Quest for Lost Heroes

by David Gemmell

  After a while Maggrig shouldered his bow and strode up to sit alongside Kiall.

  “It is revolting down there,” said the hunter. “It seems that nothing was taken in the raid. Some two hundred warriors surrounded the village earlier today, moved in, and killed almost everyone. There are some tracks leading north, and it looks as if small groups of the Tattooed People fought clear and fled. Maybe a dozen. But they were followed.”

  “Why would anyone do this, Maggrig? What is gained by it?”

  The hunter spread his hands. “There is no answer I can give you. I took part in a raid on a Nadir camp once. We had found several of our men tortured over campfires, their eyes burned out. We followed the raiders to their village and captured them. Our officer, a cultured man, ordered all the children to be brought out to stand before the captives. Then he slew them in front of their parents. After that the Nadir were hanged. He told us the Nadir did not fear death, so to kill them was no real punishment. But to butcher their children before their eyes—that was justice.” Maggrig fell silent.

  Kiall looked back at the village. “There is no justice in any of it,” he said. The others joined them, and the group moved back from the slope to make camp. Finn was unable to light a fire because the wood was too damp, and the questers sat in a circle, saying little.

  “Was Okas among the dead?” asked Kiall.

  Chareos shrugged. “Difficult to tell. Many of the corpses have been stripped almost clean, but I saw no tattoos I could remember.”

  “Have we arrived in the middle of a war between them?”

  “No,” answered Finn. “The Tattooed People are small and pigeon-toed. The tracks of the raiders show them to be tall. I found this,” he went on, pulling a broken gold wristband from the pocket of his deerskin jerkin. Beltzer gasped as he saw it.

  “Sweet heaven!” he exclaimed. “How heavy is it?” Finn tossed it to him. “It must be worth around a hundred Raq,” said the giant.

  “The owner threw it away when it broke,” said Finn. “Gold cannot be worth that much here.”

  “It isn’t,” agreed Chareos, producing a small, barbed arrowhead; it, too, was gold.

  “I am beginning to like it here,” remarked Beltzer. “We could go back to Gothir as rich men.”

  “Let us be content to be going back as live men,” snapped Chareos.

  “I am with you on that,” whispered Finn, holding out his hand to Beltzer, who reluctantly returned the wristband.

  Chareos rose. “It is coming on toward dusk,” he said. “I think we should make our way back to the gate and camp there.” He shouldered his pack and led the others toward the northwest. They moved warily, stopping often while Finn scouted the trail ahead, and Kiall grew increasingly nervous. There would be little chance of hearing the approach of a legion of enemy warriors, not above the chittering of the dark creatures in the trees, the distant roar of hunting cats, and the rushing of unseen rivers and streams. He kept close to Chareos, Beltzer bringing up the rear with his huge ax in his hands.

  Up ahead Finn dropped to his haunches, raising his arm and pumping his fist three times in the air. Then he rolled to the left and out of sight. Maggrig ducked into the undergrowth, followed swiftly by Chareos and Beltzer. Kiall stood for a moment alone on the trail. Three tall warriors came into sight, dragging a young woman; they saw Kiall and stopped, perplexed. They were tall men, bronze of skin, with dark, straight hair. Gold glittered on their arms and ankles. Two of them carried weapons of dark wood, while the third had a long knife of burnished gold. They wore necklets of colored stone, and their faces were streaked with many colors. The woman was small, her skin copper-colored. On her brow was a blue tattoo. She wore only a loincloth of animal skin.

  Slowly Kiall drew his saber. One of the warriors screamed a war cry and ran at him, his wooden club raised high. Kiall dropped into the sideways crouch Chareos had taught him, then sprang forward, the saber lancing the man’s chest. The bronze warrior staggered back as the sword slid clear. He looked down at the wound, saw the blood burst from it, and slumped facefirst to the ground. The young woman tore herself free of her captors and ran down the trail toward Kiall, who stepped aside to let her pass. The remaining warriors stood, uncertain. But from behind them came a score more of their comrades.

