Gemmell, David - Drenai Saga 04 - Quest For Lost Heroes

VIP免费

2024-12-23 0 0 894.28KB 102 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

QUEST

FOR LOST

HEROES

David A. Gemmell

Dedication

Some men climb mountains, or found empires, others make fortunes or create classics. But Quest for Lost Heroes is dedicated with love

to Bill Woodford, who took on the role of stepfather to a shy, introverted and illegitimate six-year-old boy, and never once let him down.

Through his patient encouragement, his quiet strength and his endless affection he gave his son the pride and the confidence to fight his own

battles – both in life and on the printed page. Thanks, Dad!

Acknowledgements

Grateful thanks also to Liza Reeves, for the direction, Jean Maund for copy-editing, and Tom Taylor, Stella Graham, Edith Graham and

Val Gemmell for the test reading.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE ................................................................................................................................................................................................... 5

CHAPTER ONE............................................................................................................................................................................................. 6

CHAPTER TWO .......................................................................................................................................................................................... 13

CHAPTER THREE ...................................................................................................................................................................................... 21

CHAPTER FOUR......................................................................................................................................................................................... 28

CHAPTER FIVE .......................................................................................................................................................................................... 38

CHAPTER SIX............................................................................................................................................................................................. 46

CHAPTER SEVEN ...................................................................................................................................................................................... 50

CHAPTER EIGHT ....................................................................................................................................................................................... 56

CHAPTER NINE.......................................................................................................................................................................................... 63

CHAPTER TEN ........................................................................................................................................................................................... 70

CHAPTER ELEVEN.................................................................................................................................................................................... 76

CHAPTER TWELVE................................................................................................................................................................................... 81

CHAPTER THIRTEEN................................................................................................................................................................................ 87

CHAPTER FOURTEEN .............................................................................................................................................................................. 92

CHAPTER FIFTEEN ................................................................................................................................................................................... 99

EPILOGUE................................................................................................................................................................................................. 102

PROLOGUE

Three men were down, the other four formed a half circle around the huge, ugly man in the bearskin jerkin.

'You want to know what it's like on the mountain?' he asked them, his voice slurred. He spat blood from his mouth, which stained his red

and silver beard. His attackers hurled themselves forward and he met the first with a crashing blow to the chin which sent the victim

sprawling to the sawdust-covered floor. Blows rained in on him. He ducked his bald head and charged at the remaining three, but his foot

slipped and he fell, dragging a man with him. A booted foot lashed into his face but he swung his arm to knock the man from his feet. The

ugly man staggered upright and leaned back against the wooden counter, his eyes narrowing as two of his attackers drew daggers from their

belts. Dropping his right arm, he pulled a long skinning-knife from his boot. It was double-edged and wickedly sharp.

The innkeeper moved silently behind him and the blow to the back of the ugly man's neck was sudden. His eyes glazed. The knife

dropped from his fingers and he fell face down to crash alongside his victims.

'I'll cut his puking heart out,' said one of his attackers, moving forward.

'That would not be wise,' the innkeeper told him. 'The man is a friend of mine. And I would be obliged to kill you.' The words were

spoken softly, but with a confidence which cut through the atmosphere of anger and sudden violence.

The man slammed his dagger home in its sheath. 'Someone will kill him one day,' he said.

'Sadly that is true,' the innkeeper agreed, opening the flap on the counter and kneeling beside the unconscious man in the bearskin. 'Are

your friends alive?'

Two of the men were groaning, and a third struggled to sit. 'Yes, they're alive. What was that nonsense about a mountain?'

'It's not important,' replied the innkeeper. 'There's a pitcher of ale by the barrel. You're welcome to it - and there'll be no charge for your

drinks this evening."

'That's good of you,' said the man. 'Here, let me give you a hand with him.' Between them they hauled the ugly man upright and carried

him through to a room at the rear of the inn, where a lantern burned brightly and a bed was ready, the sheets drawn back. They laid the

unconscious warrior on the bed and the innkeeper sat beside him. He looked up at his helper; all the man's anger had disappeared.

