rolled away from the cut. Maggrig ran back to aid him, but Finn waved him away. Rolling to his feet, the black-bearded hunter scooped up his bow and quiver and looped them over his shoulder. “Let’s go!” he shouted at Maggrig. “Now!” Dropping to his belly, he grabbed the rope and slithered over the hayloft opening. Halfway down he released his hold and dropped to the ground. Maggrig joined him.

  Deep in the barn, behind the winter wood store, Beltzer awoke. His head was pounding, and he sat up and groaned. He blinked and saw the Nadren warriors around the ladder. Worse, one of them swung around and saw him. Staggering upright as the man raised his sword and charged, Beltzer curled his right hand around the haft of a hatchet whose head was half-buried in a round of wood. He dragged it clear and leapt to meet the swordsman. The thin saber slashed for his head, but Beltzer ducked and sent the hatchet blade through the man’s ribs. The wooden haft snapped under the impact. Four more warriors came at him, and with a bellow of rage, Beltzer dropped his head and dived at them. Three of the Nadren were hurled from their feet, but the fourth moved in with sword raised. An arrow punched through his temple, and he staggered before dropping to his knees. Beltzer’s huge fists clubbed at the men around him; in the close confines of the brawl they could not use their swords. He scrambled to his feet, kicked a man in the head, and ran back toward the wood store. The Nadren surged after him.

  At the back of the barn the long-handled tree ax rested against the wall. Beltzer swept it into his hands and swung on the attackers. Two men died in the first seconds of the combat, the survivor first backing away and then turning to spring for the safety of the outer yard. An arrow from Finn stopped him in his tracks, and he pitched facefirst to the floor.

  “What in the seven hells is going on?” bellowed Beltzer, but Maggrig and Finn were gone, and he sat down on a tree round and stared at the bodies. A movement from the ladder caught his eye, and a Nadren warrior clambered down from the hayloft. The man took one look at the giant with the ax and made off at speed.

  Outside, Finn had dropped his bow and now held two bloodstained hunting knives. Beside him lay two Nadren warriors and the body of Maggrig. Eight raiders circled him. “Come on, my boys,” he snarled. “Come in and die!”

  Beltzer strolled out into the open with his ax on his shoulder and saw Finn surrounded. “Bel-azar!” he screamed. The circle around Finn broke as the giant charged, and the slashing ax scattered the attackers. A warrior carrying a short stabbing spear rushed at Finn, but Finn sidestepped and rammed his hunting knife into the man’s belly.

  Inside the tavern all was chaos. The raiders had forced their way in and hacked and slashed at the defenseless workers. Several were dead; others were wounded. The survivors cowered on the floor, eyes averted from the warriors who stood guard over them. One Nadren warrior had climbed over the counter and was holding Naza’s wife, Mael, by the throat. A knife blade hovered over her right eye. Naza lay in a pool of blood by the man’s feet.

  “Where is it, you fat cow?” hissed the warrior, but suddenly a movement at the back of the room caused him to twist, his eyes narrowing. A
door had opened, and a tall man stepped into view carrying a shining saber. Behind him came a second man, younger but also armed. The Nadren’s eyes flicked back to the first man; he was no youngster, but he moved well. “Don’t just stand there,” the Nadren told the warriors. “Take them!”

  The farm workers scrambled back to form a pathway, and several of the Nadren ran at the newcomers. Swords flashed, and the clash of steel was punctuated by the screams of the dying. The Nadren holding Mael watched as his men were butchered by the tall swordsman. Hurling Mael aside, he vaulted the counter and ran to the door, shouting for aid.

  But he stopped in the doorway—and cursed, for galloping from the woods to the north were twenty lancers. He leapt down and stepped into the saddle of the nearest horse, dragging the reins clear of the post around which they had been loosely tied.

  “To horse! To horse!” he shouted. Then the lancers were upon them. The raiders, most of them on foot, scattered before the charge, but the lancers wheeled their mounts and bore down on the fleeing Nadren. A dozen of the raiders, mounted now, counterattacked, trying to cut a path to the south.

