“You are kind, sir,” said Mael.
Chareos walked through to the kitchen. Several tables had been overturned and there were broken pots and crockery on the floor, but a large pot of stew still simmered on the huge iron stove. A serving maid entered from the rear of the building. Short and slender with dark, curled hair, she curtseyed. “May I help you, sir?” she inquired.
“Bring some food, stew, meat, bread … whatever, to the upper guest room. We will also need some wine—five goblets. Oh, yes, and some linen for bandages. Will you do it now?” he asked, handing her a half silver piece. She pocketed the coin and curtseyed once more.
Chareos returned to his room, where Finn was sitting on one wide bed, dabbing with a cloth at the wound on Maggrig’s head; it was a shallow cut, and his temple was bruised and swollen. Beltzer was sitting by the fire with a pitcher of ale in his hands; Kiall was standing by the window, looking down at the former battleground. He had surprised himself that day, leading the farm workers into the fight; the excitement had been great, and his fears had vanished in the chaos of the skirmish. Now he felt like a warrior. He glanced up at the sky. How blue it was, how fresh and clean the air. He turned and smiled at Chareos, then switched his gaze to Beltzer. Ugly the man was, but he had swung his ax like a giant of legend. He had not seen Maggrig and Finn in action, but merely to be in the same room as the heroes of Bel-azar filled him with pride.
A serving maid brought food, but Kiall was no longer hungry. Beltzer took his share, while Chareos sat quietly opposite the giant, gazing into the fire. Finn had applied a linen bandage to Maggrig’s head, and the younger man lay back on the bed and fell asleep. There was no conversation, and Kiall pulled up a chair and sat in silence. His hands began to shake, and his stomach heaved. Chareos saw this and passed across a chunk of black bread.
“Eat it,” he said. Kiall nodded and chewed at the crust, and the nausea passed.
“What now?” said Beltzer, laying the empty pitcher beside the chair. “Back to chopping wood and punching timbermen?”
“What do you want?” asked Chareos softly.
“I want it to be the way it was,” the giant answered.
“Nothing is the way it was. And I’ll tell you something, Beltzer, old friend—it never was the way it was.”
“I’m supposed to understand that, am I? You always were so clever with words. But they don’t mean pig wind. I’m not old; I can hold my own with any man. I can drink a mountain of ale and still lift a barrel of sand over my head. And there’s no man alive can stand against me in battle.”
“That’s probably true,” Chareos agreed, “but you are not young, either. What are you, Beltzer? Fifty?”
“Forty-eight. And that’s not old.”
“It’s older than Kalin was at Bel-azar. And didn’t you advise him to go home and leave the fighting to the younger men?”
“It was a jest,” snapped Beltzer. “And I didn’t know then what I know now. Gods, Blademaster, there must be something for me!”
Chareos eased himself back in his chair and stretched his legs to the fire. “I am on a quest,” he said softly.
Beltzer leaned forward, his eyes shining. “Tell me,” he invited.
“I am helping young Kiall rescue a woman stolen by the Nadren.”
“A noblewoman? A princess?”
“No, a village girl—the daughter of a pig breeder.”
“What? Why? Where is the glory in that? The Nadren have been stealing women for centuries. Who’ll sing a song about the rescue of a pig breeder’s daughter?”
“No one,” admitted Chareos, “but if you’d rather stay here and chop wood …”
“I didn’t say that—don’t put words in my mouth. Which group took her?”
“No one knows.”
“Which Nadir camp did they head for?”
Chareos shrugged. “We don’t know.”
“If you are mocking me, I’ll break your head,” Beltzer said. “What do we know?”
“We know she was taken. Now all we have to do is find her and steal her back.”
“You’d need the Tattooed Man for that, and he’s gone. Probably dead by now.”
“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Chareos, “but I shall ride into the valley and seek him. Unless you have a better plan.”
“Anything’s better than that,” said Beltzer. “They’ll take your head and shrink it down to wear on a belt. You don’t even speak the language.”
“You do.”
“I need some more ale,” said Beltzer, lurching to his feet and striding from the room.
“Who is the Tattooed Man?” asked Kiall. “And where is the valley?”
