Hero Grown

by Andy Livingstone

  ‘Never. But this is his ground. He is too strong here. The priority is to get Einarr home. Every battle has its day to be lost, and its day to be won. We have to choose the day with sense.’

  Brann nodded. It was true. But Loku refused to leave his head. His eyes bored into the table-top with a fury that shook his body. Cannick’s grip tightened on his arm, pulling at his attention, and he looked up. The man nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I know what you feel. We all do.’

  A knock on the door, the same as Marlo had made, sounded and Gerens slipped in, all gangly limbs that should have moved awkwardly but, through corded muscle and sinew, afforded him a smoothness of movement that spoke of menacing control. The dark eyes, burning with cold fire as ever beneath wild hair that would always remain untamed, settled on Brann immediately.

  ‘Good to see you, Chief,’ he said, as if he had last spoken to Brann earlier that day, and walked to the table to help himself to a bowl of stew.

  Brann smiled. He felt almost complete now. ‘It is good to see you, too, Gerens. Very good, actually. But you do not seem surprised at seeing me.’

  Gerens didn’t look up from his bowl. ‘Why would I? I followed you from the edge of the city.’

  ‘You were following me?’

  He tore a hunk of bread to dip into his stew. ‘Of course. How could I ensure you were safe if you were not in my sight? I was glad that the old man was able to stop you shaking though, else I would have had to reveal myself.’

  ‘Thank you, Gerens, but you don’t have to keep me safe. It wasn’t as if we were back in the bandit camp in the mountains; I was only walking through the city in broad daylight.’

  ‘Even were you to be walking among the Sisters of Peace in their Garden of Tranquillity, still I would feel better to see with my own eyes that you were safe. It irks me that I cannot look into that training school of yours, but Cannick said it would risk too much.’

  Brann’s smile was fond. ‘Why, though, Gerens?’

  The boy shrugged with inconsequence. ‘I don’t know. I just feel that I have to do it. Thinking about it won’t change it, so why bother?’

  Cannick grunted. ‘More to the point, where were you after you had seen the boy safely here?’

  ‘I paid a visit to he who would be our landlord, to persuade him to change his opinion on whether he does, after all, own this building that has been unattended in all the time we have been here.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Gerens shook his head, the hair that exploded like black fire waving in time to the movement. ‘He wasn’t in his chambers. Then the guards came and one of them died a bit noisily, so I had to leave.’

  Sophaya’s cool voice floated down. ‘He wouldn’t have been there because he would have been looking for this.’ A streak of gold flashed across the room to be snatched from the air by Gerens’s hand. ‘I imagine his search would have been fairly frantic.’

  She slipped from the high sill in one movement and landed noiselessly on the wooden floor, the fingers of one hand brushing the dust from the rough planks as she steadied her landing. Cannick took the object from Gerens, a broad and ornate golden bangle that hinged open and had a tiny keyhole and a small but sturdy lock where it would join shut.

  ‘A marriage cuff,’ he mused. ‘You took this from his house?’

  ‘In a general sense.’ Cannick raised his eyebrows. She shrugged. ‘He was in his house when I took it from his wrist.’ She raised her arms in exasperation. ‘Well, how else could I get it? The whole point of these things is that they aren’t taken off. He wasn’t going to leave it lying around, was he?’

  ‘So he now thinks it has fallen off,’ Hakon said. ‘So how will that help anything?’

  Cannick began to smile. ‘It won’t. But it could.’ He looked at the girl. ‘So where is it going to be found?’

  She cut a sliver from her apple and studied it. ‘He has a lover. She has a divan. It may have dropped there. Married men do endearingly tend to remove reminders of their married state when with their unmarried lovers. It would be most unfortunate were it to be found by someone other than the married man or his lover.’

  Cannick’s smile was broader. ‘And who might find it there?’

  ‘His darling wife has a powerful father. And the father has a powerful temper.’ She sauntered around the table to run her fingers gently through Gerens’s unruly locks. ‘And the temper may be roused by a rumour that might be circulating the tavern he frequents of a certain woman of low repute who had caught the eye and opened the breeches of his darling daughter’s husband. A rumour that would not, of course, have been planted by a handsome man with hair more wild than the sea.’

