QUEST FOR LOST HEROES by David A. Gemmell

*

The yard had been roped off and guards stood by the entrances. Behind them a crowd had gathered, straining to see the stiffening corpses. The Earl stood over the body of Logar, staring down at the grey, bloodless face.

‘The facts speak for themselves,’ he said, pointing at the body. ‘See, he has no sword. He was murdered and I want the killer brought to justice. Who would have thought that a hero of Bel-azar would stoop to such a base deed?’ The retainers grouped around him said nothing, and the surviving swordsman turned his eyes from the Earl.

‘Take twenty men,’ the Earl ordered Salida, his Captain of Lancers, ‘and bring Chareos back here.’

Salida cleared his throat. ‘My lord, it was not like Logar to walk unarmed – and these other two men had swords drawn. Chareos is a master bladesman. I cannot believe . . .’

‘Enough!’ snapped the Earl and swung to the survivor. ‘You . . . what is your name again?’

‘Kypha, my lord,’ replied the man, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

‘Was Logar armed when Chareos slew him?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘There you have it then,’ said the Earl. ‘And you have the evidence of your eyes. Do you see a sword?’

‘No, my lord,’ said Salida. ‘I will fetch him. What of the villager?”

‘He was an accessory to murder; he will hang alongside Chareos.’

*

The twenty-two captive women sat close together in four open wagons. On either side, warriors rode, grim men and fierce-eyed. Ravenna was in the second wagon, separ­ated from her friends. Around her were women and girls taken in two other raids. All were frightened, and there was little conversation.

Two days before a girl had tried to escape; she had leapt from a wagon at dusk and run for the trees, but they had ridden her down in seconds and dragged her back. The captives had been assembled in a circle to watch the girl being whipped, and her whimpering screams still sounded in Ravenna’s ears.

After that, several of the men had dragged her away from the camp and raped her. Then her arms were tied and she was flung down near the other prisoners.

‘There is a lesson to be learnt here,’ said a man with a scarred face. ‘You are slaves and you will begin to think like slaves. That way, you will survive. Any slave who attempts to run will be treated more harshly than this one. Remember these words.’

Ravenna would remember . . .

The time to escape would not be while the Nadren held them. No, it was necessary to be more cunning. She would wait until she was bought by some lecherous Nadir. She would be pliant and helpful, loving and grateful . . . and when he had grown confident of her emotions – then she would run.

‘Where are you from?’ whispered the woman beside her. Ravenna told her.

‘I visited your village once. For the Summer Solstice Fair.’ Ravenna looked at the bony figure, scanning the lean, angular face and the shining black hair. She could not remember her.

‘Are you wed?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said the woman, shrugging. ‘But that does not matter any more.’

‘No,’ Ravenna agreed.

‘And you?’

‘I was due to marry. Eighteen – no, seventeen – days from now.’

‘Are you a virgin?’ asked the woman, her voice drop­ping lower.

‘No.’

‘You are from now on. They will ask. Virgins fetch higher prices. And it will mean these . . . pigs . . . will not touch you. You understand?’

‘Yes. But surely the man who buys me. . . .’

‘What do they know? Men! Find yourself a sharp pin, and on the first night cut yourself.’

Ravenna nodded. ‘Thank you. I will remember that.’

They lapsed into silence as the wagons moved on. The raiders rode warily and Ravenna could not stop herself scanning the horizon.

‘Do not expect help,’ the woman told her.

‘One should always hope.’

The woman smiled. ‘Then hope for a handsome savage with kindly ways.’

*

The mountains towered before them like a fighting line of white-bearded giants and an icy wind drifted over the peaks into the faces of the riders. As Chareos pulled his fur-lined cloak about him and belted it, he glanced at the villager. Kiall’s face was grey and he swayed in the saddle, but offered no complaint. Chareos gazed back towards the city. It was far behind them now, and only the tallest turrets could be seen beyond the hills. ‘How are you faring?’ he asked Kiall. The villager gave a weak smile. The lirium was wearing off and pain was eating into his back like hot coals. The old swayback gelding was a serene beast and normally the ride would have been comfortable, but now every movement pulled at Kiall’s tortured flesh. ‘We will stop in a while,’ said Chareos, ‘once we are in the trees. There are lakes there, with crystal-clear water. We will rest and I will see to your injuries.’ Kiall nodded and gripped the pommel of his saddle. He felt sick, and sweat had formed a sheen on his face. Cursing inwardly, Chareos moved alongside the swayback. Suddenly the white stallion arched its neck and flashed a bite at the older animal. Chareos dragged on the reins and the gelding reared. Kiall all but toppled from the saddle. The stallion bucked and dipped its head, but Chareos clung on grimly, his thighs locked tight to the barrel of the animal’s body. For several seconds the horse tried to unseat him, then settled down as if nothing had happened and stood calmly. Chareos stepped down from the saddle, stroking the stallion’s long neck. Moving to stand before the horse’s head, he rubbed at its nose, then blew a long slow breath into each of its nostrils. ‘Know me,’ whispered Chareos, over and over again. ‘I will not harm you. I am not your master. I am a friend.’