“The Gateway is not of this world,” answered Finn, moving to join them. “And only a moonstruck fool would venture there. What game are you playing, Chareos? No one goes into the valley.”
“It is no game, Finn,” Chareos told him. “The quest, as it stands, is impossible … unless we can find a man who can follow spirit trails. Do you know of any as skilled as Okas?”
“None,” admitted Finn. “But the valley? I wouldn’t go there if my soul depended on it. Neither will Beltzer. They don’t like visitors.”
“I’ll go there with you,” said Kiall. “I’ll go anywhere if it means a chance to find Ravenna.”
“I can remember when we sounded like that,” Finn mused. “It’s a wonder we’ve survived so long, Blademaster. If you want to die, why not leap from a cliff or open your veins with a sharp blade? The Tattooed People will kill you slowly. But then, you know that.”
Chareos turned to Finn and smiled. “I know the perils, Finn, and I won’t go without Beltzer. For some reason Okas seemed to like him.”
“Perhaps it was the smell,” offered Finn. “He was the only man I ever met who stank worse than the big man. Even so, it is not a journey I would undertake.”
“What is so terrible there?” Kiall asked.
Finn scratched at his beard. “According to Okas, the land is hot and there are beasts there who feed on human flesh. Also, the Tattooed People collect heads and shrink them down by magic. About twenty years ago a nobleman named Carsis led a small force into the valley; their shrunken heads were left on spears at the entrance. For ten years, whenever a traveler passed by, the heads would shriek warnings. I saw them once—aye, and heard them. They spoke of the terrors of hell.”
“They are not there now, then?” said Kiall.
“No. The lord regent sent a section of lancers into the hills. They built a great fire and burned the heads.”
“Do the Tattooed People venture into our lands?”
“Sometimes, boy. And that’s when a man locks his doors and sits up at night with sword and bow close at hand. You still want to go there?”
Kiall swallowed hard. “I will go wherever I have to.”
“Spoken like a hero,” said Finn sourly.
The door opened, and Beltzer entered, carrying two pitchers of ale. “I’ll come with you,” he told Chareos.
“Spoken like an idiot,” whispered Finn.
The soldiers dug a shallow trench a half mile from the settlement. The bodies of the Nadren, stripped of their armor and weapons, were unceremoniously flung into it. The corpses of the soldiers, eleven in all, were wrapped in their blankets and reverently placed on the back of a wagon, ready for burial with honors in Talgithir.
Salida ordered the Nadren grave to be filled with rocks to prevent wolves and foxes from digging for food. It was almost dusk, and he was bone-weary. Seven of the dead had been new recruits, unused to war, but four had been seasoned veterans. One of them had been his valet, a bright, amusing man named Caphes; he had a wife and five sons in Talgithir, and Salida did not relish the visit he would have to make to the family home. The sound of a horse’s hooves made him turn, and he saw Chareos riding toward him on a huge white stallion.
The former monk dismounted and approached.
“I wanted to make sure,” said Chareos, “that you had no second t
houghts on the matter of my arrest.”
Salida gazed into the man’s dark eyes, unable to read the thoughts of the tall swordsman before him. “No, I have not,” he said, and Chareos nodded.
“You are a good man, Salida. Here, I have brought Logar’s saber.” He handed the scabbarded weapon to the officer. Dipping his hand into the sack hung behind his saddle, he produced a wineskin and two leather-covered brass cups. “Join me?” he inquired.
“Why not? But let’s move away from the stench of death. I’ve had my fill of it.”
“You look tired,” Chareos told him. “And not just because of the battle, I think.”
They strolled to a group of boulders and sat down; Salida unbuckled his iron breastplate and laid it beside him. “No, it is not. I am a family man now, Chareos. There was a time when I believed that soldiers could make a difference.” He accepted a goblet of red wine and sipped it. “But now? I have three sons and a beautiful wife. The Nadir are gathering again, and one day soon they will cross the mountains and destroy the Gothir. What then of my sons and their dreams?”
“Maybe they will not come,” said Chareos. “The Gothir have little; this is not a rich land.”
