Memories crowded into Chareos’ mind, days of youth and ambition, times of wonder and glory, nights of despair and dark melancholy. What have you achieved? he asked himself. Indeed, what was there to achieve? He remembered the parting from his parents and the long, cold journey that had followed it; that had been hard on a young boy. The memories were jagged, and he pushed them away. His adolescence in New Gulgothir had been lonely despite the friendship and guidance of Attalis, his swordsmaster and guardian. Chareos was never at ease among the boys of his own age, but worse than that, he could not adapt to the curious lifestyle of the Gothir nobility. It was on a journey north that he had begun to understand them. He had passed a village that nestled against a mountain. Above the settlement was a monstrous overhang of rocks and boulders.
“That looks perilous,” Chareos observed to Attalis, and the old man nodded.
“It will fall one day,” he said. “Few will survive it.”
“Then why do people live there?”
“They always have, lad. And after a while they don’t notice it anymore. You can live with fear only so long, then you absorb it and it loses its power.”
The Gothir were like that, living always with the threat of a Nadir invasion they could not prevent. The nobility organized endless feasts, banquets, dances, and diverse entertainments, keeping only a token army to man the ramparts of Bel-azar. Chareos had come to manhood in those days of apathy and instant gratification. An expert swordsman, thanks to the tutelage of Attalis, he won a commission to the Sabers, the elite force formed by the lord regent. He recalled now with embarrassment his pride when the white cloak and silver saber had first been presented to him. He had stood with two hundred other young men before the gallery, his back straight, his eyes fixed on the lord regent on his ebony throne. He had felt like a man, and destiny was smiling on him.
Two weeks later his world lay in ashes. Attalis, always a proud man, became involved in a minor dispute with Targon, the lord regent’s champion. The dispute festered into a blood feud, and Targon challenged the old man publicly. The duel was fought in the royal courtyard. It did not last long. Chareos, on patrol with the Sabers, heard of it two days later. Attalis had been crippled by a piercing thrust to the shoulder and had fallen to his knees, his sword clattering to the stone. Targon had then stepped forward and sliced open the old man’s throat.
Chareos asked for compassionate leave to attend the funeral, and this was granted. He used his meager savings and a pledge against the next year’s pay to purchase a plot of ground, a marble sarcophagus, and a statue above the grave. This done, he sought out Targon. The man was taller by a head than Chareos and whip-lean; he was fast and confident of his talents. Once more the duel took place in the royal courtyard.
Targon flashed a mocking grin at the young officer. “I hope you’ll offer more sport than the old man,” he said. Chareos did not reply. His dark eyes were fixed on Targon’s swarthy features as he drew his borrowed rapier. “Frightened, boy?” asked Targon. “You should be.”
The lord regent lifted his arm, and both men presented their swords. The duel began in a blistering series of thrusts, parries, and ripostes. Chareos knew within seconds that he was outclassed, but he remained calm, sure in the knowledge that no matter what, his blade would find its home in the flesh of the man he faced. Back and forth across the courtyard the two warriors fought, their blades shimmering in the early morning sunlight. Three times Chareos felt his opponent’s sword nick his skin, twice on the upper arm, once on the cheek. A thin trickle of blood dripped to his chin. But Targon could find no opening for the killing thrust. Beginning to lose patience, he attacked with greater fury, but his young opponent blocked him at every turn.
The two men stepped back from one another, sweat on their faces. “You take a long time to die, boy,” remarked Targon.
Chareos smiled. “You have the sword skill of a Nadir tent wife,” he said. Targon flushed red and launched another attack. Chareos blocked the blade, rolled his wrist, and lanced his rapier deep into Targon’s right shoulder, slicing the muscles and tearing through ligament and sinew. Targon’s rapier fell from his hand, and for the first time fear showed in his pale eyes. For several seconds Chareos stood watching his opponent, then his blade cut the air with a hissing slash to rip across Targon’s throat.