  Cannick caught Brann’s eye. ‘This is the level of our battles at the moment. We look to grow, but the pace of growth is governed by what is possible, not just what we wish for.’

  Gerens looked at the girl, his voice as matter-of-fact as ever. ‘You are magnificent.’ He looked at Brann. ‘She is, you know. Magnificent.’

  ‘And your perception,’ she kissed the top of his head, ‘is your most endearing quality.’

  Cannick barked a laugh and slapped Brann on the back. ‘That look on your face is worth every bit of the effort in getting you here.’

  ‘So how did you come to know my friends?’ Brann looked back over his shoulder as they strolled back through the city. He knew Gerens was there, somewhere, but the boy was as visible as he had been on the way down. He smiled at the thought of the time he had spent with people he had thought he would never see again. Hardening his heart to loss and focusing on the present had not become anywhere close to easy, but it had become more familiar, to the extent that rediscovering that which he had thought was lost had become an unexpected pleasure. A delight that he could now look forward to whenever his duties allowed.

  ‘They found me. I was on an errand for Cassian, and they had been watching the compound, waiting for someone they felt safe asking about you.’ Marlo smiled. ‘I guess I’m not one of the scary-looking ones.’

  ‘And you just told these strangers all about me?’

  Marlo frowned. ‘You think I am simple? They were sleeping rough, under crates at the docks, unable to find work because they looked the way they lived, and unable to pay for lodgings because they found no work. It is funny how you are drawn back to the area you are born to, and in recent years I had become aware of an abandoned building. It suited them and, in dealing with them, I learned they were men to be trusted. That is the first judgement a child learns in an area like The Pastures.’

  ‘What of those who don’t learn it?’

  ‘The ones who learn it, live. Therefore all the children you see running around have learnt it. Anyway, it was only when I knew this about these men that I told them everything about you. Including how you dance on tables when you are drunk. And how you fart in your sleep.’

  ‘I don’t!’

  ‘I know you don’t. But it made them laugh. And they have travelled with you on a boat so they know it isn’t true.’ He looked sideways. ‘Is it?’

  Brann punched his arm, drawing the attention of more than a few passers-by. Grinning, Marlo slapped him hard on the back of the head. ‘Just for the sake of appearances,’ he pointed out. ‘A slave striking a free man doesn’t go down well, you know.’

  Brann snorted. ‘Free boy, more like.’

  ‘And that,’ Marlo smacked his head again, ‘is for your cheek, slave.’

  At the look in his victim’s eye, he spun on his heel and made good his escape up the street, his laughter preventing any words. Brann laughed and took off after him, almost catching him twice before they approached the compound. The road across the school’s front became a racetrack as each boy tried to reach the gate first, Brann’s determination running Marlo’s naturally fleet feet close, but not close enough to triumph. The pair collapsed breathless but snorting with laughter against the wood of the gate, alerting the guard on the far side.

  As soon as they stepped through the doo
r, the guard stopped them, an unusual stern look to him. Not one of disapproval of their boisterous arrival, not admonishment. There was concern, but more: almost sorrow.

  When all he said was, ‘You are to see Cassian immediately on your arrival. So now,’ they waited not at all to reply but raced to the house, no laughter pulling them this time but the more powerful force of fear and worry. What could have befallen their beloved mentor?

  When they burst into the house, however, Cassian was descending the stairs in as rude health as ever – but unlike every other time, there was no smile on his eyes.

  ‘Oh, my poor boy,’ he said softly, coming to put his hands on Brann’s shoulders. ‘Why can they never leave you be? The hunter in the high place has returned to have his beaters steer you towards death once more. What enemy have you made to be so relentless that when you survive one trap, they must set another?’ He smoothed the hair away from Brann’s forehead as if to see his face more clearly, a tender gesture that left his hand cupping the side of the boy’s head. He sighed, as if he had no more excuse to delay what he wished he didn’t have to say. ‘They want to see you fight for the ultimate stakes once more. There is to be another death match.’