“They don’t care about riches; they live for war. And what do we have to oppose them? The army has been cut to two thousand men. We couldn’t even hold Bel-azar now.” He drained his wine and held out the cup for more. Chareos filled it and sat silently.
“I was born out of my time,” continued Salida, forcing a smile. “I should have been an officer in the great days when the Gothir swept across Nadir lands all the way to the Delnoch mountains.”
“It is all a circle,” Chareos told him. “The Gothir had their day, as did the Drenai and the Vagrians. Now we live in Nadir days. Their time will come, and then an officer just like you will sit at the last outpost of the Nadir empire bewailing his fate and wondering about the dreams of his sons.”
Salida nodded. “May that day come soon,” he said, grinning. “Is it true that you were once a Drenai prince?”
Chareos smiled and refilled his own cup. “So the singers would have us believe.”
“Have you never thought to return to your homeland?”
“This is my homeland. But yes, I have considered crossing the Delnoch mountains … one day, perhaps.”
“I once visited Castle Tenaka,” said Salida. “It is an incredible place: six great walls and a keep with walls three feet thick.”
“I knew it as Dros Delnoch,” Chareos told him. “It was said that it could never be taken. I was raised on stories of Druss the Legend and Rek, the Earl of Bronze. Strange that it should have been conquered by one of Rek’s descendants. Castle Tenaka? I don’t like the sound of the name.”
“You met him once, did you not? The great khan?”
“Yes. A very long time ago. Another lifetime.” Chareos rose. “If you do not object, I would like to find my companion another saber. I doubt the Nadren had anything of similar workmanship, but then, he is no swordsman.”
“There’s no point in going through the Nadren weapons—poor iron, badly fashioned. I gave a sword to my valet. It is a good blade, and he will have no further use for it. Take it with my blessing.” Salida walked across to the wagon and lifted clear a cavalry saber in a wooden, leather-covered scabbard. “The balance is good, the edge keen.”
“Thank you, my friend,” said Chareos, offering his hand. Salida gripped it.
“At least I can tell my sons I fought alongside a hero of Bel-azar.”
“May the Source go with you, Salida.”
The captain watched as Chareos swung into the saddle. The stallion reared and came down at a run. Salida stood for several minutes as the rider grew ever smaller, then returned to the task at hand: ordering the wagon hitched and the riderless horses tied to the rear.
It would be a sad ride back to Talgithir.
4
AN EERIE SILENCE covered the high forest like an invisible cloak as the dawn light bathed the tavern. Kiall gazed around the seemingly deserted settlement. There were few signs now of the battle, save for the dried bloodstains on the snow. Beltzer hoisted his pack to his shoulders and stamped his feet. “I hate the cold,” he declared.
“We haven’t started yet,” said Finn, “and already you’re complaining.”
Kiall struggled to get his arms through the pack ropes, and Maggrig assisted him, lifting the loops over the thick goatskin jerkin Kiall now wore.
“It’s too big for me,” said Kiall.
“There’s gratitude,” snapped Beltzer, “after all the trouble I took to get it for you.”
“You stripped it from a dead Nadren,” Chareos pointed out.
“Had to kill him first,” retorted Beltzer, aggrieved.
Chareos ignored him and shrugged into his pack. Finn had lent him a fur-lined cloak with a deep hood, which he lifted into place and tied under his chin. Moving away from the others, he drew his saber. After several practice lunges and parries, he scabbarded the sword and adjusted the loops of the pack. He dropped his arms, and the pack fell away … the saber flashed into the air. Twice more Chareos repeated the maneuver. At last, satisfied, he rejoined the others. The pack was less comfortable now, the ropes biting into his shoulders, the weight too low on his back. But it could be swiftly jettisoned if the need arose, and that was worth a little discomfort.
The group set off on the ice-covered trail. Chareos had never enjoyed walking but on Finn’s advice had left the horses in the settlement, paying Naza a retainer to feed and groom the mounts while they were gone.
Both the bowmen had declined the opportunity to join the three questers, but Finn had at least agreed to guide them to the Shrieking Gate. As he walked behind Finn, Chareos considered all aspects of the way ahead. The Nadren were still in the forest, but this was not a great fear. Five well-armed men should prove deterrent enough, especially after the mauling the raiders had received. No, the biggest problem was what awaited them beyond the gate.
