Hero Grown

by Andy Livingstone

  He walked over to Grakk, studying the tattoos. ‘You are of the Tribe of the Desert?’ Grakk nodded. ‘Scholar?’ Another nod. He took Grakk’s hands in his, turning them palm up, looking them over and rubbing the area between thumb and forefinger on each hand with his own thumb. ‘And your preference is to fight with dual swords?’ Another nod. ‘Though you are trained in many weapons.’ Before Grakk could answer, he clapped him cheerily on the arm. ‘You need not answer that one. You are a Scholar of the Tribe of the Desert. I expect I will see you here for dinner tomorrow. I have no worries about you. Should you need a practice partner, let my friend Salus know.’ Grakk nodded his thanks.

  He turned to Brann and examined his hands. ‘You are not trained in arms.’

  ‘I am a miller’s son. I did not choose this.’

  ‘Oh, dear boy, few in this city chose the life they live. It was an observation, not a criticism. You are what you are. I am merely trying to determine what it is that you are.’ His fingers traced the thick line of hardened scar tissue under the boy’s hair. ‘And what you are is someone who has survived some sort of action, I see.’ He pulled the neckline of Brann’s tunic to one side to peer down inside at his upper arm. He whistled softly as he saw a portion of the tattoo. ‘Oh my.’ He looked at Grakk. ‘Survived with some distinction, I see.’

  The tribesman’s voice was even. ‘He has his moments.’

  ‘Let us hope he has one tomorrow.’ He turned back to the boy. ‘You have a weapon of choice?’

  Brann shrugged. ‘A sword, I suppose. I don’t know anything else. To be honest, I don’t really know how to use a sword either.’

  ‘Hit with the sharp edge, stick with the pointy bit, that’s a sword for you. You should indeed choose sword and shield then, they are simple solid basics. Good.’ He looked at Salus. ‘Would you mind, good Salus? Make the unfamiliar familiar?’

  ‘Of course, boss. Now?’

  ‘The sooner we start, the better. Then we must attend to their jewellery, or the authorities will be most displeased with us. Thank you all.’

  And with that, he wandered out of the room.

  Brann looked at the other two. ‘What in the darkest depth of hell was that?’

  Salus was beaming as always. ‘That was your welcome.’

  Brann shook his head. ‘Is my land the only place that exists where people don’t wander around bollock naked without a care in the world?’

  Grakk wiped a tear from the corner of one eye. ‘No, young sheltered one, customs and sensibilities vary around the known world more than you can imagine, and I expect they vary even more in the unknown world. In this city, it was the fashion not long ago for the well-to-do ladies to wear robes that left their right breasts exposed, in other countries within the Empire men and women cannot show their faces in public once wed, in yet others a woman will take many husbands, and in another men and women are clothed from the waist down only.’

  Brann’s jaw dropped as images took hold. Salus also had a faraway look in his eyes. ‘Ah, yes, Posamia. I dream of retiring there.’ He shook his head, as if flinging away images. ‘Anyway, things must be attended to. Come with me and we shall attend to them.’

  Brann frowned. ‘It seems that much of the public nudity involves women. Are there not places where men show off their… bits… as well?’

  Grakk shrugged. ‘Some, but very few.’ He looked pointedly at Brann, stopping his next question. ‘You have just witnessed the sight you did, and yet you are about to ask why so few? And you refer to it as showing off? You do realise, do you not, that there is an extent where the ridiculous and the ungraceful aspects outweigh all others?’ Brann shuddered. ‘Precisely, young Brann.’

  Salus coughed, though it was hard to tell if it was to attract attention or cover a laugh. ‘Anyway, if you wouldn’t mind coming this way? I think we have exhausted the necessity for this conversation.’

  He led them out of the back of the building into an open-ended courtyard formed by two long wings that extended back from either end of the main building. Boulders and rocks, paths and small bridges, streams and ponds, bushes and trees whose branches dipped down to the ground under their own weight combined to create an area of such unexpected beauty and tranquillity that Brann stopped dead in wonder, the second unexpected vision of the past half hour driving all other thoughts from his mind as much as the previous one had done.

