At last he remounted and continued the journey south. Chareos had never travelled these hills, but travellers spoke of a settlement built around a tavern. He hoped the village was close – and that they had a healer. Kiall’s fever was climbing, and for all Chareos knew the wounds could be festering. As a soldier, he had seen many men die from what appeared to be small wounds. The skin would swell and discolour; fever would deepen and flesh melt away. He recalled a young warrior at Bel-azar who cut his hand on a thorn. The hand had swelled to three times its size, then turned blue, and finally black. The surgeon had cut it from him. But the boy died . . . And he died screaming. Chareos glanced at Kiall and forced a smile, but the youth did not respond.
By late afternoon Kiall could ride no more. He was feverish and moaning, and two of the long wounds in his back had opened. Chareos had lashed the young man’s wrists to the pommel and was now leading the gelding as he guided the horses along the shores of a wide lake; it was smooth as a mirror and the mountains were reflected on its surface. Dismounting, he hobbled the horses and helped Kiall to the ground. The villager sagged, his knees giving way. Chareos let him lie and built a fire. As a soldier he had seen many men flogged. Often the shock of the beating was what laid a man low, the humiliation more than the agony. With the fire blazing, he turned Kiall to his stomach and sniffed at the wounds. There was no smell of corruption. Chareos covered him with a blanket. The young man was strong and proud. He had not complained about his pain and Chareos admired that.
He sat by the fire, staring out over the mountains and the stands of pine which grew green through the snow. There was a time when such a view had made him think of freedom, the wide beauty, the towering grandeur of the peaks. Now, he realised, they spoke only of the futility of Man. Wars, plagues, kings and conquerors were as nothing to these peaks.
‘What do you care for my dreams?’ asked Chareos, his mind drifting back to Tura as it so often did when the reflective mood came upon him. Beautiful, black-haired Tura. She had made him feel more of a man than he could have wished for. With her he was complete. But what she seemed to give so freely, she had cruelly stolen back. Chareos’ face reddened with the memory. How many lovers had she taken before Chareos discovered her infidelity? Ten? Twenty? How many of his friends had accepted the gift of her body? The hero of Bel-azar! If only they knew. Chareos the Bladesman had not gone there to fight; he had gone there to die.
There was little heroism in that. But the bards did not care for realism. They sang of silver blades and dashing deeds – the cuckold’s shame had no place in the saga of Bel-azar.
He stood and wandered to the lakeside, kneeling to drink, closing his eyes against his reflection. Returning to the fire he saw that Kiall was sleeping peacefully. The sun drifted low in the west and the air grew cooler. Chareos loosened the saddle cinches on the horses and stretched out his blanket close to the fire.
Lying back, he stared at the stars. He had wanted to forgive Tura, to take her far from the fort and start a new life, but she had laughed at him. She liked it where she was – where there were men to hand, strong men, lusty men, men who would give her presents. In his mind’s eye he could see himself striking her and smashing her beauty beneath his fists. But he never had. He had backed from the room, forced by the strength of her laughter – the love he had allowed into his heart torn away by the talons of treachery. He had never loved again, never taken a woman to his heart or his bed.
A wolf howled in the distance, a lonely mournful sound. Chareos banked the fire and slept.