Chareos smiled. ‘You have the sword skill of a Nadir tent-wife,’ he said. Targon flushed red and launched another attack. Chareos blocked the blade, rolled his wrist and lanced his rapier deep into Targon’s right shoulder, slicing the muscles and tearing through ligament and sinew. Targon’s rapier fell from his hand and for the first time fear showed in his pale eyes. For several seconds Chareos stood watching his opponent, then his blade cut the air with a hissing slash to rip across Targon’s throat.
The Lord Regent’s champion staggered back, clutching the wound. Blood bubbled through his fingers as he fell to his knees. Chareos walked forward and placed his boot against the dying man’s chest. With one contemptuous push, he hurled Targon to his back. There was silence among the spectators and then the Lord Regent called Chareos forward, while pages ran to Targon, seeking to stem the bleeding.
‘You took not only his life, but his dignity,’ said the Lord Regent.
‘If I could, my lord, I would follow him into Hell and destroy his soul as well,’ Chareos told him.
That afternoon Chareos had stood alone by Attalis’ tomb. ‘You are avenged, my friend,’ he said. ‘He died as you died. I don’t know if that is important to you. But I remembered your teaching and I did not allow my hatred to control me. You would have been proud of that, I think.’ He was silent for a moment, and his eyes filled with tears. ‘You were a father to me, Attalis. I never told you how much you meant to me, nor ever thanked you for your friendship and your company. But I do so now. Rest easy, my friend.’
A quarter of a century later, outside Finn’s cabin, Chareos the Blademaster wept again for the old man, for the ruin of his hopes and the failure of his dreams.
It had always been Attalis’ wish that one day they would return home and restore all that had been lost. Without the old man Chareos had viewed that dream with cold logic – and ruthlessly pushed it aside.
Now he dried his eyes with the edge of his cloak. ‘What would you think of this quest, Attalis?’ he whispered. ‘The hunt for the pig-breeder’s daughter? Yes, I can almost hear your laughter.’
He stood and entered the cabin where the fire was low, the room warm and cosy. Kiall and Beltzer were asleep before the hearth, Maggrig deep in dreams in the bed by the far wall. Lantern light was streaming from the back room and Chareos walked quietly across the cabin floor and looked in. Finn was sitting with his feet on the workbench, idly cutting flights for new arrows.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ said Chareos, moving in to sit opposite the black-bearded hunter.
Finn swung his legs to the floor and rubbed his eyes. ‘Nor me. What happened to us, eh?’
Chareos shrugged. In the lantern light Finn looked older, his face seemingly carved from teak. Deep shadows showed at his eyes and neck, and silver hairs glistened within his matted beard. ‘You seem to have found peace, my friend,’ said Chareos. ‘Up here in the mountains you have freedom and more land than some kings.’
‘Not much of a life for the boy – though he doesn’t complain.’
‘The boy must be thirty-six years old. If he doesn’t like the life he is old enough – and man enough – to say so.’
‘Maybe,’ said Finn, unconvinced. ‘And then again, maybe it is time to move on.’
‘You’ll find nowhere more beautiful, Finn.’
‘I know that,’ snapped the hunter, ‘but there’s more to it. I’m no youngster, Chareos, I feel old. My bones ache in winter, and my eyes are not what they were. One day I’ll die. I don’t want to leave the . . . Maggrig … up here alone. I don’t like people much – nasty minds, foul manners, always looking to steal, or lie or slander. But maybe that’s just me. Maggrig, he gets on with folks, likes company. It’s time he learned how to live with people again.’
‘Think about it some more, Finn,’ advised Chareos. ‘You are happy here.’