‘Perhaps it was the smell,’ offered Finn. ‘He was the only man I ever met who stank worse than the big man. Even so, it is not a journey I would undertake.’
‘What is so terrible there?’ Kiall asked.
Finn scratched at his beard. ‘According to Okas the land is hot, and there are beasts there who feed on human flesh. Also, the Tattooed People collect heads and shrink them down by magic. About twenty years ago a nobleman named Carsis led a small force into the Valley; their shrunken heads were left on spears at the entrance. For ten years, whenever a traveller passed by, the heads would shriek warnings. I saw them once – aye, and heard them. They spoke of the terrors of Hell.’
They are not there now, then?’ said Kiall.
‘No. The Lord Regent sent a section of lancers into the hills – they built a great fire and burned the heads.’
‘Do the Tattooed People venture into our lands?’
‘Sometimes, boy. And that’s when a man locks his doors and sits up at night with sword and bow close to hand. You still want to go there?’
Kiall swallowed hard. ‘I will go wherever I have to.’
‘Spoken like a hero,’ said Finn sourly.
The door opened and Beltzer entered, carrying two pitchers of ale. Til come with you,’ he told Chareos.
‘Spoken like an idiot,’ whispered Finn.
*
The soldiers dug a shallow trench a half-mile from the settlement. The bodies of the Nadren, stripped of their armour and weapons, were unceremoniously flung into it. The corpses of the soldiers, eleven in all, were wrapped in their blankets and reverently placed on the back of a wagon, ready for burial with honours in Talgithir.
Salida ordered the Nadren grave to be filled with rocks, to prevent wolves and foxes from digging for food. It was almost dusk, and he was bone-weary. Seven of the dead had been new recruits, unused to war, but four were seasoned veterans. One of these had been his valet, a bright, amusing man named Caphes; he had a wife and five sons in Talgithir and Salida did not relish the visit he would have to make to the family home. The sound of a horse’s hooves made him turn, and he saw Chareos riding towards him on a huge white stallion.
The former monk dismounted and approached.
‘I wanted to make sure,’ said Chareos, ‘that you had no second thoughts on the matter of my arrest.’
Salida gazed into the man’s dark eyes, unable to read the thoughts of the tall swordsman before him. ‘No, I have not,’ he said and Chareos nodded.
‘You are a good man, Salida. Here, I have brought Logar’s sabre.’ He handed the scabbarded weapon to the officer. Dipping his hand into the sack hung behind his saddle, he produced a wineskin and two leather-covered brass cups. ‘Join me?’ he enquired.
‘Why not? But let’s move away from the stench of death – I’ve had my fill of it.’
‘You look tired,’ Chareos told him. ‘And not just because of the battle, I think?’
They strolled to a group of boulders and sat down; Salida unbuckled his iron breastplate and laid it beside him. ‘No, it is not. I am a family man now, Chareos. There was a time when I believed that soldiers could make a difference.’ He accepted a goblet of red wine and sipped it. ‘But now? I have three sons and a beautiful wife. The Nadir are gathering again, and one day soon they will cross the mountains and destroy the Gothir. What then of my sons and their dreams?’
‘Maybe they will not come,’ said Chareos. ‘The Gothir have little; this is not a rich land.’
‘They don’t care about riches, they live for war. And what do we have to oppose them? The army has been cut to two thousand men. We couldn’t even hold Bel-azar now.’ He drained his wine and held out the cup for more. Chareos filled it and sat silently.
‘I was born out of my time,’ continued Salida, forcing a smile. ‘I should have been an officer in the great days when the Gothir swept across Nadir lands all the way to the Delnoch mountains.’