  Inside the tavern Chareos stumbled. A sword flashed for his head, and he hurled himself to his right, landing on the massed forms of the laborers. The last Nadren loomed over him with sword raised, but Kiall slashed his saber across the man’s throat. Chareos regained his feet and moved to the doorway. On the open ground beyond he saw Salida and his lancers battling desperately against the raiders. The Nadren, realizing now that they outnumbered the soldiers, were attacking with a renewed frenzy. Chareos sheathed his saber and drew his hunting knife. He ran among the milling horsemen and dragged a Nadren from the saddle, plunging his knife between the rider’s ribs. Vaulting to the horse’s back, he drew his saber and battled his way toward Salida.

  Inside the tavern, Kiall glared at the workmen. “Is this what you will brag about to your children?” he shouted. “How you cringed in the face of danger? Get up! Arm yourselves!”

  Seven of the men pushed themselves to their feet, but most of them remained where they were. The seven took weapons from the dead Nadren and followed Kiall out into the open. “At them!” yelled the young villager, running forward and plunging his saber deep into the back of a horseman.

  By the barn Beltzer knelt by Finn, who sat with Maggrig’s head in his lap. The blond hunter was bleeding from a wound to the scalp.

  Beltzer reached for Maggrig’s wrist. “He’s not dead,” he said, but Finn ignored him. Beltzer cursed and stood, pushing Finn aside and grabbing Maggrig by his shirt. He dragged the unconscious hunter back into the barn, away from the slashing, stamping hooves of the milling horses.

  Finn blinked and followed him. “Not dead?” he whispered.

  “Stay with him,” said Beltzer, hefting his ax.

  “Where are you going?” asked Finn.

  “I’m going to kill a few Nadren. Then I am going to have a drink—many drinks.”

  The giant vanished back into the fray. Finn sat back and looked down at Maggrig. He felt for the younger man’s pulse; it was strong and even.

  “You are nothing but trouble for me,” said Finn.

  Slowly the battle turned. The lancers, fighting with sabers now, were more disciplined than the raiders, and Chareos had linked with Salida at the center. The two swordsmen seemed invincible.

  Several of the Nadren turned from the fight and kicked their horses into a gallop. Others followed them. In all, seventeen Nadren escaped.

  The others were killed where they stood.

  Eleven lancers were dead, four more were seriously wounded, and the open ground before the tavern was blood-drenched. Six horses had been killed, and two others had been crippled and put down. Everywhere lay the corpses of dead warriors. In the sudden calm Salida lifted one leg and slid from the saddle. He wiped his saber clean on the shirt of a dead man and returned it to his scabbard. Chareos dismounted alongside him.

  “A timely arrival, Captain,” said the former monk.

  “Indeed, Chareos. My thanks. You fought well.”

  “ ‘Needs must when demons rise,’ ” quoted Chareos.

  “We need to talk,” said Salida, leading his horse away from the slaughter field. Chareos followed him to a well at the rear of the tavern, where both men drank, then Salida sat down on the well wall. “The earl has ordered your arrest. He means to see you hanged.”

  “For what?” said Chareos. “Even an earl must have a reason.”

  “The murder of Logar.”

  “How can a man be accused of murder when he is attacked by three swordsmen?”

  “Logar was unarmed.”

  “Un … Wait a moment.” Chareos moved back to the battleground and called Kiall to him. “Give me your sword for a second.” He took the saber to Salida. “You recognize this?”

  The captain examined the blade and looked up. “Yes, it is Logar’s saber. But that means nothing, Chareos. There is a witness against you, and the earl wishes you dead.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  The captain smiled wearily. “I believed in you even before I saw the sword. Logar was a snake. But that is not the point at issue, and you leave me with a problem. My orders are to take you back. If I do, you will hang for certain; if I don’t, I will be stripped of my command. Why in Bar’s name did you cancel those cursed lessons?” Without waiting for an answer, Salida stood and returned to the tavern. He summoned an underofficer and gave instructions for the clearing away of the bodies.

