QUEST FOR LOST HEROES by David A. Gemmell

QUEST FOR LOST HEROES by David A. Gemmell

QUEST FOR LOST HEROES by David A. Gemmell

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Three men were down, the other four formed a half circle around the huge, ugly man in the bearskin jerkin.

‘You want to know what it’s like on the mountain?’ he asked them, his voice slurred. He spat blood from his mouth, which stained his red and silver beard. His attackers hurled themselves forward and he met the first with a crashing blow to the chin which sent the victim sprawling to the sawdust-covered floor. Blows rained in on him. He ducked his bald head and charged at the remaining three, but his foot slipped and he fell, dragging a man with him. A booted foot lashed into his face but he swung his arm to knock the man from his feet. The ugly man staggered upright and leaned back against the wooden counter, his eyes narrowing as two of his attackers drew daggers from their belts. Dropping his right arm, he pulled a long skinning-knife from his boot. It was double-edged and wickedly sharp.

The innkeeper moved silently behind him and the blow to the back of the ugly man’s neck was sudden. His eyes glazed. The knife dropped from his fingers and he fell face down to crash alongside his victims.

‘I’ll cut his puking heart out,’ said one of his attackers, moving forward.

‘That would not be wise,’ the innkeeper told him. ‘The man is a friend of mine. And I would be obliged to kill you.’ The words were spoken softly, but with a confidence which cut through the atmosphere of anger and sudden violence.

The man slammed his dagger home in its sheath. ‘Some­one will kill him one day,’ he said.

‘Sadly that is true,’ the innkeeper agreed, opening the flap on the counter and kneeling beside the unconscious man in the bearskin. ‘Are your friends alive?’

Two of the men were groaning, and a third struggled to sit. ‘Yes, they’re alive. What was that nonsense about a mountain?’

‘It’s not important,’ replied the innkeeper. ‘There’s a pitcher of ale by the barrel. You’re welcome to it – and there’ll be no charge for your drinks this evening.”

‘That’s good of you,’ said the man. ‘Here, let me give you a hand with him.’ Between them they hauled the ugly man upright and carried him through to a room at the rear of the inn, where a lantern burned brightly and a bed was ready, the sheets drawn back. They laid the unconscious warrior on the bed and the innkeeper sat beside him. He looked up at his helper; all the man’s anger had disappeared.

‘Go and enjoy your ale,’ said the innkeeper. ‘My wife will bring it to you.’

After the man had gone the innkeeper checked his friend’s pulse. It was beating strongly.

‘You can stop pretending now,’ he remarked. ‘We are alone.’

The ugly man’s eyes opened and he eased himself up on the thick pillows. ‘I didn’t want to have to kill anyone,’ he said, smiling sheepishly and showing a broken tooth. ‘Thanks for stopping it, Naza.’

‘It was nothing,’ Naza told him. ‘But why do you not let it rest? The past is gone.’

‘I was there, though. I was on the mountain. No one can take that from me.’

‘No one would want to, my friend,’ said Naza sadly.

The ugly man closed his eyes. ‘It wasn’t what I dreamed of,’ he said.

‘Nothing ever is,’ replied Naza, standing and blowing out the lantern.

Later, after Naza and his wife Mael had cleared away the tankards, pitchers and plates, and locked the doors, they sat together by the dying fire. Mael reached over and touched her husband’s arm; he smiled and patted her hand.

‘Why do you put up with him?’ asked Mael. ‘That’s the third fight this month. It’s bad for business.’

‘He’s my friend.’

‘If he was truly your friend, he would not cause you so much grief,’ she pointed out.