'Go and enjoy your ale,' said the innkeeper. 'My wife will bring it to you.'

After the man had gone the innkeeper checked his friend's pulse. It was beating strongly.

'You can stop pretending now,' he remarked. 'We are alone.'

The ugly man's eyes opened and he eased himself up on the thick pillows. 'I didn't want to have to kill anyone,' he said, smiling

sheepishly and showing a broken tooth. 'Thanks for stopping it, Naza.'

'It was nothing,' Naza told him. 'But why do you not let it rest? The past is gone.'

'I was there, though. I was on the mountain. No one can take that from me.'

'No one would want to, my friend,' said Naza sadly.

The ugly man closed his eyes. 'It wasn't what I dreamed of,' he said.

'Nothing ever is,' replied Naza, standing and blowing out the lantern.

Later, after Naza and his wife Mael had cleared away the tankards, pitchers and plates, and locked the doors, they sat together by the

dying fire. Mael reached over and touched her husband's arm; he smiled and patted her hand.

'Why do you put up with him?' asked Mael. 'That's the third fight this month. It's bad for business.'

'He's my friend.'

'If he was truly your friend, he would not cause you so much grief,' she pointed out.

He nodded. 'There's truth in that, Mael my love. But I feel his sadness; it hurts me.'

Moving from her seat, she leaned over to kiss his brow. 'You are too soft-hearted. But that is one of the reasons I love you. So I won't

complain too much. I just hope he doesn't let you down.'

He pulled her into his lap. 'He will; he can't help it. He climbed the mountain, and now he has nowhere to go-'

'What mountain?'

'The worst kind, Mael. The kind that first you climb - and then you carry.'

'It is too late for riddles.'

'Yes,' he agreed, surging to his feet and holding her in his arms. 'Let me take you to bed.'

'Which bed? You put your drunken friend in ours!'

'The upper guest room is free.'

'And you think you're still young enough to carry me there?'

He chuckled and lowered her to the floor. 'I could - but I think I'll conserve what little strength I have for when we get there. You go up

and light the lantern. I'll be with you in a little while.'

He wandered back to his own room and pulled the boots from the sleeping man. A second knife clattered to the floor. Covering his friend

with a blanket, he crossed the room.

'Sleep well,' he whispered, pulling shut the door behind him.

CHAPTER ONE

Seventeen people watched the duel, and not a sound could be heard above the whispering of the blades and the discordant music of steel

upon steel. The Earl rolled his wrist and sent a lancing stroke towards the face-mask of his opponent, but the man dropped his shoulder and

swayed aside, flashing a riposte which the Earl barely parried. For some minutes the two duellists were locked in a strategic battle, then the

Earl launched a blistering attack. His opponent - a tall, lean man wearing the grey habit of a monk beneath his mask and mail-shirt - defended

desperately. With a last hissing clash the swords came together, the Earl's blade sliding free to touch the monk's chest.

The duellists bowed to one another, and a light ripple of applause came from the spectators. The Earl's wife and his three sons moved out

on to the floor of the hall.

'You were wonderful, Father,' said the youngest, a blond-headed boy of seven. The Earl of Talgithir ruffled the boy's hair.

'Did you enjoy the exhibition?' he asked.

'Yes, Father,' the boys chorused.

'And what was the move by which your father defeated me?' asked the monk, pulling off his mask.

'The Classic Chare,' replied the eldest.

The monk smiled. 'Indeed it was, Lord Patris. You are studying well.'

The Earl allowed his wife to lead his sons from the hall and waved away his retainers. With the hall empty he took the monk's arm and

the two men strode to the south gallery where a pitcher of fruit juice and two goblets had been set aside.

The Earl filled the goblets. 'Are you really content here?' he asked.

The monk shrugged. 'As content as I would be anywhere, my lord. Why do you ask?'

