Quest

Praise for the novels of

Read on, adventure fans.

The New York Times

A rich, compelling look back in time [to] when history and myth intermingled.

San Francisco Chronicle

Only a handful of 20th century writers tantalize our senses as well as Smith. A rare author who wields a razor-sharp sword of craftsmanship.

Tulsa World

He paces his tale as swiftly as he can with swordplay aplenty and killing strokes that come like lightning out of a sunny blue sky.

Kirkus Reviews

Best Historical Novelist—I say Wilbur Smith, with his swashbuckling novels of Africa. The bodices rip and the blood flows. You can get lost in Wilbur Smith and misplace all of August.

Stephen King

Action is the name of Wilbur Smith’s game and he is the master.

The Washington Post

Smith manages to serve up adventure, history and melodrama in one thrilling package that will be eagerly devoured by series fans.

Publishers Weekly

This well-crafted novel is full of adventure, tension, and intrigue.

Library Journal

Life-threatening dangers loom around every turn, leaving the reader breathless . . . An incredibly exciting and satisfying read.

Chattanooga Free Press

When it comes to writing the adventure novel, Wilbur Smith is the master; a 21st Century H. Rider Haggard.

Vanity Fair

Also by Wilbur Smith

On Leopard Rock

The Courtney Series

When the Lion Feeds

The Sound of Thunder

A Sparrow Falls

The Burning Shore

Power of the Sword

Rage

A Time to Die

Golden Fox

Birds of Prey

Monsoon

Blue Horizon

The Triumph of the Sun

Assegai

Golden Lion

War Cry

The Tiger’s Prey

The Ballantyne Series

A Falcon Flies

Men of Men

The Angels Weep

The Leopard Hunts in Darkness

The Triumph of the Sun

The Egyptian Series

River God

The Seventh Scroll

Warlock

The Quest

Desert God

Pharaoh

Hector Cross

Those in Peril

Vicious Circle

Predator

Standalones

The Dark of the Sun

Shout at the Devil

Gold Mine

The Diamond Hunters

The Sunbird

Eagle in the Sky

The Eye of the Tiger

Cry Wolf

Hungry as the Sea

Wild Justice

Elephant Song

About the Author

Wilbur Smith is a global phenomenon: a distinguished author with an established readership built up over fifty-five years of writing with sales of over 130 million novels worldwide.

Born in Central Africa in 1933, Wilbur became a fulltime writer in 1964 following the success of When the Lion Feeds. He has since published over forty global bestsellers, including the Courtney Series, the Ballantyne Series, the Egyptian Series, the Hector Cross Series and many successful standalone novels, all meticulously researched on his numerous expeditions worldwide. His books have now been translated into twenty-six languages.

The establishment of the Wilbur & Niso Smith Foundation in 2015 cemented Wilbur’s passion for empowering writers, promoting literacy and advancing adventure writing as a genre. The foundation’s flagship programme is the Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize.

For all the latest information on Wilbur visit www.wilbursmithbooks.com or facebook.com/WilburSmith.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Zaffre Publishing, an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre Ltd, a Bonnier Publishing company.

80-81 Wimpole St, London W1G 9RE

Copyright © Orion Mintaka (UK) Ltd. 2018

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Cover design by Lewis Csizmazia.

Cover image © plainpicture / François-Xavier Prévot;

All other images © Shutterstock.com.

First published in Great Britain 2007 by Macmillan

First published in the United States of America 2007 by St. Martin’s Press

First Zaffre Publishing Edition 2018

This ebook was produced by Scribe Inc., Philadelphia, PA.

Digital edition ISBN: 978-1-4998-6111-2

Also available as a trade paperback.

For information, contact 251 Park Avenue South, Floor 12, New York, New York 10010

www.bonnierzaffre.com / www.bonnierpublishing.com

This book is for my wife

MOKHINISO

who is the best thing

that has ever happened to me

Contents

About the Author

Map

The Quest

Two lonely figures came down from the high mountains. They were dressed in travel-worn furs and leather helmets with ear-flaps strapped beneath their chins against the cold. Their beards were untrimmed and their faces weatherbeaten. They carried all their meager possessions upon their backs. It had taken a hard and daunting journey to reach this spot. Although he led, Meren had no inkling where they were, neither was he sure why they had come so far. Only the old man who followed close behind him knew that, and he had not yet chosen to enlighten Meren.