The Tattooed People were a mystery. Some said they had once been of this world, forced back by the migration of nations ten centuries before when the warlike Drenai, the Gothir, and the ferocious Nadir tribes had come sweeping from north, south, and east. One legend claimed the Tattooed People used sorcery to open a doorway between worlds, allowing the tribe to escape to a hidden land of riches and plenty. Another maintained that the Gateway had been there from the days before the ice fall, a last remnant of a once-proud civilization, and that beyond it lay mountains of gold.
But whatever the truth the Gateway did exist, and on rare occasions one or more of the Tattooed People passed through it. Such had been the case when Okas had wandered into the army camp six months before the battle at Bel-azar. He had squatted down at Chareos’ campfire and waited in silence until Beltzer offered him a plate of meat and bread. He was a small man, no more than five feet tall, potbellied and wearing only a loincloth decorated with pale stones. His entire body was covered in blue tattoos, some in the shape of leaves, others in runic symbols around what appeared to be campfire scenes. His face also was tattooed with curving lines, and his beardless chin was completely blue, shaped like a beard with a waxed mustache above it. Amazingly he spoke a little of the Common Language, and more amazing still, in the four months Okas was with them the uncouth Beltzer mastered the tribesman’s tongue. Okas proved invaluable during that time. In the skills of tracking he had no peers, at least not among the Gothir. And he was a great “finder.” Chareos’ senior officer, Jochell, lost a valuable golden ring and had the quarters of all enlisted men searched. Through Beltzer, Okas told the officer that he would find the missing item.
Jochell was dubious, yet he had seen Okas’ skills in action during the hunt for Nadir raiders. Much to the amusement of the men, Okas took the officer’s hand and held it in silence for a while, eyes closed. Then he released his grip and trotted from the camp. Jochell saddled his horse and rode after him; Chareos and Finn followed, anxious to see the outco
me. Two hours later they were at the scene of the previous day’s battle with Nadir outriders. There was a small stream to the west of the battlefield. Okas moved to it and knelt by the waterline. Then he grunted and pointed. Jochell joined him. There, just below the surface, nestling among the pebbles, was the gold ring, its pale central opal glistening blue.
Jochell was delighted and gave Okas two gold pieces. The tribesman stared at them for a while, then tossed them to Chareos. That night Okas left them, but not before he had sat with Beltzer for more than an hour. He said farewell to no one else, merely gathering up his blanket and walking from the camp.
In the morning Chareos had asked Beltzer, “What did he say to you?”
“He told me to stay close to you, Maggrig, and Finn during the coming days. He also told me that Jochell’s ring would grace a Nadir hand before the winter moon.”
“I wish I hadn’t asked,” Chareos said.
“He’s only been gone a few hours, and already I miss him,” said Beltzer. “You think we’ll see him again?”
Now, as he walked through the early morning frost, Chareos remembered that conversation and the many that had followed it. Beltzer told him of the land beyond the Gateway. It was hot and humid, with towering trees and vast open veldts and lakes. There were huge animals there, higher than houses, and hunting cats with fangs like long knives. It was a world of sudden storms and sudden death.
“Are you thinking of going there?” Chareos had asked. Beltzer had looked away, his face reddening.
“I would have liked to, but Okas said the Tattooed People kill any interlopers. Their history is full of massacres and the murder of their people by our races. They are terrified it will happen again.”
The sky darkened, and thunder jolted Chareos’ mind back to the present. Finn called a halt and turned to face Chareos. “It will be dusk soon, and there’s going to be a heavy snowfall,” he said. “I suggest we look for somewhere to camp and sit it out. We will build two shelters and gather wood for fires.” The group walked on into a thick stand of pine. Finn and Maggrig scouted the area, locating two good sites. Kiall watched as the hunters tied twine to the tops of four sapling trees. These were then pulled together and fastened. Finn sent Beltzer and Chareos out to cut branches from the surrounding pines, and they were threaded through the tied saplings to form a spherical shelter some ten feet across. The bowmen left Kiall, Chareos, and Beltzer to complete the walls, then walked some thirty feet away to build their own shelter.