QUEST FOR LOST HEROES by David A. Gemmell

Kiall put the goblet down on the table-top and rose, his hands shaking. ‘I will say this once to you, Jarel. When I bring her back, if there is one evil word from you I will kill you.’

‘You?’ snorted Jarel. ‘Dream on, Kiall.’

Kiall walked forward to where Jarel stood with hands on hips, grinning. He was a head taller than Kiall and far the heavier. Kiall’s fist slammed into the bigger man’s face, rocking him back on his heels. Blood spurted from his smashed lips and his jaw dropped, then anger blazed in his eyes and he sprang forward – only to jerk to a stop as he saw the long hunting-knife in Kiall’s hand. Fear touched him then.

Kiall saw it and smiled. ‘Remember my warning, Jarel. Remember it well.’

‘I’ll remember,’ said the farmer, ‘but you remember this: no one here wants the women back. So what will you do? Build a new place for them? Two of the men whose wives were taken have remarried. Twenty other families have gone, and no one knows where. What do the captives have to come back to? No one cares any more.’

‘I care,’ said Kiall. ‘I care very much.’ He turned to Karyn. ‘Thank you for your hospitality.’ She said nothing as he sheathed his knife and walked out into the sunlight.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Okas sat cross-legged beneath a spreading elm and concen­trated on the village below. His vision swam and the buildings blurred and faded like mist under sunlight. He had no control now, and time ceased to have meaning. He saw mountains of ice swelling on the land, filling the hollows, rearing from the peaks. Slowly, reluctantly though the centuries, the ice gave way and the long grass grew. Huge lumbering creatures moved across the face of the valley, their massive limbs brushing against new trees and snapping the stems. Aeons passed and the grass grew. The sharp hills were smoothed by the winds of time. The first oak tree took root on the southern hill, binding the soil. Birds flocked to its branches. Seeds in their droppings caused other trees to grow and soon Okas saw a young forest stretching across the hills.

The first group of men appeared from the west, clad in skins and furs and carrying weapons of bone and stone. They camped by the stream, hunted the great elk and moved on.

Others followed them, and on one bright day a young man walked the hills with a woman by his side. He pointed at the land, his arm sweeping to encompass the mountains. He built a home with a long sloping roof. There was no chimney; two holes were left at the points of the roof’s triangle and Okas saw the smoke drifting from them as the snows fell. Other travellers settled close by over the years and the young man, now a leader, grew old.

A savage tribe entered the valley, slaying all who lived there. For some time they took over the homes but then, like all nomads, they moved on. The houses rotted and fell to feed the earth; grass grew over the footings.

Okas watched as the centuries slid by, waiting with limitless patience, judging the passage of time by the movement of the stars. At last he saw the familiar build­ings of the near present and moved his spirit close to the village. Focusing on Kiall, he found himself drawn to a small house on the western side. There he watched the birth of a boy, saw the proud smile on the face of the weary mother, saw the happiness in the eyes of Kiall’s father as he tenderly lifted his son.

Okas relaxed and let the vision flow. He saw Kiall’s mother die of a fever when the boy was first walking, saw the father injured in a fall and losing his life to gangrene from the poisoned wound. He watched the boy – raised by strangers – grow tall. Then he saw the dark-haired girl, Ravenna.

At last he came to the raid, the Nadren thundering into the village with bright swords and gleaming lances.

Okas pulled his gaze from the slaughter and waited until the raiders had taken their captives back into the hills, where wagons stood loaded with chains and manacles.