The Earl gazed into the eyes of the man before him. The face he saw was strong, the nose long and aquiline, the mouth full below a

trimmed moustache. 'There are many legends concerning you, Chareos,' he said. 'Some have you as a prince. Did you know that?"

'I have heard it,' Chareos admitted. 'It is unimportant.'

'What is important? You are the finest swordsman I ever saw. You were one of the heroes of Bel-azar. You could have been rich beyond

the dreams of common men.'

'I am rich beyond the dreams of common men, my lord. And that is what is important. This life suits me. I am by nature a student. The

libraries here in Gothir are among the best anywhere. Far south, they say, the libraries of Drenan contain more books, but here are the com-

plete works of Tertullus. It will take me many years to study them all.'

'It doesn't seem right,' said the Earl. 'I remember my father putting me on his shoulder so that I could see the heroes of Bel-azar as they

marched through the streets of New Gulgothir. I remember everything about that day. You were riding a white stallion of some seventeen

hands, and wearing a silver mail-shirt and a helm with a white horsehair plume. Beltzer was behind you, carrying his axe. Then Maggrig and

Finn. People in the crowd reached out to touch you, as if you were some lodestar. It was a wonderful day.'

'The sun shone,' agreed Chareos, 'but it was only a parade, my lord - and there are many parades.'

'What happened to the others?' asked the Earl. 'Did you remain friends? I have heard nothing of them for years.'

'Nor I,' Chareos answered. The dark-eyed monk looked away, seeing Beltzer as he had been on the last day - drunk, red-eyed and

weeping, his axe auctioned to settle his debts. The farmer had become a hero, and it had destroyed him in a way the Nadir could not.

Maggrig and Finn had been there; they had left Beltzer alone in the back room of the inn and walked with Chareos out into the sunshine.

'We are going back to the mountains,' said Finn.

'There's nothing there,' Chareos told him.

Finn had smiled. 'There's nothing anywhere, Blade-master.' Without another word the black-bearded archer had taken up his pack and

moved off.

The youth Maggrig had smiled, offering Chareos his hand. 'We will meet again,' he said. 'He probably only needs a little time to himself,

away from crowds.'

'How do you suffer his moods and depressions?' asked Chareos.

'I do not see them,' Maggrig answered. 'I see only the man.'

Now Chareos sipped his fruit juice and gazed out of the tall window. He was sitting too far back to see the courtyard and the gardens

beyond. But from here he could look over the high wall of the monastery and off into the southern distance, where the forest lay like a green

mist on the mountains. His gaze swept across to the east, and the ridges of hills which led to the Nadir Steppes. For a moment only, he felt

the touch of icy fear.

'You think the Nadir will attack come summer?' asked the Earl, as if reading his thoughts. Chareos considered the question. The Nadir

lived for war - a dour, nomadic tribal people, joyous only in battle. For centuries Gothir kings had held them in thrall, sure in the knowledge

that the tribes hated one another more than they detested the conquerors. Then had come Ulric, the first great warlord. He had united them,

turning them into an invincible force, an army numbering hundreds of thousands of fierce-eyed warriors. The Gothir were crushed, the King

slain and refugees fled here to the north-west to build new homes. Only the great Drenai citadel of Dros Delnoch, far to the south-east, had

turned them back. But a century later another warlord arose, and he would not be thwarted. Tenaka Khan had crushed the Drenai and invaded

the lands of Vagria, his armies sweeping to the sea at Mashra-pur and along the coastline to Lentria. Chareos shivered. Would they attack in

this coming summer? Only the Source knew. But one point was as certain as death - one day the Nadir would come. They would sweep

across the hills, their battle cries deafening, the grass churned to muddy desolation under the hooves of their war ponies. Chareos swallowed,

his eyes fixed to the hills, seeing the blood-hungry hordes flowing across the green Gothir lands like a dark tide.

'Well?' queried the Earl. 'Do you think they will attack?'

