David Gemmell: Quest for Lost Heroes

True. Perhaps the answer is, simply, that I do not know. Yet I have no desire to leave."

'By my lights, my son, you are a young man. You should have a wife and children; there should be love in your life. Am I at fault in my thinking?'

Chareos stood and moved once more to the window. 'Not at fault, Senior Brother. I loved once. . and in truth I could love again. But the pain of loss was too much for me. I would rather live alone than suffer it.'

'Then you are here to hide, Chareos, and that is not a good reason. The gift of life is too great to waste in such a fashion. Think on it. Why should the famed hero of Bel-azar fear such a wondrous joy as love?'

Chareos swung on the old man, his dark eyes hooded and angry. 'Bel-azar! I have heard that name twice today. It means nothing. I had a sword… I used it well. Men died. I see nothing heroic in that, Senior Brother. A long time ago I watched an old man, crippled in the joints, try to aid a woman who was being attacked. One blow from a fist killed that old man. But his action was heroic — for he, had no chance. Do you understand what I am saying? The soldier always has a chance. There are men and women in the world who perform heroic acts daily, and no one sees them. But I — because of a good eye and a fast arm — I am one of the heroes of Bel-azar. My name is sung in the long halls and the taverns.'

'You are wrong, Chareos. Men sing of you. But the action of that old man was sung before God. There is a difference.'

There would be — if I believed. But I do not.'

'Give it time — and beware of the Earl, my son. There is strength in him, but there is cruelty also. And when you go to teach him at his castle, do not wear the Grey. We are not warriors here; this is no Temple of the Thirty.'

'As you wish, Father.'

The old man rose. 'When I came upon you,' he said softly, 'you were lost in thought. Will you share your memories?'

'I was thinking of Bel-azar and Tenaka Khan. I was wondering about that last night when he climbed the wall alone and sat with us until the dawn. He talked of his life and his dreams and we spoke of ours. Beltzer wanted to hold him for a hostage, but I overruled him. At dawn he climbed down from the gate-tower and led his force away. We still had the Gothir standard so — in theory, at least — the victory was ours.'

'You admired the man?'

'Yes. There was a nobility of spirit. But I do not know why he let us live.'

'Did he not tell you?'

'No. But he was not a man to act without a reason and it has haunted me for years. When he died I journeyed into Nadir lands and stood before the great tomb of Ulric, where Tenaka Khan was buried. I was drawn there. I rode into the camp of the Wolves and knelt before the shaman. I asked him why we were spared on that day. He shrugged. He told me we were the Shio-kas-atra — the ghosts-yet-to-be.'

'Did you understand him?'

'No. Do you?'

'I will pray on it, my son.'

Beltzer awoke to a roaring sea of pain within his skull. He groaned and hauled himself to a sitting position, his stomach heaving. He pulled on his boots and staggered upright, wandered around the bed to the window and opened it. Fresh air drifted in on a light breeze. He hawked and spat; his lip was split and a little blood could be seen in the phlegm. There was a mirror on the dresser and he sank down into the seat before it and stared at his reflection. One eye was swollen and dark; his forehead was grazed and there was a shallow cut on his right cheek; his red and silver beard was matted with dried blood. He felt sick. The door opened behind him, causing the curtains to billow. He turned to see Mael entering, bearing a tray on which was a platter of toasted bread and cheese and a jug — he prayed it contained ale.

'Thank you,' he said, as she set down the tray. She looked at him and shook her head.

'You are a disgrace,' she told him, planting her hands on her ample hips.

'No lectures, Mael. Have pity! My head. .'

'Your pain is your own affair. And I have no pity for drunken louts. Look at the blood on these sheets! And the stink is enough to turn a decent man's stomach. How long since you bathed?'

'It was this year, I know that.'

'When you've finished your breakfast, you will go to the woodshed. There you will work until you have settled your bill. Axe and saw will clear your head.'

'Where's Naza?' he asked, straining to focus on the flaxen-haired woman.

'He's gone into the city. It's market day. When he returns you will be gone — you understand that?'

'He. . owes me.'

'He owes you nothing. You hear me? Nothing! You've been here two months. You've not paid a single Raq for food, lodging or ale, and in that time you've insulted our customers, picked fights and generally done your best to ruin the trade my husband lives on. You will chop wood and then you will go.'

His fist slammed down on the dresser and he surged to his feet. 'You dare to talk to me like that?' he stormed. 'You know who I am, woman?'

'I know,' she said, moving closer. 'You are Beltzer. Beltzer the drunkard. Beltzer the sloth. Beltzer the braggart. And you stink. You stink of sweat, sour ale and vomit. Of course I know who you are!'

He raised his hand as if to strike her, but she laughed at him. 'Go ahead, mighty hero of Bel-azar. Come on!'

Beltzer pushed past her and out into the empty room beyond, but she followed him, her anger lashing him with whips of fire. He stumbled out into the yard beyond the tavern, blinking in the harsh sunlight. The woodshed was to his right; open fields lay to his left.

He took the left path and headed off into the high country, but he had travelled only a half-mile when he sat down on a rock and gazed over the rugged countryside. Three miles ahead was his cabin. But there would be no one there: no food, no drink; merely the howling of the wolves and the emptiness only the lonely could know.

His heart full of shame, he turned back towards the woodshed.

Stopping at a stream he stripped himself of his bearskin jerkin and grey woollen tunic. Then placing his boots beside his clothes, he stepped into the water. With no soap to cleanse himself, he scrubbed at his body with mint leaves and washed the blood from his beard. When he returned to the bank and lifted his tunic the smell from it almost made him nauseous. 'You've fallen a long way,' he told himself. He washed the tunic, beating it against a rock to drive out the dirt, then wrung it clear of excess water and struggled into it. His bearskin jerkin he carried over his arm.

Mael watched him walk back into the yard and cursed softly under her breath. She waited until she heard the sound of the axe thudding into the tree rounds and then returned to the kitchen, preparing the pies and pasties the farm workers and labourers would require at noon.

In the woodshed Beltzer worked hard, enjoying the heft of the single-bladed axe and the feel of the curved wood. His arm had lost none of its skill and each stroke was clean, splitting the rounds into chunks that would burn on the iron-rimmed braziers at each end of the tavern's main room.

Just before noon he stopped and began to cart the wood across the yard. Then he carried it into the tavern to stack beside the braziers. Mael did not speak to him, and he had no desire to feel the sharpness of her tongue. She handed him a plate of broth and some bread when the noon-time custom died down and he ate it in silence, longing to ask for a tankard of ale but fearing the inevitable refusal.

Naza returned at dusk and carried a pitcher of ale out to the woodshed.

'How are you feeling, my friend?' he asked, filling a tankard and passing it to the grateful Beltzer.

'Worse than death,' he replied, draining the tankard.

'You didn't have to do all this,' said Naza. 'You should have rested today. You took quite a beating last night.'