QUEST FOR LOST HEROES by David A. Gemmell

She screamed . . .

And woke. The other women were still sleeping – the scream then had been part of the nightmare. Ravenna was glad of that. Wrapping the thin blanket round her shoulders, she sat up. Her dress of yellow-dyed wool was filthy, and she could smell stale sweat upon it.

‘I will survive this,’ she told herself. ‘I will not give in to despair.’

The thought strengthened her for a moment only, but the weight of her captivity bore down on her, crushing her resolve.

She wept silently. The woman from the wagon rose from her blankets and walked over to her, putting a slen­der arm about her shoulders.

‘Tomorrow,’ she said, ‘when you stand on the platform, do not try to entice a buyer. The Nadir put no stock in women. They view them like cattle. They fear proud women. You understand me? Keep your head down, and obey the commands of the auctioneer. Do not think of nakedness. Be meek and submissive.’

‘If they fear proud women, perhaps no one would buy me.’

‘Do not be a fool!’ snapped the older woman. ‘If you look defiant, the auctioneer will have you whipped into submission – or you’ll be bought by a man who enjoys inflicting pain on women. What you need is a master who will treat you casually. There is no such animal as a gentle Nadir, but better to be bedded swiftly by an indifferent savage than to be beaten like a dog.’

‘How is it you know so much?’ asked Ravenna.

‘I have been sold before,’ said the woman. ‘I spent three years as a whore in New Gulgothir. Before that I was sold to a Nadir chieftain.’

‘But you escaped?’

‘Yes. And I will escape again.’

‘How is it you are so strong?’

‘I was once wed to a weak man. Sleep now. And if you cannot sleep, rest. You will not want dark rings under those pretty eyes.’

‘What is your name?’

‘What does it matter?’ the woman answered.

*

Salida strode into the main hall, his armour dust-stained and dull, his eyes bloodshot and weary. Yet still he kept his back straight, his chin high. There were more than forty noblemen present. He bowed before the Earl and their eyes met.

‘Do you bring me Chareos?’ asked the Earl softly.

‘No, my lord. But I bring you Logar’s sabre.’ He held the scabbarded blade high and placed it on the dais before the Earl. ‘Also I bring you the owner of the Grey Owl tavern, who witnessed the fight; he is outside. He says that Logar and two others attacked the monk, and that Chareos defended himself nobly. The man Kypha was lying.’

‘You took this investigation on yourself?’ said the Earl, rising from his ebony chair, his eyes cold.

‘I know, my lord, how highly you value justice. I must also tell you that Chareos and the villager, Kiall, fought alongside myself and the men from Talgithir against a large band of Nadren. Chareos slew at least six of them in a pitched battle. Without him, and Beltzer, Maggrig and Finn, we might well have lost the encounter. I judged – perhaps wrongly – that you would not appreciate the waste of time involved in bringing Chareos back.’

The Earl stood in silence for several seconds, then he smiled. ‘I like my officers to show initiative, Salida, and this you have done. You also destroyed a band of raiders and showed, I understand, great personal courage. You are to be commended – both for your action in battle and your discretion. Go now. Rest. You have earned it.’

Salida bowed and backed two paces before turning and striding from the hall. Aware that all eyes were on him, the Earl turned back to his guests. For an hour he moved among them, his mood light, his humour good. Just before dusk he left the hall and walked swiftly through the stone corridors of the Keep until he reached the stair­way to his private rooms.

He entered the study and pushed shut the door. A tall man was standing at the window. Lean and hawk-faced, with pale eyes separated by a curved beak of a nose, a scar ran from his brow to his chin in an angry white line. He wore a black leather cloak that shimmered in the lantern light, and three knives hung from a baldric on his chest.