'I could not say, my lord. I do not listen to the reports as once I did. It is said that the Drenai are in rebellion again, led by yet another who

claims to be the Earl of Bronze reborn. I think that makes it the fifth in the thirty years since Tenaka Khan stormed Dros Delnoch. But

perhaps such an uprising will put off the Nadir plans.'

'He went the way of all the others,' said the Earl. 'He was caught and crucified; the rebellion was crushed. It is said the new Khan has

ordered his troops north.'

'People have been saying that for years,' said Chareos. 'There is little here for them. The spoils they took from the conquests of Drenan,

Vagria and Lentria made them rich. We have nothing to offer them - we are not even a gateway to richer kingdoms. Beyond New Gulgothir

is the sea. Perhaps they will leave us alone.' Even as he spoke, Chareos felt the lie sitting cold in his throat. The Nadir did not live for plunder

but for blood, and death, and conquest. It would matter nothing to them that the riches were few. No, they would be fired with thoughts of

ancestral revenge on the Gothir people.

'You do not believe that, Blademaster. I see it in your eyes,' said the Earl, standing. 'No, the Nadir hate us for the past, and they are

tormented by the memory of Bel-azar - the only defeat to stain the reputation of Tenaka Khan.'

Chareos rose and assisted the Earl into his caped coat.

He looked into the younger man's face. 'Bel-azar was a miracle. I do not know how we did it - nor why Tenaka Khan allowed us to hold.

But it was twenty years ago; I very rarely think of it now.'

'The old fortress is in ruins,' said the Earl. 'It's as good as Nadir territory now. Thank you for the lesson. I think I am getting closer to you.'

'Better than that, my lord. You beat me today.'

'Are you sure you did not let me win - just because my sons were watching?'

'You won fairly, my lord. But next week I will be better.'

'Next week, you come to the castle. Afterwards we will ride out into the Hunting Woods and see if we can flush out a boar or two.'

Chareos bowed as the Earl strode from the hall. There was still some juice in the pitcher, and he refilled his goblet and wandered to the

window, watching as the Earl's retinue rode from the monastery.

It had been a long time since those names had been voiced: Beltzer, Maggrig and Finn. He could still see the red-bearded giant

hammering his battle-axe into the Nadir as they swarmed over the gate-tower wall. And each evening the bowmen, Maggrig and Finn, would

compare scores and write them in charcoal on the granite wall. Maggrig killed eleven today, making his tally 31. Death to the Nadir! Old

Kalin would dispute their figures as he cooked the evening meal over the brazier. Such a way with food, that man, Chareos remembered - he

could make sirloin steak taste like sheep's bowels. He had died on the last day.

The gate-tower section took the most casualties throughout. Of the original complement of forty-five only Beltzer, Maggrig, Finn and

Chareos had survived. The Nadir had taken the fortress, but Beltzer had leapt from the gate-tower and singlehandedly retaken the Gothir

standard, hacking and cutting his way back to the tower door. Once inside, the soldiers had barricaded themselves in and defied the

encircling Nadir warriors. For most of the day the enemy had scaled the wall, only to be repulsed by the swords and axes of the defenders.

That night Tenaka Khan himself had walked, with his shaman, below the gate-tower.

'Surrender to me, and you may leave here alive,' he had called.

'That would be contrary to our orders,' Chareos had answered him.

'What is the most important to you, duty or freedom?' the Khan had asked.

'An interesting question, sir,' Chareos replied. 'Why not come up here and debate the point?'

'Throw down a rope,' the Khan had answered.

Chareos smiled at the memory now as he heard footsteps in the hall behind him and turned to see the Senior Brother approaching.

'Am I disturbing you?' asked the old man.

'Not at all, Parnio. Please join me.'

The white-robed Senior sat by the table and gazed up at the sky. 'The Heavens are incredible,' he whispered. 'Ever changing, yet constant

in their beauty.'

'Indeed they are,' agreed Chareos, sitting opposite the old man.

'Have you touched the power of the Source yet, my son?'