  ‘Does Cassian have a wife, then? Is this her doing?’

  ‘He does,’ Salus admitted, ‘but this is his doing. It is his passion, a world he has created from his own head. Lady Tyrala has other talents. Important and useful, but not this.’

  A winding path took them through to the far end, where they emerged through a green arch of leafy vines to see a collection of low buildings and, beyond, hillocks and walls that prevented a view of the full area. Low hills on the horizon were far on the other side of the surrounding arid scrubland that lay beyond the unseen far wall of the compound, though it was clear Cassian’s school extended over an impressive area. To the right, the buildings on the outskirts of the city showed where civilisation began its mass existence.

  Brann became aware of sounds as his mind adjusted to the overwhelming sights that had swamped him. The clash and bang as metal met metal or wood beyond the buildings – and presumably, from Salus’s lack of concern, from practice rather than assault; the shouts of people going about their daily routine; the clang of the smith at work; the high-pitched noise of the insects that were unseen but omnipresent and seemed creatures of the oppressive heat. Other than the insects, it was the sound of village life. Brann felt a pang for home but the memory seemed now so much like that of a different life, almost as if he had dreamt it, that the pain failed to stab through him as it had before. There was a sadness to that realisation, but also a hardness in his mind’s response to the sadness: deal with now, or the past will weaken your ability to do so. Especially when the only now that was left to him would probably be measured in hours.

  A stout building with a stouter door and thick iron grilles over its small windows sat beside the smith’s workshop. Salus waved, cheerily of course, at the squat man in the leather apron who hammered relentlessly at the anvil and unlocked the iron-studded door with a key on a large jangling ring that he unhooked from his belt. They entered a cool, dim, treasure trove of weaponry. Every variation or combination of edge, point or club that could be invented to do harm to man, and still more that Brann could never have imagined, lay on or stood in racks in orderly rows of metal and wood. Salus told Grakk to select whatever he wanted to practise with and the tribesman immediately selected a pair of long, slim, gently curved swords.

  Brann headed for a rack of broadswords, oiled and gleaming from obvious care. Salus’s large hand landed on his shoulder and steered him to a separate area. He eyed the boy’s height and felt his shoulders, arms and chest with an expert touch. Brann felt like a horse at market.

  Lined in front of them was a row of practice swords fashioned from dark wood. Salus tried a few for weight before selecting one. He walked over to a selection of round wooden shields and plucked one as he passed with less consideration, then took the boy to the other side of the room to pull a heavy, padded, sleeveless tunic from a shelf. Metal clips were set into the front and back and, after pulling it over Brann’s head, Salus used the clips to fasten lead weights onto it at several points.

  Brann looked at him incredulously. ‘Have you felt the heat out there? Are you trying to kill me today instead of tomorrow?’

  Salus smiled, quietly for once, and drew a couple of leather thongs from another shelf. He held up the shield to allow Brann to slip his hands through the straps and handed him the sword.

  The weapon dipped and almost hit the floor before Brann caught its movement. ‘This isn’t the right weight,’ he pointed out. ‘I’ll never be able to practise properly with this.’ He tried swinging it from side to side, his movements slow and awkward. ‘I can’t even control it properly.’

>   With a few deft movements, Salus used the strips of leather to bind Brann’s hands to the sword and shield.

  Brann stared at him. ‘What are you doing? How is that…?’ Salus placed a large finger on the boy’s lips.

  ‘This. This. And this.’ He touched the sword, shield and tunic in turn. ‘These are your best friends right now if you want to have any chance of living through tomorrow. These, and water. Plenty of water.’

  Brann just looked at him. The big man continued as he led Brann back to Grakk, took Grakk’s selected swords from him and then led the pair out the door, locking it behind him. ‘Make the unfamiliar familiar, remember? You will wear less in the Arena, even if armoured, so if you can become used to the heat and weight of that tunic, you will benefit. Likewise the sword and shield you have now are heavier than you will be armed with tomorrow, so you will carry these, whatever you are doing, between now and then. You will feel their weight, you will feel the way they try to drag you, and you will start to adjust to control them.’

