QUEST FOR LOST HEROES by David A. Gemmell

Norral bowed.

The food he supplied them was excellent, cooked by his two plump comely daughters, Bea and Kara. But the evening was dominated by Norral, who told them the story of his largely uninteresting life in great detail, punctuating it with anecdotes concerning famous Gothir statesmen, poets or nobles. Each story had the same ending: how the famous complimented Norral on his sagacity, wit, far-sightedness and intelligence.

Beltzer was the first to grab a jug of wine and wander out into the cool night air. Maggrig and Finn soon followed. Unconcerned by the stream of sound from Norral, Okas curled up on the floor to sleep.

Chareos and Kiall sat with the fat farmer until after midnight, but when he showed no sign of fatigue Chareos yawned theatrically. ‘I must thank you,’ he said, ‘for a most entertaining evening. But we will be leaving soon after dawn and, if you will excuse me, I will leave you in Kiall’s company. He is younger than the rest of us, and I am sure will learn much from you.’

Rigid with boredom, Kiall contained his anger and set­tled himself for more of Norral’s history. But with the last of the heroes of Bel-azar gone, Norral had no wish to converse with a former villager. He excused himself and took to his bed.

Kiall stood and walked out into the night. Only Beltzer remained awake and Kiall sat down beside him.

‘Did the old windbag run out of stories?’ the giant asked.

‘No. He ran out of listeners.’

‘By the Gods, he doesn’t need a stockade; he could just visit a Nadren village for an evening. The raiders would avoid this place like a plague pit.’

Kiall said nothing, but sat with his chin resting on his hands staring at the homes around him. Golden light showed in thin beams from the closed shutters of the windows.

‘What ails you, boy?’ asked Beltzer, draining the last of his wine.

‘It is all changed,’ replied Kiall. ‘It’s not my home any more.’

‘Everything changes,’ said Beltzer, ‘except the moun­tains and the sky.’

‘But it was only a few months ago. Now . . . it’s as if Ravenna never existed.’

‘They can’t afford to stay in mourning, Kiall. Look around you. This is a working village; there are crops to be planted, cultivated, harvested; animals to be fed, watered, cared for. Ravenna was last year’s crop. Gods, man, we’re all of us last year’s crop.’

‘It shouldn’t be that way,’ argued Kiall.

‘Wrong, boy. It is the only way it can be.’ He picked up the empty jug and passed it to Kiall. ‘What do you see?’

‘What is there to see? You finished it all.’

‘Exactly. The wine was good, but now it isn’t here any more. Worse, I’ll piss it against a tree tomorrow – then no one could tell if it was wine or water.’

‘We’re not talking about wine – we’re talking about people. About Ravenna.’

‘There’s no difference. They mourned . . . now they’re living again.’

Soon after dawn Okas vanished into the hills to seek the spirit trails. Kiall wandered in search of Ravenna’s sister and found her at the house of Jarel. She smiled and invited him inside where Jarel was sitting by the window, staring out over the mountains. Karyn poured Kiall a goblet of watered wine.

‘It is good to see you again,’ she said, smiling. She looked so like Ravenna that his heart lurched – the same wide eyes, the same dark hair gleaming as if oiled.

‘And you,’ he replied. ‘How are you faring?’

‘I’m going to have Jarel’s child in the autumn,’ she told him.

‘I congratulate you both,’ he said.

Jarel swung from the window. He was a strongly built young man with black, tightly curled hair and deep-set blue eyes.

‘Why must you pursue this business?’ he asked. ‘Why chase after the dead?’

‘Because she is not dead,’ answered Kiall.

‘As good as,’ snapped Jarel. ‘She is tainted . . . finished among civilised people.’

‘Not for me.’

‘Always the dreamer. She used to talk of you, Kiall; she used to laugh at you for your silly ideas. Well, don’t bring her back here, she won’t be welcome.’