'No, Father. I am still a doubter. Is this a concern to you?'

The Senior waved a slender hand. 'Not at all. Those who seek Him find Him . . . but in His own time. But you have been here two years

now, and I wonder what holds you. You do not need to wear the robes in order to use the library.'

Chareos smiled. 'There is comfort in belonging, Father. There is a certain anonymity.'

'If it was anonymity you were seeking, you would not have kept your own name, and certainly you would not have acceded to the Earl's

request to teach him the finer techniques of swordsmanship.'

'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.'

Beltzer shook his head. 'Your wife understands me better than you. This is what I need,' he said, lifting the tankard. 'You know, there's an

insanity to it all, Naza. I was the most famous person in Gothir. I was the standard-bearer. I was wined and dined, money and presents poured

into my hands. I was on top of the mountain. But there was nothing there. Nothing. Just clouds. And I found that you can't live on that

mountain. But when it throws you off - oh, how you long for it! I would kill to climb it again. I would sell my soul. It is so stupid. With fame

I thought I would be someone. But I wasn't. Oh yes, the nobles invited me to their castles for a while, but I couldn't talk to them in their own

language, of poetry and politics. I was a farmer. I can't read or write. I stood with them and sat with them and I felt like the fool I am. There

is only one skill I know - I can swing an axe. I killed a few Nadir. I took the standard. And now I can't even become a farmer again. The

mountain won't let me.'

'Why don't you visit Maggrig and Finn? They still have that house in High Valley. They'd be glad to see you and you could talk of old

times.'

'They were always loners and we were never close. No, I should have died at Bel-azar. Nothing has gone right since then.'

'Death comes soon enough to all men,' said Naza. 'Don't wish for it. Come inside and have a drink.'

'No, tonight I will sit out here and think. No drinking. No fighting. I will sit here.'

'I'll send a jug out to you - and a hot meal. I'll have some blankets brought out too.'

'You needn't do this for me, Naza.'

'I owe you, my friend.'

'No,' said Beltzer sadly, 'you owe me nothing. And from now on I work for my food.'

Forty wooden pegs two inches in diameter had been driven into the lawn; each was set some three feet apart in rows of eight. The eight

young students stood before the pegs awaiting instructions from Chareos. The morning sun was bright and a light breeze caressed the elm

trees which bordered the lawn.

'Now, gentlemen,' said Chareos, 'I want you to walk along the pegs, turn and come back as swiftly as you can.'

'Might I ask why?' enquired Patris, the Earl's eldest son. 'Are we not supposed to learn the use of the sword?'

'Indeed you are, my lord. But you hold a sword in the hand, and that is only one aspect of the bladesman's skill. Balance is everything.

Now kindly take your positions.'

The youngsters stepped on to the pegs and made a wary start. Patris moved smoothly out, turned and ran back to where Chareos waited.

The other youths followed more carefully. Three slipped and had to make the attempt a second time; these three Chareos took aside.

'You will continue on the pegs until I return,' he told them. One was the fat child, Akarin, son of the city's Elder Magistrate. He would

never be a swordsman, but he was a game boy and Chareos liked him.

He took the other five youths to the Run. It had been finished the day before and Chareos was well pleased with it. A long plank was

angled up to join a platform of logs some six feet above the ground. The logs were balanced on greased spheres of wood, allowing them to

roll gently. At the end of the log run was tied a knotted rope. With this it was possible to swing the twenty feet to the second set of logs and

down a greased plank to the ground. The youths looked at the structure, then gazed one to the other.

'Who wishes to be first?' asked Chareos. No one spoke. 'Then it will be you, young Lorin,' said the monk, pointing to the red-headed son

of Salida, the Earl's Captain of Lance.

