Quest for Lost Heroes (6 page)

He passed through a doorway and mounted the circular stair to the first-floor corridor. At the far end he entered the double room he had paid for that afternoon. The villager still slept, his breathing deep and slow; the draught of
lirium
administered by the apothecary would keep him unconscious until dawn. Chareos had cleaned the whip wounds and covered them with goose-grease, pressing a large square of linen to the villager's back. The lash cuts were not deep but the skin around them had peeled back, burnt by the leather of the whip.

Chareos banked up the fire in the hearth on the south wall. Autumn was approaching, and a chill wind hissed through the warped window-frames. He removed his sword-belt and sat in a wide, deep leather chair by the fire. Tired now, yet his mind would not relax. The sanctuary of the monastery seemed distant, and depression hit him like a physical blow. Today the Earl had tried to have him killed - and for what? All because of the actions of an arrogant child. He glanced at the sleeping villager. The boy had seen his village razed, his loved ones taken, and had now been whipped to add to his agony. Justice was for the rich ... it always had been. Chareos leaned forward and threw a chunk of wood on the fire. One of the three lanterns on the wall guttered and died and he checked the others. They were low and he pulled the bell-rope by the west wall.

After some minutes a serving-maid tapped at the door. He asked for oil and ordered a meal and some wine. She was gone for half an hour, in which time a second lantern failed.

The villager groaned in his sleep, whispering a name. Chareos moved over to him, but the youth faded back into slumber.

The maid returned with a jug of oil. Tm sorry for the delay, sir, but we're full tonight and two of the girls have not come in.' She refilled the lanterns and lit them with a long taper. 'Your food will be up soon. There is no beef, but the lamb is good.'

'It will suffice.'

She stopped in the doorway and glanced back. 'Is he the villager who was scourged today?' she whispered.

'He is.'

'And you would be Chareos the monk?'

He nodded and she stepped back into the room. She was short and plump, with corn-coloured hair and a round, pretty face. 'Perhaps I shouldn't speak out of turn, sir, but there are men looking for you - men with swords. One of them has a bandage upon his brow.'

'Do they know I am here?'

'Yes, sir. There are three men in the stable and two others are now sitting in the main hall. I think there may be more.'

'Thank you kindly,' he said, pressing a half silver piece into her hand.

After she had gone he bolted the door, returned to the fire and dozed until there was another tap at the door. He slid his sabre from the scabbard. 'Who is it?' he called.

'It's me, sir. I have your food and wine.'

He pulled back the bolts and opened the door. She came in and laid the wooden tray on the narrow table by the chair. They are still there, sir. And the man with the bandage is talking to Finbale - the owner.'

'Thank you.'

'You could leave through the servants' quarters,' she offered.

'My horses are in the stable. Do not fear for me.'

She smiled. 'It was good what you did for him,' she said and then she left, pulling the door shut behind her. Chareos pushed home the bolt and settled down to his meal. The meat was tender, the vegetables soft and overcooked and the wine barely passable; even so, the meal filled his belly and he settled down to sleep in the chair. His dreams were troubled, but when he awoke they vanished like smoke in the breeze. Pre-dawn light had shaded the sky to a dark grey. The fire was almost dead, the room chill; Chareos added tinder to the glowing embers, blowing the flames to life, then piled on larger chunks. He was stiff and cold, and his neck ached. With the fire blazing once more, he moved to the villager. The youth's breathing was more shallow now. Chareos touched his arm and the villager groaned and opened his eyes.

He tried to sit up but pain hit him and he sank back.

'Your wounds are clean,' said Chareos, 'and though they must be painful I suggest you rise and dress. I have bought a horse for you. And we leave the city this morning.'

'Thank you ... for your help. My name is Kiall.' The youth sat up, his face twisted by the pain clawing at his back.

'The wounds will heal well,' Chareos told him. 'They are clean and not deep. The pain is from the whip-burns, but that will pass in three or four days.'

'I do not know your name,' said Kiall.

'Chareos. Now get dressed. There are men waiting who will make our departure troublesome.'

'Chareos? The hero of Bel-azar?'

'Yes,' snapped Chareos, 'the wondrous giant of song and tale. Did you hear me, boy? We are in danger. Now get dressed.'

Kiall pushed himself to his feet and struggled into his troos and boots, but could not raise his arms to pull on his shirt. Chareos helped him. The lash marks extended all the way to Kiall's hip and he could not fasten his belt. 'Why are we in danger?' he asked.

Chareos shrugged. 'I doubt it is to do with you. I had a duel with a man named Logar and I would imagine he is feeling somewhat humiliated. Now I want you to go down to the stable. My horses are there. Mine is the grey and the saddle is by the stall. You know how to saddle a horse?'

'I was once a stable-boy.'

'Good. Make sure the cinch is tight enough. Two stalls down, there is a swaybacked black gelding; it was the best I could find for you. He's old and near worn out, but he will get you back to your village.'

'I will not return to the village,' said Kiall softly. 'I will hunt down the raiders who took Ravenna and the others.'

'A sound and sensible idea,' said Chareos irritably, 'but for now be so good as to saddle my horse.'

Kiall reddened. 'I may owe you my life, but do not mock me,' he said. 'I have loved Ravenna for years and I will not rest until she is free, or I am dead.'

'The latter is what you will be. But it is your life. My horse, if you please?'

Kiall opened his mouth, but said nothing. Shaking his head, he left the room. Chareos waited for several minutes and then walked down the stairs to the kitchen where two scullery servants were preparing the dough for the day's bread. He summoned the first and asked her to pack some provisions for him - salt beef, a ham, corn biscuits and a small sack of oats. With his order filled, he paid her and wandered through the now deserted main hall. The innkeeper, Finbale, was hanging freshly washed tankards on hooks above the bar. He nodded and smiled as Chareos moved towards the door and Chareos stopped and approached the man.