Since leaving Egypt they had crossed seas and lakes and many mighty rivers; they had traversed vast plains and forests. They had encountered strange and dangerous animals and even stranger and more dangerous men. Then they had entered the mountains, a prodigious chaos of snowy peaks and gaping gorges, where the thin air was hard to breathe. Their horses had died in the cold and Meren had lost the tip of one finger, burned black and rotting by the crackling frosts. Fortunately it was not the finger of his sword hand, nor one of those that released the arrow from his great bow.

Meren stopped on the brink of the last sheer cliff. The old man came up beside him. His fur coat was made from the skin of a snow tiger that Meren had slain with a single arrow as it sprang upon him. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they looked down on a foreign land of rivers and dense green jungles.

Five years, Meren said. Five years we have been upon the road. Is this the end of the journey, Magus?

Ha, good Meren, surely it has not been that long? Taita asked, and his eyes sparkled teasingly under frost-white brows.

In reply Meren unslung his sword scabbard from his back and displayed the lines of notches scratched in the leather. I have recorded every day, should you wish to count them, he assured him. He had followed Taita and protected him for more than half his own lifetime, but he was still never entirely certain whether the other was serious or merely jesting with him. But you have not answered my question, revered Magus. Have we reached the end of our journey?

Nay, we have not. Taita shook his head. But take comfort, for at least we have made a good beginning. Now he took the lead and set out along a narrow ledge that angled down across the face of the cliff.

Meren gazed after him for a few moments, then his bluff, handsome features creased into a grin of rueful resignation. Will the old devil never stop? he asked the mountains, slung his scabbard on his back and followed him.

At the bottom of the cliff they came round a buttress of white quartz rock and a voice piped out of the sky, Welcome, travelers! I have waited a long time for your coming.

They stopped in surprise and looked up at the ledge above them. On it sat a childlike figure, a boy who seemed no older than eleven years. It was odd that they had not noticed him before for he was in full view: the high bright sunlight picked him out and reflected off the shining quartz that surrounded him with a radiant nimbus, which pained the eyes.

I have been sent to guide you to the temple of Saraswati, the goddess of wisdom and regeneration, said the child, and his voice was mellifluous.

You speak the Egyptian language! Meren blurted in astonishment.

The boy turned the fatuous remark with a smile. He had the brown face of a mischievous monkey, but his smile was so winsome that Meren could not help but return it.

My name is Ganga. I am the messenger. Come! There is still some way to go. He stood, and his thick braid of black hair dangled over one bare shoulder. Even in the cold he wore only a loincloth. His smooth bare torso was a dark chestnut color, yet he carried on his back a hump like that of a camel, grotesque and shocking. He saw their expressions and smiled again. You will grow accustomed to it, as I have, he said. He jumped down from the shelf and reached up to take Taita’s hand. This way.

For the next two days Ganga led them through thick bamboo forest. The track took many twists and turns and without him they would have lost it a hundred times. As they descended, the air grew warmer and they were able at last to shed their furs and go on bareheaded. Taita’s locks were thin, straight and silvery. Meren’s were dense, dark and curling. On the second day they came to the end of the bamboo forests and followed the path into thick jungle with galleries that met overhead and blotted out the sunlight. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of damp earth and rotting plants. Birds of bright plumage flashed over their heads, small monkeys chattered and gibbered on the top branches and brilliantly colored butterflies hovered over the flowering vines.

With dramatic suddenness the jungle ended and they came out into an open plain that extended about a league to the opposite wall of the jungle. In the center of this clearing stood a mighty edifice. The towers, turrets and terraces were built from butter-yellow stone blocks, and the entire complex was surrounded by a high wall of the same stone. The decorative statues and panels that covered the exterior depicted a riot of naked men and voluptuous women.

What those statues are playing at would startle the horses, Meren said, in a censorious tone, although his eyes glittered.

Methinks you would have made a fine model for the sculptors, Taita suggested. Every conceivable conjunction of human bodies was carved into the yellow stone. Surely there is nothing shown on those walls that is new to you?

On the contrary, I could learn much, Meren admitted. I had not even dreamed the half of it.

The Temple of Knowledge and Regeneration, Ganga reminded them. Here, the act of procreation is regarded as both sacred and beautiful.