Quest for Lost Heroes by David Gemmell

Author:David Gemmell [Gemmell, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780307797476
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 2011-06-07T23:00:00+00:00

The great hall was packed with warriors seated around a score of bench tables pushed together to make an enormous open square. Jungir Khan, in a tight-fitting tunic of black leather embroidered with gold thread, sat at the southern end of the hall, the throne dais behind him. Chien was seated at his right hand, and to his right sat Sukai, ill at ease and eating little. To Jungir’s left was a wizened man whom the khan introduced as Shotza, the court shaman. Chien inclined his head to the man. “We have heard much of the skills of the Nadir shamans,” he said.

“As we have of the court magicians of the Kiatze,” responded Shotza. “Is it true they make tiny golden machines that fly in the air, imitating birds?”

“The divine king has three,” answered Chien-tsu.

Shotza nodded but seemed unconvinced.

The feast involved eating an extraordinary amount of meat that back in Kiatze would have been refused by the court dogs. In the main, it was high beyond the point of rotting. To offset this, the guests covered the food with spices. Chien ate sparingly and drank less. The liquor being consumed by the Nadir was distilled, he was told, from rancid goats’ milk. “How clever,” he remarked. How apt, he thought.

Between the interminable courses there were performances by jugglers or acrobats. They were not especially skilled, though Chien applauded politely.

“We have heard much,” said Jungir Khan suddenly, “of the martial skills of the Kiatze. Would your officer honor us with an exhibition?”

“Of what kind?” Chien inquired.

“Swordsmanship.”

“With respect, Lord Khan, that is not possible. The soul of a warrior partly resides in his blade. It is not to be drawn unless to take blood—and that, I fear, would not represent an exhibition of skills.”

“Then let him fight to the death,” said the khan.

“I am afraid I do not understand you, sire. Is this a jest of some kind?”

“I never jest about war, Ambassador. I merely ask that your man show me the skills of the Kiatze. I would take it badly were you to refuse me.”

“I hope, my Lord Khan, that you will not interpret my words as a refusal. I merely ask you to reconsider. Is it not bad fortune for there to be a death at a feast?”

“That depends on who dies,” answered the khan coldly.

“Very well, sire,” said Chien, turning to Sukai. “The khan wishes to see the battle skills of a Kiatze officer. Oblige him.”

“As you order,” answered Sukai. He rose and vaulted the table. He was not a tall man, nor did he have great width of shoulder. His face was broad and flat, his eyes dark; he was clean-shaven but for a thin mustache that drooped to his chin. He drew his long, curved double-handed sword and waited; his fingers brushed his chest. Chien read the signaled question and found it difficult to keep the pride from his eyes. “Do you require me to die?” Sukai had asked. Chien lifted his hand to touch his carefully lacquered hair.

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