  Kiall plunged left into the undergrowth as the hunters rushed forward. The ground dropped away, and he lost his footing, slipping and sliding down a mud-covered slope to land in a sprawling heap at the bottom.

  Half-winded, he struggled to rise. Gathering his saber, he glanced up: the bronze warriors were coming down toward him. Spinning on his heel, he raced down a narrow trail. Broad overhanging leaves lashed at his face, thorn-covered branches ripped at his clothes. Twice he slipped and fell, but the bloodcurdling cries of the pursuing hunters fed his panic, giving strength to his flight.

  Where were his friends? Why were they not helping him?

  He forced his way through a last section of dense undergrowth and emerged on the muddy bank of a great river that was wider than the lakes of his homeland. His breathing was ragged, his ears filled with the drumming of his heart.

  Where can I go?

  He had lost all sense of direction, and thick lowering clouds obscured the sun. He heard shouts from his left, and swinging to the right, he ran along the riverbank.

  A huge dragon reared from the water, its elongated mouth rimmed with teeth. Kiall screamed and leapt back from the river’s edge. A spear sliced the air by his head, and he turned in time to see a bronze warrior diving at him. The warrior crashed into Kiall, hurling them both back toward the riverbank. His saber knocked from his hand, Kiall surged up and crashed his fist into the man’s face, knocking him sideways. The warrior sprang upright, but Kiall leapt feetfirst, his boots thudding against the man’s chest and propelling him back into the dark water. As the warrior struggled to the surface and began to wade ashore, the dragon’s head reared behind him, the monstrous jaws clamping home on his leg. He let out an agonizing scream and began to stab at the monster’s scaled hide with a golden knife. Blood billowed to the river’s surface, and Kiall watched in horror as the warrior was dragged from sight.

  Kiall tore his eyes from the scene and took up his saber. He scanned the trees for sign of the enemy. A sudden movement behind made him spin around with sword raised. It was the young woman, and she waved him toward where she was hidden in the undergrowth. He ran to her, dropped to his knees, and crawled inside the spike-leaved bushes. Carefully she eased leaves back across the opening.

  Within seconds more of the enemy arrived on the scene. They stood at the riverside, watching the struggle between the dying warrior and the dragon. When it was over, the hunters squatted in a circle and spoke in low voices; one pointed up the trail, and it seemed to Kiall that they were arguing about which direction to take. A large spider, hairless and bloated, crawled onto Kiall’s hand. He stifled a scream. The girl swiftly leaned over him, plucking the insect from his skin and carefully placing it on a leaf.

  The hunters rose and moved off into the jungle.

  Kiall lay back and smiled at the young woman. She did not respond in kind but touched her hand to her breast, then to her brow, then pressed her fingers to Kiall’s mouth. Not knowing how to respond, Kiall lifted her hand and kissed it. She settled down beside him, closed her eyes, and slept.

  For some time he lay awake, too frightened to leave the sanctuary of the undergrowth. Then he, too, drifted off into a light doze—and awoke with the moon shining high above the trees. The woman sat up and crawled into the open. Kiall followed. She whispered something to him, but it was a language he had never heard.

  “Okas?” he asked. Her head tilted. “I am looking for Okas.”

  She shrugged and trotted off along the riverbank. He followed her through the moonlit jungle, up over hills and rises, down through vine-choked archways and on to a wide cave where she stopped outside and held out her hand. He took it and was led inside. Torches flickered, and he saw
more than thirty of the Tattooed People sitting around fires built within circles of stone. Two young men approached them. After the woman had spoken to them for a few moments, he was led farther into the cave.

  An old man, nearly toothless, sat cross-legged on a high rock. His body was completely covered in tattoos, and his lower face was stained blue, as if emulating a beard and an upturned mustache.

  The woman spoke to the old man, whose face remained expressionless throughout. Finally she turned to Kiall and dropped to her knees. Taking his hand, she kissed it twice, then rose and was gone.

  “I am Okas,” said the old man.

  “I am—” Kiall began.