  Brann held up his hands and the weight trying to drag them down left him doubting he would become used to the feeling in a month, never mind less than a day. His stomach lurched at the thought.

  Salus turned and whistled sharply through his teeth. A skinny boy detached himself from a group of three youths who were sweeping the area between the buildings and ran over, all tanned skin, white teeth and enthusiasm. ‘Yes boss?’ He swept his hair away from his eyes.

  ‘Young, er…’ He looked at Brann. ‘I didn’t ask your name, did I?’

  ‘Brann.’

  ‘Yes, young Brann here requires an assistant. You know what to do.’ The boy nodded and fell in behind Brann. Salus spoke again to Brann. ‘Marlo here will be your hands. When you need to eat, he will feed you. When you are thirsty, and it will be often, he will lift the drink to your lips. When you approach a door, he will open it. When you need to piss…’

  ‘I’ll manage that one,’ Brann growled. ‘However I have to, I’ll manage.’

  ‘Very well,’ Salus beamed. ‘That’s that sorted, then. Your arms will learn to feel the weapons. Your legs will learn to bear your clothing. Your head will learn to forget the heat. Now for your jewellery.’

  They were standing in front of the forge and the heat within stunned Brann beyond even what the sun had already managed. How the smith could breathe, let alone work metal, Brann couldn’t fathom. Even just from standing, sweat was already running down every surface on his body. His eyes started to sting and he twisted one way then the other to wipe the shoulders of his tunic against them, almost battering Marlo’s face with the wooden sword in the process.

  ‘Sorry,’ he blurted. He had only just met the boy and he was nearly braining him already.

  The boy’s teeth flashed. ‘Good training for me.’

  Brann wondered if everyone at this compound was relentlessly cheerful. It didn’t take long to find an answer.

  The smith looked up from pounding a battered sword-blade flat. ‘What?’ More a grunt of irritation than a question.

  ‘Garlan, my friend,’ said Salus. ‘I have two new arrivals here, who require new neck decoration.’

  The smith spat into the hot coals beside him without the ring of his hammer losing a beat. ‘Friend. I am your friend when you need something. As you are mine, except that I never need anything from you. Except peace, so if you want to be my friend, bugger off. I’m busy.’

  ‘It is urgent, I am afraid, good Garlan. These two will fight in death matches tomorrow.’

  The smith stopped hammering and looked the pair up and down. ‘Hardly worth my while, then, by the looks of it.’ He spat again. ‘Since I’ll be getting the iron back tomorrow night as it won’t stay on a neck with no head, I suppose I may as well oblige you. Consider it a loan.’ He pointed his hammer at Brann. ‘You.’ The hammer moved to indicate further inside the forge where a heavy block sat on the floor, a rounded section cut from its top surface. ‘There.’

  Brann walked nervously across as the smith fetched a length of heavy chain. ‘Kneel.’ The chain was looped round his neck. ‘Head on the block.’ He leant forward, placing his face against the smooth surface. ‘Oh by the gods, are you trying to suffocate yourself, fool? Head to one side.’ He did so, and felt the chain drawn tight until it sat snugly. Rough jerks were followed by a snipping sound and the unneeded length fell to the ground. The chain pulled against his throat as it was manipulated before heat seared the back of his neck. He gasped and the metal hissed as cold water was thrown over it. The smith used his metal pincers to drag the chain, and Brann, to his feet. ‘Next,’ he grunted.

  Brann moved to one side, his right hand automatically starting to reach for the chain. The swinging sword brought a glare from the smith and prudence suggested that he use his shield arm. His fingers found the chain and explored for a moment, though there was little to discover. The links were thick, it was heavy and he could fit only one finger between the metal and his neck.

  Within moments, Grakk had been similarly fitted and they had obeyed Garlan’s second instruction to bugger off.