Gamely the boy ran up the plank and on to the logs. They rolled and twisted under his feet and he half fell, but righted himself and slowly

made it to the rope. With a leap he sailed over to the second run, released the rope and missed his footing, tumbling to the soft earth. The

other youths did not laugh; they knew their turn would come. One by one each of them failed the Run until, at last, only Patris was left. He

nimbly ran up the plank and on to the logs. Moving carefully, he reached the rope and then swung. Just before landing he angled his body

sideways and, bending his knees, dropped into a crouch. Although the log rolled, his balance was perfect. But the greased plank at the end of

the Run foxed him, and he slipped and fell sideways to the mud.

Chareos called them to him. Their fine tunics of embroidered silk were covered in mud and grime.

'Gentlemen, you are in sorry condition. But war will render you yet more sorry. The soldier will fight in rain and mud, snow and ice,

drought and flood. It is rare that a warrior ever gets to fight in comfort. Now make the attempt twice more - in the same order, if you please.

Patris, walk with me a moment.' He led the Earl's son some way from the others. 'You did well,' he said, 'but it was not innovative thought.

You watched and you learned from the errors of your friends. The greased plank fooled you because you did not consider the problem.'

'I know now how to descend it, master Chareos,' said the boy.

'I don't doubt it. But in real war an officer may have only one chance to succeed. Consider each problem.'

'I will.'

Chareos wandered back to the three youths on the pegs. Each was coping more ably with the course, save Akarin. 'Let me look at you,'

said the monk and the boy stood red-faced before the Swordmaster as Chareos gripped the flesh above the youth's hips. 'You know, of

course, that you are carrying too much weight. Your legs are strong, but your body is out of balance. If you truly wish to become a

swordsman, then limit your diet to one meal a day. Make it a broth, with meat and vegetables. No honey-cakes. No sweetmeats. You are a

fine boy, but your mother spoils you.'

The other two boys were allowed to attempt the Run, but they fared badly. Akarin pleaded with Chareos to be allowed to try.

'They will make fun of me,' he pleaded. 'Please let me attempt it.'

Chareos nodded and the fat youngster ran at the plank, made it to the logs and wobbled towards the rope. Under his great weight the logs

did not roll as badly as with the other youths. He swung on the rope, but lost his grip and dropped into a mud pool. A huge splash went up,

followed by a roar of laughter from the other boys.

Akarin hauled himself clear of the pool and stood blinking back his tears.

There was always one, Chareos knew, who had to endure the taunting. It was the nature of the pack.

He led them to a nearby pasture and opened the chest containing swords, masks and mail-shirts. Then he paired off the youngsters,

partnering Patris with Akarin. The Earl's son stalked across to the monk. 'Why must I have the Piglet?' he demanded.

'Because you are the best,' answered Chareos.

'I do not understand.'

'Teach him.'

'And who teaches me?'

'As an officer, my lord, you will have many men under your command and not all will be gifted. You must learn to use each man to his

best advantage. Akarin will gain more from partnering you than he would with any other boy . . . and I will teach you.'

'So from now on he is my problem?'

'I believe that will be in his best interests - and yours.'

'We will see,' said Patris.

When the afternoon session ended, Akarin had learned a great deal from Patris, but his arms and legs were bruised from the countless

blows the older boy landed with their wooden practice blades.

'I will see you tomorrow, gentlemen,' said Chareos, watching as they trudged wearily back to their homes. 'Wear something more in

keeping tomorrow,' he called after them.

The following afternoon the youths assembled by the pegs and Chareos came out to them. Akarin was not present; instead, a slim boy

stood beside Patris.

'And who is this?' enquired Chareos.

'My cousin, Aleyn,' answered Patris.

'Where is Akarin?'

'He has decided not to continue his lessons.'

'And you arranged this, my lord?' asked Chareos softly.

'I did. You were wrong, master Chareos. When I am an officer I will have no one in my force who is not excellent in every department. I

shall certainly have no pigs.'

'Neither will I, my lord. I suggest that you and your cousin remove yourselves immediately. The rest of you gentlemen can begin on the

pegs.'

'No one move!' ordered Patris and the youths froze. 'You dare to insult me?' the boy demanded of Chareos.

