Quest for Lost Heroes (22 page)

'I never jest about war, ambassador. I merely ask that your man shows me the skills of the Kiatze. I would take it badly were you to refuse me.'

'I hope, my Lord Khan, that you will not interpret my words as a refusal. I merely ask you to reconsider. Is it not bad fortune for there to be a death at a feast?'

'That depends on who dies,' answered the Khan coldly.

'Very well, sire,' said Chien, turning to Sukai. 'The Khan wishes to see the battle skills of a Kiatze officer. Oblige him.'

'As you order,' answered Sukai. He rose and vaulted the table. He was not a tall man, nor did he have great width of shoulder. His face was broad and flat, his eyes dark; he was clean-shaven, but for a thin moustache which drooped to his chin. He drew his long curved double-handed sword and waited; his fingers brushed his chest. Chien read the signalled question and found it difficult to keep the pride from his eyes. 'Do you require me to die?' Sukai had asked. Chien lifted his hand to touch his carefully lacquered hair. Sukai understood - and bowed.

Jungir Khan pointed to a warrior at the far end of the hall. 'Show our guest how a Nadir fights,' he called, and the man leapt into the square.

'Excuse me, sire,' said Chien, his face expressionless.

'What is it?'

'It seems hardly fair to have only one man face Sukai. He will be mortally offended.'

The Khan's face darkened and he held up one hand. Silence fell. 'Our guest, the ambassador for the land of Kiatze, has said that one Nadir warrior is no match for his champion.' An angry murmur began. Again the Khan's hand cut the air and silence followed the move. 'Can this be true?'

'No!' came a roar from the feasters.

'But he also says that his champion will be insulted if he faces only one opponent. Should we insult so fine-looking a warrior?' There was no response and the Nadir waited for the lead from their Khan. 'No, we cannot insult our guests. Therefore you, Ulai, and you, Yet-zan, will join your comrade.' The two Nadir warriors clambered into the square. 'Let the battle commence,' Jungir ordered.

The Nadir warriors spread out in a circle around the still, motionless figure of Sukai, his great sword resting lightly on his shoulder. Suddenly the first Nadir ran forward, the others following. Sukai spun on his heel, his sword slicing out and down to cleave through the collarbone and chest of the first attacker. He swivelled and blocked a thrust, cut the head from the sword wielder, dropped to one knee and rammed his blade through the belly of the third man.

Sukai returned the great sword to its scabbard on his back, and waited with hands on hips. At his feet lay three corpses, their blood staining the mosaic floor.

'He is a fine warrior,' said Jungir Khan, his voice cutting the silence.

'Not especially, my lord,' replied Chien, masking his delight. 'I thought the last thrust sloppily executed. A fourth man might well have killed him at that moment.'

Jungir Khan said nothing but waved his hand. Servants moved into the square and the tables were pulled back to allow the bodies to be dragged from the hall. Sawdust was spread on the blood.

The feast continued for another hour, but Jungir did not speak again to the ambassador from the land of Kiatze.

Towards midnight the feasters began to drift away. Chien stood and bowed to Jungir. 'With your leave, my lord?'

The Khan nodded. 'Good fortune follow you on your journey,' he said.

'I am sure that if you will it, then it will be so,' answered Chien. 'My thanks to you for the feast. May the Gods bring you all the blessings you deserve.'

With Sukai following, Chien-tsu marched from the hall.

Back in his rooms he turned to Sukai.

'I apologise,' he said, 'for the affront to your dignity. It was unseemly to have agreed to the Khan's request.'

Sukai bowed low, dipping his head three times. 'No apology is necessary, lord. I live to serve you.'

Chien entered his rooms to find that Oshi had stripped the Nadir linen from the bed and covered the mattress with sheets of fine silk and a coverlet filled with goose down. The servant himself was asleep at the foot of the bed.

Chien removed his clothes and carefully folded them, placing them on the chair by the window. Then he climbed into bed and lay back, wishing that he could enjoy a hot, scented bath.

Oshi rose from the foot of the bed. 'Is there anything you require, my lord?'

'Nothing, thank you.'

Oshi settled down on the floor once more, and Chien stared out of the window at the bright stars. In all probability Mai-syn was dead. He could sense no warmth from her spirit. No more would her laughter be heard under Heaven, no more would her sweet singing grace the night. But he could not be sure and therefore would have to begin, at least, his journey to the south. Yet if she was dead, then once away from the city Chien had no doubt the party would be attacked and slaughtered. Jungir Khan would have no wish for news of his daughter's death to reach the Emperor. No, Chien's murder would be put down to robbers or bandits, and thus the flow of costly presents would continue for at least one more year.

There had to be a way to thwart the Khan. Honour demanded it.

For several hours he lay awake. At last a smile touched his face.

And he slept.

*

Despite the closeness of the midwinter solstice the warmth of an early spring was in the air as the questors rode down the long hills into the valley of Kiall's settlement. The young man found his emotions torn as he gazed down on the wooden buildings and the new stockade. He was home - and yet he was not home. All his dreams of childhood were resting here, the ghosts of his youth still playing in the high woods. He knew every bend and turn of the trails, all the secret places, the fallen trees and the hidden caves. Yet the village was changed. The burned-out buildings were no longer in evidence, and twelve new houses stood on the outskirts. Tanai the baker had been killed in the raid, his house and bakery gutted. Now a new bakery stood on the site, and Kiall felt that someone had reached into his memories with a hot knife, cutting and hacking at images dear to him.

Chareos led the small group down into the settlement and on through the unfinished stockade wall to the main square. People stopped their work to watch the riders and a tall, fat man in a tunic of green wool - a wide leather belt straining to hold his bulging belly - marched out to stand before them with brawny arms folded across his chest.

'What do you want here?' he asked, his voice deep, his tone pompous.

Chareos stepped down from the saddle and approached him. 'We are looking for shelter for the night.'

'Well, there's no welcome here for strangers.'

Kiall could stand no more; he lifted his leg over the pommel of his saddle and jumped to the ground. Tm no stranger?' he stormed. 'But who, in Bar's name, are you? I don't know you.'

'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.'

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.'