  “I know who you are. What do you want of me?”

  “Your help.”

  “Why should I seek to aid the soul of Tenaka Khan?”

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” said Kiall. “I am seeking to rescue a woman I love—that is all.”

  “Where is fat Beltzer?”

  “I lost them when we were attacked.”

  “By the Azhtacs; this also I know! Give me your hand.” Kiall reached out, and Okas took his hand and turned it palm upward. “You lost your woman—and yet not your woman. And now you are on a quest you do not understand that will determine the fate of a people you do not know. Truly, Kiall, you are a part of the World’s Dream.”

  “But will you help me? Chareos says you can follow spirit trails; he says that without you we will never find Ravenna.”

  The old man released his hand. “My people are finished now; the day of the Azhtacs has dawned. But soon another day will dawn, and the Azhtacs will see the destruction of their homes, the torment of their people. Yet that gives me no pleasure. And I do not wish to be here when they come for my children. I had thought to die tonight, quietly, here on this stone. But now I will come with you and die on another stone. Then I will join the World’s Dream.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” said Kiall.

  “Come,” said the old man, dropping to the floor beside him. “Let us find the ghosts-yet-to-be.”

  Chareos dragged his sword clear of the dying Azhtac and swung to see if any of his companions needed help. Beltzer was standing over a dead warrior with ax raised. Maggrig and Finn had sheathed their knives and notched arrows to their bows. Nine dead Azhtacs lay sprawled around them. Chareos glanced up at the sun; it was almost noon, and the silver-gray Gateway beckoned.

  “Where in Bar’s name is Kiall?” hissed Chareos.

  Finn joined him. “I marked as many trees as I could, Chareos. I think he must be dead.”

  Beltzer dropped to his knees beside a corpse and began to tug at the gold circlet the man wore on his brow. At that moment Maggrig shouted a warning, and a large group of Azhtacs raced from the trees. “Back!” shouted Chareos. Beltzer cursed and rose. Maggrig and Finn ran through the Gateway. Beltzer raised his ax and bellowed a battle cry, and the Azhtacs slowed. Beltzer turned and sprinted through the gate, followed by Chareos.

  The moonlight was bright on the other side, and the cold was numbing after the heat of the jungle. A spear flashed through the Gateway, striking the ground and half burying itself in the snow. Beltzer moved to one side of the Gateway; when an arm and a head showed through, his ax smashed into the head, catapulting the man back through the opening. Then there was silence.

  “All that gold,” said Beltzer, “and I didn’t get a single piece of it.”

  “You have your life,” Finn told him.

  Beltzer swung on him. “And what is that worth?”

  “Enough!” roared Chareos. “We have a comrade on the other side. Now cease your arguing and let me think.”

  In a circle of boulders within sight of the Gateway Maggrig lit a fire, and they all gathered around it. “You want to go back, Blademaster?” asked Maggrig.

  “I don’t know, my friend. We were lucky to escape the first time. I should think they would place guards on the gate, and that makes it doubly perilous.”

  “I think we should go back,” said Beltzer. “I’m willing to risk it.”

  “For the boy or the gold?” asked Maggrig.

  “For both, if you must know,” Beltzer snapped.

  Chareos shook his head. “No,” he said, “that would be foolhardy. Kiall is alone there, but he is a resourceful lad. Finn marked the trees, and if he still lives, Kiall will follow the trail back to the gate. We will wait for him here.”

  “And what if you are right about guards, eh?” inquired Beltzer. “How will he get past them?”

  “My guess is that they will be watching the gate to see who passes from this side. He may have an opportunity to run at it.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something, Chareos?” asked Maggrig. “If he chooses the wrong time, there is no knowing where the gate will take him.”

  “As I said, he is resourceful. We wait.”

  For some time they sat in silence. The wind picked up, gusting the snow around them; the fire spluttered, and little heat seemed to emanate from it. “We could freeze to death waiting here,” grumbled Beltzer. “At least it is warmer on the other side.”