The lord regent’s champion staggered back, clutching the wound. Blood bubbled through his fingers as he fell to his knees. Chareos walked forward and placed his boot against the dying man’s chest. With one contemptuous push, he hurled Targon to his back. There was silence among the spectators, and then the lord regent called Chareos forward while pages ran to Targon, seeking to stem the bleeding.
“You took not only his life but his dignity,” said the lord regent.
“If I could, my lord, I would follow him into hell and destroy his soul as well,” Chareos told him.
That afternoon Chareos had stood alone by Attalis’ tomb. “You are avenged, my friend,” he said. “He died as you died. I don’t know if that is important to you. But I remembered your teaching, and I did not allow my hatred to control me. You would have been proud of that, I think.” He was silent for a moment, and his eyes filled with tears. “You were a father to me, Attalis. I never told you how much you meant to me or ever thanked you for your friendship and your company. But I do so now. Rest easy, my friend.”
A quarter of a century later, outside Finn’s cabin, Chareos the Blademaster wept again for the old man, for the ruin of his hopes and the failure of his dreams.
It had always been Attalis’ wish that one day they would return home and restore all that had been lost. Without the old man Chareos had viewed that dream with cold logic and had ruthlessly pushed it aside.
Now he dried his eyes with the edge of his cloak. “What would you think of this quest, Attalis?” he whispered. “The hunt for the pig breeder’s daughter? Yes, I can almost hear your laughter.”
He stood and entered the cabin, where the fire was low, the room warm and cozy. Kiall and Beltzer were asleep before the hearth, Maggrig deep in dreams in the bed by the far wall. Lantern light was streaming from the back room, and Chareos walked quietly across the cabin floor and looked in. Finn was sitting with his feet on the workbench, idly cutting flights for new arrows.
“I couldn’t sleep,” said Chareos, moving in to sit opposite the black-bearded hunter.
Finn swung his legs to the floor and rubbed his eyes. “Nor me. What happened to us, eh?”
Chareos shrugged. In the lantern light Finn looked older, his face seemingly carved from teak. Deep shadows showed at his eyes and neck, and silver hairs glistened within his matted beard. “You seem to have found peace, my friend,” said Chareos. “Up here in the mountains you have freedom and more land than some kings.”
“Not much of a life for the boy, though he doesn’t complain.”
“The boy must be thirty-six years old. If he doesn’t like the life, he is old enough—and man enough—to say so.”
“Maybe,” said Finn, unconvinced. “And then again, maybe it is time to move on.”
“You’ll find nowhere more beautiful, Finn.”
“I know that,” snapped the hunter, “but there’s more to it. I’m no youngster, Chareos. I feel old. My bones ache in winter, and my eyes are not what they were. One day I’ll die. I don’t want to leave the … Maggrig … up here alone. I don’t like people much—nasty minds, foul manners, always looking to steal or lie or slander. But maybe that’s just me. Maggrig, he gets on with folks, likes company. It’s time he learned how to live with people again.”
“Think about it some more, Finn,” advised Chareos. “You are happy here.”
“I was. But nothing lasts forever, Blademaster. Not life, not love, not dreams. I reckon I’ve had more than my share of all three. I’m pretty much content.”
“What will you do?”
Finn looked up and met Chareos’ gaze. “I never had many friends. Never needed them, I reckon. But you and that fat pig are
the closest I got to family. So we’ll come with you—if you want us, that is.”
“You don’t need to ask, Finn.”
“Good,” said Finn, rising. “That’s a burden off my heart. Maybe we’ll even find the girl. Who knows?”
Tsudai watched the auction with little interest. He had no taste for these pale-skinned Gothir women with their cold blue eyes and their huge cowlike breasts. He swung away from the window and looked at the dark-haired woman seated on the satin-covered divan. Now there was a real Nadir beauty.
The first time he had seen her had been when Tenaka Khan had brought her to Ulrickham. She had been fourteen years old, her skin golden, her eyes proud. Tsudai had always believed proud women were the devil’s curse, and he had longed to take a whip to her, to see her kneeling at his feet. Even now the memory brought a surge of arousal.
He moved to sit beside her. As she smiled thinly and edged back from him, his face reddened, but he forced himself to remain calm.