  Brann stiffened. He was silent for a long moment, the words growing to fill his thoughts. When his words came, the tone was flat. ‘When will it be?’

  ‘In one full turn of the moon.’

  His shrug was one of resignation in the face of fate. ‘At least this time they have given me more than a single day to prepare. I suppose I will have to get to work, then. I wonder what monstrous criminal they will present me with this time.’

  Cassian’s breath caught in his throat. ‘The monstrosity is not in the opponent himself, but in the choice of who it will be.’ He stared at the ceiling, as if silently imploring the gods. ‘It has been decreed…’ His voice was a whisper, almost too faint to hear. ‘It has been decreed that you will fight the Tribesman of the Desert. You will fight your friend Grakk.’

  His arms folded around Brann as the boy’s knees buckled, holding him tight to his broad chest. From the side, a moan of despair escaped from Marlo.

  ‘What will I do, Cassian?’

  ‘You will do what you must.’

  ‘But I cannot kill him.’

  ‘We will train you to give you every chance.’

  Brann pushed himself back enough to look into the old man’s face. ‘I don’t mean I have not the skill, although that will undoubtedly be the truth. I mean I cannot bring myself to do it.’

  The man’s eyes were moist, but a hardness crept into them. ‘You will do what you must. As will he. Should you both not do so, to the utmost of your ability, you will both be killed. Such is the tragedy of this story. One will die and the other will most likely be broken.’

  Brann drew a long slow breath. ‘Whatever transpires, then one thing is certain.’ He looked at the old man and the young boy. ‘I have a lot of work to do.’

  The days that followed merged into a timeless blur. He woke, ran, trained, ran and slept, interspersing it only with eating and washing. The effort served to fill his consciousness, allowing him to block thoughts of what lay at the end. When he sparred, it was always against fighters bearing two swords, and never against a single opponent. Sometimes he faced two, sometimes three; always Cassian sought to heighten his reactions, his awareness, his speed, his stamina. When he died, he would die well and not easily.

  His mind was still numb on the ride to the Arena, and in the walk through the oppressive passages to the room where he would await his call. What had become familiar and routine about the place was now surreal and strange. He responded vaguely to those he encountered, their presence immaterial to his awareness.

  It was when he donned his mail, though, that the thought of Grakk became irresistible. The image of the little tribesman caringly helping him into the mail on his first visit to the very same room swept over him and the emotion started to rise. Panicking, he grabbed a wooden sword and thrashed at a wooden practice post set in one corner of the room, battering the feelings back down with every stroke. He couldn’t afford any weakness. Not a trickle, never mind the deluge that had threatened to engulf him.

  Even the stone-shaking chant of ‘Two walk in, one walks out’ drifted at the edge of his reality as he walked with his escort to the gateway to the Arena floor. He walked into the blazing sunshine with detached curiosity wrapping him like a cloak on a winter’s day. The roar was thunderous. Never in all of his visits, even the first, had the Arena been more full; tokens for this day had passed hands for many times the value of their original sale, and more blood had been spilt over many of them than would be soaking into the sand at the end of this fight. Not a seat lay spare, and many were supporting more than they had been designed to hold. The atmosphere thickened the air, and Brann noticed all with a dispassionate interest.

  But when he saw Grakk walking towards him, all of that changed.

  Like a veil being lifted from him, the noise, the sights, the feel of everything around him hit him with a clarity that knocked his stride. Everything was accentuated: the faces of the crowd were as defined as the crunch and slightest give of the grit beneath his soles; the heat through his soles from the sand was as forcible as the shine from the blade gripped tight in his hand; and the edge of the blade was as keen as the fear pulsing through every part his body.

  Not fear of dying. Not fear of his opponent’s skill. Not fear of the Emperor, or the crowd, or Loku. Not fear of pain, or of failure.

  Fear of looking into Grakk’s eyes, and knowing his friend was looking back.

  He stopped. That friend was standing before him. He had been lost in the moment so much that he hadn’t realised how far he had walked.

  He looked into his friend’s eyes, and Grakk looked back.

  ‘I can’t kill you,’ Brann whispered.