  “It is colder than it ought to be,” remarked Finn suddenly. “When we left, the thaw had set in. The weather should not have turned so swiftly.”

  “It has not necessarily been swift,” said Chareos, drawing his cloak more tightly about his frame. “When I first looked beyond the gate, I seemed to be there, frozen, unable to move, for an hour at least. You said it was but a few heartbeats. Well, we were beyond the gate for a day—that could be a week here, or a month.”

  “It better not have been a month, Blademaster,” Maggrig said softly. “If it is, we are trapped in this valley for the winter. And there is not enough game.”

  “Rubbish!” snorted Beltzer. “We would just pass through the gate and wait for a few of their days, returning in spring. Isn’t that right, Chareos?”

  The blademaster nodded.

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” asked Beltzer. “Let’s go back and find the lad.”

  Finn bit back an angry response as Beltzer pushed himself to his feet. Just then a spark lifted from the fire and hung in the air, swelling slowly into a glowing ball. Beltzer’s mouth dropped open, and he took up his ax. Chareos and the others stared at the floating sphere, watching, astonished, as it grew to the size of a man’s head. The color faded until the globe was almost transparent and they could see the gate reflected there and the snow gusting around it. Finn gasped as two tiny figures showed inside the sphere, stepping through the miniature Gateway.

  “It is Okas,” said Beltzer, peering at the ball. “And the lad with him.” He spun around, but the real Gateway was empty. The scene inside the floating sphere shimmered and changed; now they could see Finn’s cabin and a warm fire glowing in the hearth. Okas was seated cross-legged before the blaze, his eyes closed. Kiall sat at the table.

  The sphere vanished.

  “He found the old boy,” said Beltzer. “He found Okas.”

  “Yes, and arrived back before us,” continued Finn.

  The four men stood. Chareos doused the fire, and they set off through the snow.

  In the cabin Okas opened his eyes. “They come,” he said.

  “I had begun to give up hope,” replied Kiall. “Twelve days is a long time to be trapped in that jungle.”

  Okas chuckled. “They left before we did. But I know how to use the gate.” He stood and stretched. A small man, no more than five feet tall, he was round-shouldered and potbellied. He could have been any age from sixty to a hundred and looked as if a stiff breeze could snap his bones. Yet he had walked through the snow clad only in a loincloth and had appeared to suffer no discomfort from cold or exhaustion. And he left barely a print on the snow, as if his weight were no more than that of a bird. He looked up at Kiall. “So tell me all you know about the great khan.”

  “Why are you interested? I don’t understand,” said Kiall.

  “I was here when he led his
armies into Drenai lands,” Okas told him. “And again when they marched against Bel-azar. Strong man, the khan. Great man, perhaps. But he is dead, yes?”

  “I don’t know much about him. He conquered the Drenai and the Vagrians. He died some years ago; he is buried in the tomb of Ulric.”

  “No, he is not,” said Okas. “He is buried in an unmarked grave. But I know where it is. How did he die?”

  “I do not know. His heart gave out, I would suppose. That is how most people die—even kings. Are you sure Chareos is coming?”

  Okas nodded. He poured himself a goblet of water. “I sent them a message. They come. Fat Beltzer is disappointed. He wanted to go back through to the jungle to find you—and to be rich. Fat Beltzer always wanted to be rich.”

  “He is your friend?”

  “All men are my friends,” said Okas. “We are all of the Dream. But yes, I like very much fat Beltzer.”

  “Why? What is there to like?” Kiall asked.

  “Ask me again in half a year. I will sleep now. I am older than I look.”

  Kiall thought that barely credible, but he said nothing. Okas sat down before the fire, crossed his arms, and slept upright. Kiall blew out the lantern and lay back on the bed by the wall.

  The others were coming. The search for Ravenna was under way.

  He slept without dreams.

  It was a further two days before the exhausted travelers reached the sanctuary of the cabin. Beltzer was the first inside. He hoisted Okas into a bear hug and spun him around until the little man laughed delightedly. “How come you still live, fat man?” he asked. “How come no one kill you yet?”