'Good morning,' said Finbale, a wide grin showing the gaps in his teeth.

'And to you,' responded Chareos. 'Will you have my horse brought to the door?'

'The stable is only across the yard, sir. And my boy is not here yet.'

'Then do it yourself,' said Chareos coldly.

'I'm very busy, sir,' Finbale answered, the smile vanishing and he turned back to his chores.

So, thought Chareos, they are still here. Holding his provisions in his left hand, he stepped out into the yard. All was quiet, and the dawn was breaking to the east. The morning was chill and fresh, and the smell of frying bacon hung in the air. Glancing around the yard, Chareos saw a wagon close by and a short wall leading to the chicken-run. To the left the stable door was open, but there was no sign of Kiall. As Chareos moved out into the open, a man ran towards him from the side of the building; he dropped his provisions and drew his sabre. Two more men came into view from behind the wagon and then Logar appeared from the stable. His forehead was bandaged, but blood was seeping through the linen.

'You are very good with a rapier,' said Logar. 'But how do you fare with the sabre?'

'I am better with a sabre,' Chareos answered.

'In that case we will take no chances,' hissed Logar. 'Kill him!'

As two swordsmen leapt forward Chareos blocked a wild slash, spun on his heel to avoid a second thrust and backhanded his blade across the first man's throat. Blood welled from the cut and the attacker fell, dropping his sword and thrusting his fingers at the wound in a vain attempt to stem the flow of his life. The second attacker sent a cut at Chareos' head but he ducked under it and thrust his own blade through the man's chest. A third swordsman fell back, his eyes widening.

'Well?' said Chareos, glaring at Logar, and the Earl's champion screamed and launched an attack. Chareos blocked the first slash, leapt back from a sweeping slice which would have disembowelled him, then swept a flashing riposte that plunged into Logar's groin, severing the huge artery at the top of the inner thigh. Logar dropped his sabre and stared in disbelief at the blood drenching his leggings; then his legs gave way and he fell to his knees before Chareos. He looked up at his killer and blinked before toppling sideways to the ground. Chareos moved to the body, pulling free the sword-belt and sliding the dead man's sabre back into the scabbard. When Kiall rode into the yard, leading Chareos' grey, the former monk tossed Logar's sabre to the villager, gathered his provisions and swung into the saddle. The last swordsman stood by, saying nothing. Chareos ignored him and steered his mount towards the southern gate.

*

The yard had been roped off and guards stood by the entrances. Behind them a crowd had gathered, straining to see the stiffening corpses. The Earl stood over the body of Logar, staring down at the grey, bloodless face.

'The facts speak for themselves,' he said, pointing at the body. 'See, he has no sword. He was murdered and I want the killer brought to justice. Who would have thought that a hero of Bel-azar would stoop to such a base deed?' The retainers grouped around him said nothing, and the surviving swordsman turned his eyes from the Earl.

'Take twenty men,' the Earl ordered Salida, his Captain of Lancers, 'and bring Chareos back here.'

Salida cleared his throat. 'My lord, it was not like Logar to walk unarmed - and these other two men had swords drawn. Chareos is a master bladesman. I cannot believe . . .'

'Enough!' snapped the Earl and swung to the survivor. 'You . . . what is your name again?'

'Kypha, my lord,' replied the man, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

'Was Logar armed when Chareos slew him?'

'No, my lord.'

'There you have it then,' said the Earl. 'And you have the evidence of your eyes. Do you see a sword?'

'No, my lord,' said Salida. 'I will fetch him. What of the villager?"

'He was an accessory to murder; he will hang alongside Chareos.'

*

The twenty-two captive women sat close together in four open wagons. On either side, warriors rode, grim men and fierce-eyed. Ravenna was in the second wagon, separated from her friends. Around her were women and girls taken in two other raids. All were frightened, and there was little conversation.

Two days before a girl had tried to escape; she had leapt from a wagon at dusk and run for the trees, but they had ridden her down in seconds and dragged her back. The captives had been assembled in a circle to watch the girl being whipped, and her whimpering screams still sounded in Ravenna's ears.

After that, several of the men had dragged her away from the camp and raped her. Then her arms were tied and she was flung down near the other prisoners.

'There is a lesson to be learnt here,' said a man with a scarred face. 'You are slaves and you will begin to think like slaves. That way, you will survive. Any slave who attempts to run will be treated more harshly than this one. Remember these words.'

Ravenna would remember . . .

The time to escape would not be while the Nadren held them. No, it was necessary to be more cunning. She would wait until she was bought by some lecherous Nadir. She would be pliant and helpful, loving and grateful . . . and when he had grown confident of her emotions - then she would run.

'Where are you from?' whispered the woman beside her. Ravenna told her.

'I visited your village once. For the Summer Solstice Fair.' Ravenna looked at the bony figure, scanning the lean, angular face and the shining black hair. She could not remember her.

'Are you wed?' she asked.

'Yes,' said the woman, shrugging. 'But that does not matter any more.'

'No,' Ravenna agreed.

'And you?'

'I was due to marry. Eighteen - no, seventeen - days from now.'

'Are you a virgin?' asked the woman, her voice dropping lower.

'No.'

'You are from now on. They will ask. Virgins fetch higher prices. And it will mean these . . . pigs . . . will not touch you. You understand?'

'Yes. But surely the man who buys me. . . .'

'What do they know? Men! Find yourself a sharp pin, and on the first night cut yourself.'

Ravenna nodded. 'Thank you. I will remember that.'

They lapsed into silence as the wagons moved on. The raiders rode warily and Ravenna could not stop herself scanning the horizon.

'Do not expect help,' the woman told her.