  Grakk barely blinked. ‘Nor I, you.’

  ‘So what do we do? If I refuse to fight, I condemn us both.’

  Grakk smiled slightly. ‘So we fight.’

  ‘But they want a death.’

  ‘So we fight. And we see where that takes us.’

  Brann felt as if he were in a recurring dream as they walked towards the Emperor’s section. The same party surrounded the Emperor as on his first visit. The same horn blasted the chanting crowd into expectant silence. The same fat herald stepped forward, inviting the same response of the death-match combatants.

  ‘Lord of Lords, our lives are yours. We fight, win, die for your glory. Death is our master, Death is your servant. Our blood is your power.’

  The Emperor was, as always, every bit the genial uncle dispensing treats to his nephews, and the formalities were quicker on this occasion, with no selection of opponents needing to be drawn. Sooner than he realised, before he was prepared, Brann found himself back in the centre, again facing Grakk. No soldiers accompanied them this time – there was no other fight to separate them from – but the chant of the crowd booming around from every side was familiar.

  ‘Two walk in, one walks out…’

  He swung his sword and shield in now-familiar patterns to ease his muscles and settle his mind. His muscles eased. His mind did not settle. He blew out a long, slow, deliberate breath. His mind did not settle. He banged his sword against his shield. His mind did not settle.

  Grakk lunged. Brann’s mind settled.

  His shield deflected the strike and his sword the next from the other sword and he danced back out of range for the shortest of instants before darting back in to probe with an attack of his own. As he had become accustomed to happening, his whole being fell into the fight, but this time with an intensity he had never before known. His whole universe became his movements and Grakk’s, steel and bodies twisting and sliding and weaving and angling in a whirling dance of death and the will to survive.

  He had planned to thrust and cut close to Grakk but, if the opportunity arose to kill, he would turn the blow the merest extent to inflict instea
d a shallow wound. There was no need. The pair were so evenly matched in every respect that neither could create such a opening. It wasn’t for the want of effort, attack and defence merging into one and flowing into the next as the battle raged around the Arena.

  There was no memory attached to the fight. Everything was in the instant. As soon as that instant passed, so too did awareness of what had transpired, supplanted by the new instant. And so it went on. Brann was unaware of anything other than three blades, one shield and two bodies. Unaware of time. Unaware of the rips in the mail on his right shoulder and left hip, and the red drips from each. Unaware of the half dozen slashes on Grakk’s bare torso and legs. Unaware of the stunned silence that had engulfed the crowd.

  Unaware, almost until it was too late, of Grakk’s intentional dropping of his guard to let Brann’s sword streak towards his heart. Almost. He threw himself at an angle, as if he had caught his toe, and his blade went with him, cutting a red line across Grakk’s ribs and creating a line of trickling crimson streams, but missing the fatal blow.

  As he hit the ground, he rolled, one of Grakk’s swords spearing into the earth where his neck had been. As Grakk’s head bent over him with the movement of the blow, he hissed, ‘Foolish boy.’

  Brann grinned. ‘Told you I couldn’t kill you. You can’t even make me.’

  ‘One of us must die. I have already seen much in my life. So now should you.’

  Brann was still smiling. But it wasn’t Grakk’s words or his own that were the cause. In the moment of Grakk’s attempted sacrifice, Brann’s concentration had been broken by the surprise – and he had noticed something. Two things, to be precise. A groan from the crowd at the sight of the killing blow. And a sigh as it missing its mark. A groan of disappointment, and a sigh of relief.

  Brann had continued his roll and transformed it into a crouch, then straightened. The other consequence of the break in concentration had been realisation of the tiredness in his muscles, the slight slowing of Grakk’s movement and the sheen of sweat coating the pair of them. And of the heat.

  He exaggerated a stagger as he backed off, and held up a hand as if to pause his opponent. He threw down his shield, drawing gasps from all quarters of the Arena and, reversing his sword, sliced the straps of his hauberk and pulled it over his head, his tunic following it into a heap on the ground. Retrieving his shield, the pair faced each other once more, one in only a pair of breeches and the other even less clad, in just a loincloth. It was combat on its most basic scale.