“Your brother, Jungir, sends greetings. He hopes that you are in good health,” said Tsudai. “I will tell him that you are, for I have never seen you look more beautiful, Tanaki.”
“Why should I not be in good health?” she asked him. “Did Jungir not send me to this desolate land in order that I might enjoy the freshness of the air?”
“It was for your own safety, Princess. There were rumors of plots and fear for your life.”
She laughed then, the musical sound doing little to ease Tsudai’s physical discomfort. Her eyes met his, and for the first time it seemed to him that she smiled with genuine warmth.
“Why do we play such foolish games, Tsudai? There is no one else here, and we both know why my brother sent me here. He killed his own brothers and, possibly, his own father. Why should he balk at slaying his sister? I’ll tell you why. Because I am the only hope the Nadir have for providing a male heir. For all his skill with horses and weapons, Jungir is sterile.”
Tsudai blanched. “You must not say that! If I was to repeat that to the khan …”
“Not even you would dare to voice that, even at second hand. Now, why are you really here, Tsudai?”
He swallowed his anger, feeling uncomfortable sitting there dressed in the full armor of his rank. He reached for the buckle of his black and silver breastplate.
“Do not undress,” she chided him. “That would not be seemly.”
“Seemly? What would you know of seemly? You take a succession of barbarian lovers, discarding them daily. That is no way for a person of your bloodline to behave.”
Tanaki stood and stretched her arms over her head. Her figure was slim and lithe, and the short silken tunic rode up to show smooth golden thighs.
“You do this to fire my blood,” snapped Tsudai, rising to his feet, aware of arousal coursing through him.
“A volcano could not fire you,” she said. “Now, for the last time, tell me why you are here.”
He looked hard into her violet eyes and suppressed the desire to strike her, to hammer her to her knees before him.
“Your brother merely wishes to know of your well-being,” Tsudai said. “Is that so hard to understand?”
She laughed, the sound rippling across his emotions like beestings. “My well-being? How sweet of him! I saw your aide looking over the new slaves. The great warrior Tsudai, now reduced to finding concubines. Have you seen any that please you, Tsudai?”
“I do not find any of them attractive, though there are one or two that may suit. But you wrong me, Tanaki. I came here in order that I might speak with you. You know how perilous your position is. You know that at any time your death could become expedient. Four years ago you had the opportunity to become my wife. Now I offer that gift to you once more. Agree and you will be safe.”
She moved closer, her perfume washing over him. Lifting her hands, she rested them on his shoulders and looked deeply into his dark, slanted eyes.
“Safe? With you? I remember when you sought my hand. I considered it with due seriousness. I sent spies into your palace, Tsudai. Not one of your women lacks scars from the whip. I know what you want,” she whispered huskily, “and you will never have it!” Then she laughed again and stepped back. His hand lashed out. She swayed out of his reach, then stepped inside. Tsudai froze as the dagger point touched his neck. “I could kill you now,” she told him.
It was his turn to laugh as he pushed her hand away. “You still want to live, though, do you not? And an attack on me would bring you down. I offered you my hand, Tanaki. But now I will wait. And when the day comes for you to suffer, it will be Tsudai who rides to you. It will be Tsudai to whom you will beg. And I tell you now that no pleas will be heard. When next we meet, you will not be so haughty.”
The warrior spun on his heel and stalked from the room. Tanaki returned the small dagger to its sheath and poured herself a goblet of wine.
It had been foolish to anger Tsudai. He was Jungir Khan’s most trusted adviser, and his was a friendship it would have been wise to court. But there was something about the man, a coldness within the soul, a meanness of spirit, that she could not tolerate. Her father, Tenaka, had distrusted him. “I have nothing against a man who disciplines his household,” Tenaka had told his daughter, “but any man who needs a whip to deal with a woman has no place in my service.”
Tanaki swallowed hard as she pictured her father, his violet eyes full of warmth, his smile like the dawn light, welcoming, reassuring. Her stomach knotted, and tears welled in her eyes. How could he be dead? How could the greatest man in the world be dead?
