Quest for Lost Heroes

by David Gemmell

  “Then see the officer. And if that does not satisfy you, go to the earl. It will soon be Petition Day.”

  “Do you think he will care about what happens to a few poor farmers?”

  “I do not know,” said Chareos. “Where is Paccus?”

  The young man pointed across the ruined village to where an old man was sitting on the ground, wrapped in a blanket. Chareos made his way over to him.

  “Good day, sir.”

  The old man looked up, his eyes bright in the moonlight. “So, it begins,” he said softly. “Welcome, Chareos. How can I help you?”

  “You recognize me? Have we met?”

  “No. How can I help you?”

  “There is a young man who claims you knew of the raid. He is angry—understandably so. How did you know?”

  “I saw it in a dream. I see many things in dreams. I saw you in the clearing beyond the hill asking the vile Logar about the smoke. He and his men have been camped there all day, but he did not want to be involved in a battle. Who can blame him?”

  “I can. There is no place for cowardice in an army.”

  “You think it cowardice, Chareos? We are talking of a man who has killed sixteen men in duels. No, he was paid by the slavers. Since slavery was outlawed in Gothir lands, the price per head has quadrupled. Our eleven women will fetch perhaps fifteen gold pieces each; Ravenna will fetch more.”

  “That is a great deal of money,” Chareos agreed.

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

  “How do you know that Logar accepted a bribe?”

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

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

  “What do you want, Logar?” he asked.

  “You insulted me. Now you will pay the price!”

  “You wish to duel with me?”

  “I do not know you; therefore, the laws of the duel do not apply. We will merely fight.”

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

  “Chareos? Damn you! Will you hide behind the rules of the order? Or will you meet me like a man?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Where I am traveling I may have need of them, Father.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “What did you see, Father?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  One by one the petitioners came forward until, at noon, the earl rose. “Enough for one day, by the gods,” he said.

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

  “Wait!” called the earl. “Let him speak.”

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

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

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

  “Then you will do nothing?” the man shouted.

  “Do not raise your voice to me, peasant!” roared the earl.

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

  “Take him!” shouted the earl, and the guards leapt on the villager, pinning his arms. “I want him flogged. Get him out of here.”

  “Is that your answer?” yelled the youth. “Is this justice?”

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

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

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

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

  “Is that not dangerous?” the earl queried. “I would not like to see a tragic accident.”

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

  “Very well,” agreed the earl, ignoring Chareos. “Let it be as you say.”

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

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

  “Begin!” called the earl.

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

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

  Chareos turned to the earl. “Is the exhibition over, my lord?”

  “That was foul work,” said the earl. “You could have killed him.”

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

  “You are not welcome here,” hissed the earl, “or anywhere within my jurisdiction.”

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

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

  Approaching the captain of the guard, he asked, “How many strokes has he suffered?”

  “Eighteen. We’ll stop at fifty.”

  “You’ll stop at twenty,” Chareos told him. “That is the penalty for insubordinate behavior.”

  “The earl did not specify the number,” the officer snapped.

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

  “That’s enough,” said the captain. “Cut him down.” They dragged the villager out through the postern gate and left him lying beside the path.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “It will suffice.”

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

  “He is.”

  “And you would be Chareos the monk?”

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

  “Do they know I am here?”

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

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

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

  “It’s me, sir. I have your food and wine.”

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

  “Thank you.”

  “You could leave through the servants’ quarters,” she offered.