QUEST FOR LOST HEROES by David A. Gemmell

‘Thank you,’ he said, as she set down the tray. She looked at him and shook her head.

‘You are a disgrace,’ she told him, planting her hands on her ample hips.

‘No lectures, Mael. Have pity! My head . . .’

‘Your pain is your own affair. And I have no pity for drunken louts. Look at the blood on these sheets! And the stink is enough to turn a decent man’s stomach. How long since you bathed?’

‘It was this year, I know that.’

‘When you’ve finished your breakfast, you will go to the woodshed. There you will work until you have settled your bill. Axe and saw will clear your head.’

‘Where’s Naza?’ he asked, straining to focus on the flaxen-haired woman.

‘He’s gone into the city. It’s market day. When he returns you will be gone – you understand that?’

‘He . . . owes me.’

‘He owes you nothing. You hear me? Nothing! You’ve been here two months. You’ve not paid a single Raq for food, lodging or ale, and in that time you’ve insulted our customers, picked fights and generally done your best to ruin the trade my husband lives on. You will chop wood and then you will go.’

His fist slammed down on the dresser and he surged to his feet. ‘You dare to talk to me like that?’ he stormed. ‘You know who I am, woman?’

‘I know,’ she said, moving closer. ‘You are Beltzer. Beltzer the drunkard. Beltzer the sloth. Beltzer the brag­gart. And you stink. You stink of sweat, sour ale and vomit. Of course I know who you are!’

He raised his hand as if to strike her, but she laughed at him. ‘Go ahead, mighty hero of Bel-azar. Come on!’

Beltzer pushed past her and out into the empty room beyond, but she followed him, her anger lashing him with whips of fire. He stumbled out into the yard beyond the tavern, blinking in the harsh sunlight. The woodshed was to his right; open fields lay to his left.

He took the left path and headed off into the high country, but he had travelled only a half-mile when he sat down on a rock and gazed over the rugged countryside. Three miles ahead was his cabin. But there would be no one there: no food, no drink; merely the howling of the wolves and the emptiness only the lonely could know.

His heart full of shame, he turned back towards the woodshed.

Stopping at a stream he stripped himself of his bearskin jerkin and grey woollen tunic. Then placing his boots beside his clothes, he stepped into the water. With no soap to cleanse himself, he scrubbed at his body with mint leaves and washed the blood from his beard. When he returned to the bank and lifted his tunic the smell from it almost made him nauseous. ‘You’ve fallen a long way,’ he told himself. He washed the tunic, beating it against a rock to drive out the dirt, then wrung it clear of excess water and struggled into it. His bearskin jerkin he carried over his arm.

Mael watched him walk back into the yard and cursed softly under her breath. She waited until she heard the sound of the axe thudding into the tree rounds and then returned to the kitchen, preparing the pies and pasties the farm workers and labourers would require at noon.

In the woodshed Beltzer worked hard, enjoying the heft of the single-bladed axe and the feel of the curved wood. His arm had lost none of its skill and each stroke was clean, splitting the rounds into chunks that would burn on the iron-rimmed braziers at each end of the tavern’s main room.

Just before noon he stopped and began to cart the wood across the yard. Then he carried it into the tavern to stack beside the braziers. Mael did not speak to him, and he had no desire to feel the sharpness of her tongue. She handed him a plate of broth and some bread when the noon-time custom died down and he ate it in silence, longing to ask for a tankard of ale but fearing the inevi­table refusal.