  Chareos sat by the well with Kiall beside him. “What will you do?” the villager asked. Chareos shrugged. “You can’t go back,” Kiall said.

  “No,” Chareos agreed, “I can’t go back.” A shadow fell across them, and Chareos was suddenly lifted from his feet and held in a crushing bear hug. Beltzer spun him around several times, then kissed him on both cheeks.

  “I couldn’t believe my eyes,” said the giant. “Blademaster? What are you doing here? Did you come to see me? Have you a task for me? Dear gods of heaven, what a day!”

  “Put me down, you ape!” thundered Chareos. Beltzer dropped him and stepped back, hands on hips.

  “Gods, but you look older. Maggrig and Finn are here. We’re all here! It’s wonderful. I’ve been waiting for something to happen. Anything! But to have you here … well, say something, Blademaster.”

  “You look dreadful,” said Chareos, “and your breath would make rotting fish smell like perfume. Moreover, I think you’ve broken one of my ribs.”

  “Who is the boy?” asked Beltzer, jerking a thumb at Kiall.

  “His name is Kiall. We are traveling together.”

  “Good to meet you,” said Beltzer, thumping Kiall on the back. The villager groaned and staggered. “What’s the matter with him?”

  “He suffered a whipping,” snapped Chareos, rubbing at his ribs, “which I think you just reminded him of. Do you live here now?”

  “After a fashion. I’ve been helping Naza, the tavern owner. Come, you must be dying of thirst. Let’s have a drink or two … or three. Gods, what a lucky day! I’ll fetch us some ale.” Beltzer ambled away toward the tavern.

  “What was that?” Kiall asked.

  “That was Beltzer. Once seen, never to be forgotten.”

  “Beltzer?” whispered Kiall. “The golden-haired hero of Bel-azar?”

  “You will find, Kiall, that song and fable are not reliable. There could once have been a blind sow who would have considered Beltzer handsome, but I doubt it. I’ve seen whores turn him away while his pockets were bulging with gold coin.”

  “It’s incredible,” whispered Kiall. “He’s ugly and fat, and he smells.”

  “Those are his good points,” said Chareos. “Wait until you get to know him.” He stood and walked toward the barn, where Finn was helping Maggrig stand.

  “Still drawn to trouble like moths to candles,” remarked Chareos, smiling.

  “It would seem so, Blademaster,” answered Finn. “The boy here got a crack to t
he skull.”

  “Bring him to my room.”

  “I don’t want to stay here too long,” said Finn. “I hate crowded places—you know that.”

  “I remember. But spare me an hour if you will. Kiall will show you the way.”

  Chareos walked over to where Salida sat on the raised walkway around the tavern.

  “I have met some old friends, Captain. I will be in my room if you wish to talk to me.”

  Salida nodded. “Get your friend another saber. I will take Logar’s back to the earl.”

  “And what of me, my friend? And what of you?”

  “You go where you will, Chareos. And may the Source guide you. As for me … who knows? I wasn’t always a captain of lance; there may be other roles I will enjoy. But I think the earl will send others after you. He is no longer rational where you are concerned.”

  “Be careful, Salida.”

  “Yes, this is a world for careful men,” he replied, waving a hand at the battlefield.

  Inside the tavern the bodies had been dragged away, leaving trails of blood on the wooden boards. The eastern end of the dining room was now a hospital area where soldiers were stitching wounds and applying bandages. Chareos saw the innkeeper’s wife sitting beside her husband. With a deep wound in his shoulder and a lump on his temple, Naza was white-faced and deep in shock.

  Chareos joined them, and the woman looked up and smiled wearily. “Thank you for your aid, sir,” she said. “I thought they would kill me.”

  “What did they want?” asked Chareos.

  “The timber workers are paid tomorrow. We keep the silver coin hidden here. There are four hundred men, and they are paid each quarter year; it is a sizable sum.”

  “I see. Would you mind if I took some food from the kitchen? My companion and I still have not eaten.”

  “I will prepare you something presently,” she offered, her face flushing.

  “Not at all,” said Chareos swiftly. “Stay with your husband. It is no trouble to me, I assure you.”