Memories crowded into Chareos’ mind, days of youth and ambition, times of wonder and glory, nights of despair and dark melancholy. What have you achieved, he asked himself? Indeed, what was there to achieve? He remembered the parting from his parents and the long, cold journey that followed it; that had been hard on a young boy. The memories were jagged, and he pushed them away. His adolescence in New Gulgothir had been lonely – despite the friendship and guidance of Attalis, his Swordmaster and guardian. Chareos was never at ease among the boys of his own age but, worse than this, he could not adapt to the curious lifestyle of the Gothir nobility. It was on a journey north that he began to understand them. He had passed a village that nestled against a mountain. Above the settlement was a monstrous overhang of rocks and boulders.
‘That looks perilous,’ Chareos observed to Attalis and the old man nodded.
‘It will fall one day,’ he said. ‘Few will survive it.’
‘Then why do people live there?’
They always have, lad. And after a while they don’t notice it any more. You can only live with fear so long, then you absorb it and it loses its power.’
The Gothir were like that, living always with the threat of a Nadir invasion they could not prevent. The nobility organised endless feasts, banquets, dances and diverse entertainments: keeping only a token army to man the ramparts of Bel-azar. Chareos had come to manhood in those days of apathy and instant gratification. An expert swordsman, thanks to the tutelage of Attalis, he won a commission to the Sabres – the elite force formed by the Lord Regent. He recalled now with embarrassment his pride when the white cloak and silver sabre had first been presented to him. He had stood with two hundred other young men before the gallery, his back straight, his eyes fixed on the Lord Regent on his ebony throne. He felt like a man, and destiny was smiling upon him.
Two weeks later his world lay in ashes. Attalis, always a proud man, became involved in a minor dispute with Targon, the Lord Regent’s champion. The dispute festered into a blood feud and Targon challenged the old man publicly. The duel was fought in the Royal Courtyard. It did not last long. Chareos, on patrol with the Sabres, heard of it two days later. Attalis had been crippled by a piercing thrust to the shoulder and had fallen to his knees, his sword clattering to the stone. Targon had then stepped forward and sliced open the old man’s throat.
Chareos asked for compassionate leave to attend the funeral and this was granted. He used his meagre savings – and a pledge against next year’s pay – to purchase a plot of ground, a marble sarcophagus and a statue above the grave. This done, he sought out Targon. The man was taller by a head than Chareos, and whip-lean; he was fast, and confident of his talents. Once more, the duel took place in the Royal Courtyard.
Targon had flashed a mocking grin at the young officer. ‘I hope you’ll offer more sport than the old man,’ he said. Chareos did not reply. His dark eyes fixed on Targon’s swarthy features as he drew his borrowed rapier. ‘Frightened, boy?’ asked Targon. ‘You should be.’
The Lord Regent lifted his arm and both men presented their swords. The duel began in a blistering series of thrusts, parries and ripostes. Chareos knew within seconds that he was outclassed but he remained calm – sure in the knowledge that, no matter what, his blade would find its home in the flesh of the man he faced. Back and forth across the courtyard the two warriors fought, their blades shimmering in the early morning sunlight. Three times Chareos felt his opponent’s sword nick his skin – twice on the upper arm, once on the cheek. A thin trickle of blood dripped to his chin. But Targon could find no opening for the killing thrust. Beginning to lose patience, he attacked with greater fury, but his young opponent blocked him at every turn.
The two men stepped back from one another, sweat on their faces. ‘You take a long time to die, boy,’ remarked Targon.