'You have brought discredit on yourself, my lord,' Chareos answered him icily, 'and I will no longer be at your service. Since these

youngsters are your friends, and in some way dependent on your good graces, I shall not ask them to remain and incur your displeasure.

There will be no more lessons. Good day to you.'

Chareos bowed to the group and walked away.

'You'll pay for this!' Patris shouted.

The monk ignored him and returned to his rooms, his fury hard to control. He was not angry with Patris, but with himself; he should have

seen it coming. The Earl's son was a fine athlete, but his personality was flawed. There was in him an arrogance which could not be curbed,

and a cruelty which would never be held in check.

After a while he calmed his emotions and walked to the library. Here in the cold, stone quiet of the reading hall he sat and studied the

writings of the philosopher Neucean.

Lost in his studies, he did not feel the hours flow by. A hand touched his shoulder.

'The Earl is waiting for you in the Long Hall,' said the Senior Brother.

Chareos left the library and walked through the arched gardens towards the steps to the Long Hall. He had expected some reaction to his

dismissal of Patris - but a visit from the Earl? And so swiftly? It made him feel uneasy. In Gothir the old feudal laws had been much revised,

but the Earl was still the ultimate power in the Southlands and, on a whim, he could have a man flogged or imprisoned or both.

Chareos gathered his thoughts and climbed the stairs to the Hall. The Earl was standing alone by the south window, his fingers tapping

rhythmically at the sill.

'Welcome, my lord,' said Chareos and the slim young man turned to him, forcing a smile. His face was fine-featured, his hair long and

blond, heat-curled in the manner of the Lord Regent's Court.

'What are we to do about this business, Chareos?' asked the Earl, beckoning the monk to a seat by the window. Chareos sat but the Earl

remained standing.

'You are speaking of the lessons?'

'Why else would I be here? You have caused quite a stir. My wife wants you flogged; the Captain of the Guard wishes to challenge you;

my son wants you hanged - though I pointed out that withdrawing from lessons is hardly a crime. So, what can we do?'

'Is the subject so important, my lord? There are many swordmasters.'

'That is not the point and you know it, Chareos. You have insulted the heir to the earldom and, in doing so, it could be argued that you

have insulted me.'

'The question of right and wrong must be considered,' said the monk.

'The fat boy? Yes. But I want this business resolved. I suggest you invite the child - what's his name? Akarin? - to return to the classes.

You can then pair him with someone else, and the lessons can continue.'

Chareos considered the question and shook his head. 'I am indeed sorry that you feel the need to be involved in this . . . petty matter.

What with thoughts of the Nadir, the Slave raids and the many duties you face, this is an unnecessary irritant. However, I do not see that the

resumption of lessons is what is called for here. Your son is highly gifted, but arrogant. Resumption of lessons will, for him, be a victory. It

will be the better for the boy if he is placed with another master.'

'You speak of arrogance?' snapped the Earl. 'He has every right to be arrogant. He is my son - and we of the House of Arngir are used to

victory. The lessons will resume.'

Chareos rose and met the Earl's icy stare. 'I should point out, my lord, that I receive no pay. I chose - as a free man - to administer the

lessons. I choose as a free man to cease them. I am contracted to no one, and therefore am not under the law.'

'Then you are telling me that the insult to my family stands? Be careful, Chareos. Think of what that means.'

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

QUESTFORLOSTHEROESDavidA.GemmellDedicationSomemenclimbmountains,orfoundempires,othersmakefortunesorcreateclassics.ButQuestforLostHeroesisdedicatedwithlovetoBillWoodford,whotookontheroleofstepfathertoashy,introvertedandillegitimatesix-year-oldboy,andneveroncelethimdown.Throughhispatientencouragement,...

展开>> 收起<<

Gemmell, David - Drenai Saga 04 - Quest For Lost Heroes.pdf

共102页,预览21页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Gemmell, David - Drenai Saga 04 - Quest For Lost Heroes

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: