‘The sun shone,’ agreed Chareos, ‘but it was only a parade, my lord – and there are many parades.’
‘What happened to the others?’ asked the Earl. ‘Did you remain friends? I have heard nothing of them for years.’
‘Nor I,’ Chareos answered. The dark-eyed monk looked away, seeing Beltzer as he had been on the last day – drunk, red-eyed and weeping, his axe auctioned to settle his debts. The farmer had become a hero, and it had destroyed him in a way the Nadir could not. Maggrig and Finn had been there; they had left Beltzer alone in the back room of the inn and walked with Chareos out into the sunshine.
‘We are going back to the mountains,’ said Finn.
‘There’s nothing there,’ Chareos told him.
Finn had smiled. ‘There’s nothing anywhere, Blade-master.’ Without another word the black-bearded archer had taken up his pack and moved off.
The youth Maggrig had smiled, offering Chareos his hand. ‘We will meet again,’ he said. ‘He probably only needs a little time to himself, away from crowds.’
‘How do you suffer his moods and depressions?’ asked Chareos.
‘I do not see them,’ Maggrig answered. ‘I see only the man.’
Now Chareos sipped his fruit juice and gazed out of the tall window. He was sitting too far back to see the courtyard and the gardens beyond. But from here he could look over the high wall of the monastery and off into the southern distance, where the forest lay like a green mist on the mountains. His gaze swept across to the east, and the ridges of hills which led to the Nadir Steppes. For a moment only, he felt the touch of icy fear.
‘You think the Nadir will attack come summer?’ asked the Earl, as if reading his thoughts. Chareos considered the question. The Nadir lived for war – a dour, nomadic tribal people, joyous only in battle. For centuries Gothir kings had held them in thrall, sure in the knowledge that the tribes hated one another more than they detested the conquerors. Then had come Ulric, the first great warlord. He had united them, turning them into an invincible force, an army numbering hundreds of thousands of fierce-eyed warriors. The Gothir were crushed, the King slain and refugees fled here to the north-west to build new homes. Only the great Drenai citadel of Dros Delnoch, far to the south-east, had turned them back. But a century later another warlord arose, and he would not be thwarted. Tenaka Khan had crushed the Drenai and invaded the lands of Vagria, his armies sweeping to the sea at Mashra-pur and along the coastline to Lentria. Chareos shivered. Would they attack in this coming summer? Only the Source knew. But one point was as certain as death – one day the Nadir would come. They would sweep across the hills, their battle cries deafening, the grass churned to muddy desolation under the hooves of their war ponies. Chareos swallowed, his eyes fixed to the hills, seeing the blood-hungry hordes flowing across the green Gothir lands like a dark tide.
‘Well?’ queried the Earl. ‘Do you think they will attack?’
‘I could not say, my lord. I do not listen to the reports as once I did. It is said that the Drenai are in rebellion again, led by yet another who claims to be the Earl of Bronze reborn. I think that makes it the fifth in the thirty years since Tenaka Khan stormed Dros Delnoch. But perhaps such an uprising will put off the Nadir plans.’
‘He went the way of all the others,’ said the Earl. ‘He was caught and crucified; the rebellion was crushed. It is said the new Khan has ordered his troops north.’
‘People have been saying that for years,’ said Chareos. ‘There is little here for them. The spoils they took from the conquests of Drenan, Vagria and Lentria made them rich. We have nothing to offer them – we are not even a gateway to richer kingdoms. Beyond New Gulgothir is the sea. Perhaps they will leave us alone.’ Even as he spoke, Chareos felt the lie sitting cold in his throat. The Nadir did not live for plunder but for blood, and death, and conquest. It would matter nothing to them that the riches were few. No, they would be fired with thoughts of ancestral revenge on the Gothir people.