Blinking away her tears, she wandered to the window and watched the auction, wondering which of the women Tsudai would purchase. Rarely did she feel sorry for any of the slaves. But today …
She saw a dark-haired young woman pulled to the block, her yellow dress stripped from her. She had a good figure, and her breasts were not overlarge. Tanaki’s eyes flicked to Tsudai’s bidder, and she saw his hand rise.
There were several other bidders, but the woman was sold to the Nadir general.
“Tread warily, girl,” whispered Tanaki. “Your life depends on it.”
5
MAGGRIG’S FEVER-INDUCED WEAKNESS lasted a further five days, during which time Chareos continued to teach Kiall the elementary moves of swordplay. Beltzer, his mood foul, took to walking alone in the mountain woods. Finn spent much of the time in his workshop, completing a new longbow.
The snow all but disappeared from around the cabin, and the sun shone with summer warmth over the mountains.
On the morning of the sixth day, as the questers prepared to set off for the Valley of the Shrieking Gateway, Finn called Beltzer to his workshop. The others gathered around as the hunter pulled clear a brass-bound oak chest from its hiding place beneath a bench seat. Finn opened the chest and lifted out a long object wrapped in oiled skins. He placed it on the benchtop and cut the thong bindings with his hunting knife. He gestured to Beltzer. “It’s yours. Take it.”
The giant unwrapped the skins, and there lay a gleaming double-headed ax. The haft and handle were as long as a man’s arm, oiled oak reinforced with silver wire. The heads were curved and sharp, acid-etched and decorated with silver runes. Beltzer’s hand curled around the haft, lifting the weapon.
“Nice to have it back,” he said, and without another word stalked from the workshop.
“Ignorant, ungrateful pig,” stormed Maggrig. “He didn’t even say thank you.”
Finn shrugged and gave a rare smile. “It is enough that he has it,” he said.
“But it cost you a fortune. We had no salt for two years and precious little else.”
“Forget it. It is past.”
Chareos moved forward and placed his hand on Finn’s shoulder. “That was nobly done. He wasn’t the same man without that ax. He sold it while drunk in Talgithir and never knew what became of it.”
“I know. Let’s be on our way.”
The journey to the valley took three days. They saw n
o sign of any Nadren and only once caught sight of a single rider far to the south. The air was thin here, and the questers talked little. At night they sat beside campfires but slept early and rose with the dawn.
Kiall found it a curious time. It was an adventure, full of promise, yet these men, these comrades of war, hardly spoke at all. When they did, it was to discuss the weather or the preparation of food. Not once did they mention the Gateway, or the Nadir, or the quest. And when Kiall tried to introduce such topics to the conversation, they were brushed aside with shrugs.
The valley proved an anticlimax to Kiall. It was just like several others they had journeyed through, its pine-cloaked flanks dropping away into a deep cleft between the mountains. There were meadows at the base, and a stream ran along its length. Deer moved across the gentle hills, and there were sheep and goats grazing close by.
Finn and Maggrig chose a campsite, removed their packs, took up their bows, and moved off to hunt for supper. Chareos climbed a nearby hill and scanned the surrounding countryside while Beltzer prepared a fire and sat, watching the flames flicker and dance.
Kiall seated himself opposite the bald giant. “It is a beautiful ax,” he said.
“The best,” Beltzer grunted. “It is said that Druss the Legend had an ax from the Elder Days that never showed rust and never lost its edge. But I don’t believe it was better than this one.”
“You carried that at Bel-azar?”
Beltzer glanced up, his small, round eyes fixing to Kiall. “What is this fascination you have with that place? You weren’t there—you don’t know what it was like.”
“It was glorious. It is part of our history,” said Kiall. “The few against the many. It was a time of heroes.”
“It was a time of survivors—like all wars. There were good men there who died on the first day and cowards who lasted almost until the end. There were thieves there and men who had raped or murdered. There was the stench of open bowels and split entrails. There was screaming and begging and whimpering. There was nothing good about Bel-azar. Nothing.”