  ‘A skilled man,’ Grakk observed.

  ‘More even,’ Salus said, ‘than you saw there. Much more. You should see his silver-work, and his swords would sell for a fortune on the free market. But Salus saved his life many years ago, and he feels he cannot leave him until he has repaid the debt. A noble sentiment in his heart that his head appears to dispute on a daily basis. Still, he is here and our metal is the better for it.’

  Brann fingered his chain again. This time his shield arm was the one to move first, and his fingers found the metal with ease. ‘So I am to die a slave after all,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Maybe, but maybe not, young pessimist,’ Salus pointed out. ‘Do you know how many killing blows cleave their way into a neck? Even a chance shallow slice there is likely to be your end. More than a few slaves have been glad they were not free men when they fought.’

  Grakk nodded. ‘It does you no harm, son of the miller. Better a living slave than a dead free man. It is possible for a slave to wake as a free man someday, something a dead man cannot achieve.’

  ‘Better wrap me in chains, then,’ Brann muttered.

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ Salus beamed. He looked up at the sun. ‘Near enough mid-day. You should eat. You will need the strength of food.’

  Marlo ran to one of the nearby buildings to fetch slices of cold meat that had a sharp tang to them and fresh fruit that Brann had never seen before but that had a juiciness and flavour that made it difficult to stop eating them and easy to forget the awkwardness of being fed by another. He grunted around a mouthful and nodded to Marlo that he was ready for another bite.

  ‘Enough,’ Salus steadied him. ‘It is pleasant to see a healthy appetite, but you will be sick before long if you continue. This is to give you strength, not slow you down. And so we now have work. Come.’

  At his request, Grakk was given his swords and directed to a quiet spot where he could initially work by himself. Salus told Marlo to fill a waterskin and catch up with them, and took Brann beyond the buildings where the view opened up to reveal around a score of men and half that number of women working in groups or pairs with a range of weapons on a flat area that extended to the undulating ground, broken by walls and obstacles that he could barely make out and affording only the occasional glimpse of the far boundary of the compound. There was much shouting, some laughter and universal dedication.

  Salus called over five of them and, at his instruction, they gathered lumps of the hardened earth and ranged themselves in front of Brann. Salus stepped away from him and, at his instruction, a clod whistled through the air and shattered unerringly against his forehead. He scarcely had time to yelp in surprise and pain before more followed.

  ‘You have a shield, you know,’ Salus offered helpfully, just as Brann began himself to try to fling the shield to meet the missiles hurtling at him. Soon he was managing to deflect as many as made it
past the shield as he tried to jerk the unwieldy wood in a dozen directions in the space of a few breaths.

  ‘Well done,’ enthused Salus when the hail had finished. ‘You managed to be hit by only half of them.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ glowered Brann, feeling as if his head, arms and legs had been beaten with staves and wondering if his left arm would ever lift a cup again, far less the shield. He rested his encumbered hands on his knees, fighting for breath and watching the sweat that dropped from his head dry quickly where it spotted the ground.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll do better next time.’

  ‘Next time?’

  ‘You think tomorrow will be easy? We will do this several times. You must be as ready as you can.’

  ‘They are going to throw lumps of earth at me in the Arena?’

  Salus looked long at him, as if dealing with a small child. ‘Whatever comes at you, you must be able to move your shield to meet it. Preferably without bothering your brain, though that may not be the hardest part for you.’

  He thanked the throwers, who declared themselves enthusiastically available for the repeat sessions.

  ‘Now the sword. But first you drink.’ Water had never tasted so good.

  They walked to a wooden post half again as tall as Brann and wrapped in thick rope.

  ‘The rope?’ Brann wondered. The lack of breath, the heat and the heavy tunic had combined to let him decide that the effort of speaking was worth keeping to a minimum.

  ‘Wood against wood tends to damage at least one of the woods. Rope absorbs the blow on both woods and is easier to replace if it wears. Now strike, left and right.’