QUEST FOR LOST HEROES by David A. Gemmell

‘Nor I you,’ said the man. ‘State your business – or suffer the consequences.’

‘Consequences?’ snorted Beltzer. ‘What is he talking about?’

‘He’s talking about the bowmen hidden in the alleyways around us,’ explained Finn.

‘Oh,’ said Beltzer.

Chareos glanced around and saw the archers. They seemed nervous and frightened, their fingers trembling on the drawn bowstrings. At any moment an accidental shot could turn the square into a battlefield, Chareos knew. ‘We are not Nadren,’ he said softly. ‘I came here on the night of the raid and tried to aid the people. The young man here is Kiall, who is of this village.’

‘Well, I don’t know him and I don’t believe I care to,’ retorted the man sourly.

‘My name is Chareos. It would at least be polite if you told me yours.’

‘I don’t need to be polite to the likes of you,’ said the man. ‘Be off with you!’

Chareos spread his hands and stepped closer. Suddenly he seized the man’s tunic with his left hand, dragging him forward. His right hand flashed up holding his hunting-knife, the blade point resting against the man’s throat.

‘I have an abhorrence for bad manners,’ he said quietly. ‘Now order your men to lower their weapons, or I will cut your throat.’

The man swallowed hard, the action causing his flabby skin to press on the knife point. A thin trickle of blood traced a line to his tunic.

‘Put . . . put down your weapons,’ the leader whispered.

‘Louder, fool!’ hissed Chareos and the man did as he was told.

Reluctantly the archers obeyed, but they crowded in to surround the group. Still holding on to the fat man, Chareos turned to the crowd. ‘Where is Paccus the Seer?’ he called. No one answered him.

Kiall stepped forward. ‘Does no one remember me?’ he asked. ‘What about you, Ricka? Or you, Anas? It’s me -Kiall.’

‘Kiall?’ said a tall, thin man with a pockmarked face. He moved closer to peer at the young warrior. ‘It is you,’ he said, surprised. ‘But you look so different. Why have you come back?’

‘To find Ravenna, of course.’

‘Why?’ asked Anas. ‘She’ll be some Nadir’s wife by now – or worse.’

Kiall reddened. ‘I will find her anyway. What is going on here? Who is this man? And where is Paccus?’

Anas shrugged. ‘After the raid a lot of families chose to move north, to settle nearer Talgithir. New families moved in. He is Norral; he’s a good man, and our leader. The stockade was his idea – as were the bows. We are going to defend ourselves in future, Kiall. The Nadren will not find us an easy target the next time they ride into Gothir lands.’

‘What about Paccus?’

‘He died three days ago.’

In the background, Chareos sheathed his knife and pushed Norral away from him. Beltzer and the others dismounted.

Kiall looked at the rest of the crowd. ‘We are not raiders,’ he said. ‘I am of this village, and we will be leaving come morning to seek the women stolen in the raid. We will bring them back. These warriors with me may not be known to you by sight, but you do know of them. This one is Chareos the Blademaster, and this is Beltzer of the Axe. The man with the dark beard is the famed archer Finn, and beside him is his friend Maggrig. They are the heroes of Bel-azar, my friends. The other man is a mystic from the lands of die Tattooed People; he will follow the spirit trail that leads us to the saving of our people.’

Anas stared hard at Beltzer. ‘He is the famous axeman?’

‘Yes I am, goat brain!’ thundered Beltzer, drawing his axe and holding the shining blade under Anas’ chin. ‘Per­haps you’d like to see more proof?’

‘Not at all,’ said Anas, stepping back.

Norral stepped alongside Chareos. ‘A thousand apolo­gies,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t know, of course. Please make my home your own. I would be honoured if you would spend the night at my house.’

Chareos nodded. ‘That is kind,’ he said at last, forcing a smile. ‘I also must apologise. You were quite right to be concerned at the appearance of six armed men, and your precautions were commendable.’