Hero Grown

by Andy Livingstone

  He stared at Grakk. ‘They wanted a fight and a death.’

  ‘I tried to give them one.’

  ‘Wanted. Now they want the fight more than the death. They don’t want it to end.’

  Grakk groaned, but with a smile. ‘A pox on them, I’m exhausted. Just kill me.’

  Brann almost laughed. ‘I told you, I can’t. So you’d better bloody find some energy from somewhere, old man.’

  He circled his head to flex his neck and, with a movement of his shield, beckoned his opponent onto him again. The crowd roared. Their weapons clashed.

  Grakk had told him before his first fight that lengthy fights were for the sagas, not real life, and his experience since then had proved the truth in those words. But this fight was one for the sagas. They fell to it anew, as intensely as before, and the mob shouted and gasped and cheered with every blow. Over and over, move after move, fast and intricate, strong and fearsome, the contest raged on.

  But the blows became slower, the movement more deliberate, until the moment when the two of them threw themselves at each other and spun in opposite directions with the impact, stumbling and falling hard onto their backs on the hard-packed and burning sand in almost choreographed unison. Brann stared at the deep endless blue of the sky, chest heaving and sweat stinging his eyes and his wounds. It was then that he heard the chant begin.

  ‘Two walk in, two walk out… Two walk in, two walk out… Two walk in, two walk out…’

  Fatigue flooded through him. Sudden immobility had brought a dead weight to his limbs. He rolled to his side and forced himself into a half-sitting posture, then got his feet under him. He heaved with his legs, managing to push himself upright. Grakk, he saw, had done the same, and was standing in a similar pose, exhaustion written clear in the hang of his head, his shoulders and his weapons. The chant of the crowd engulfed them, booming back and forth from every quarter of the Arena, shaking the very air around them. The pair slowly spun in shuffling steps, absorbing the scene in weary wonder.

  ‘Two walk in, two walk out.’ The chant continued, over and over.

  The horn cut through it, and the Emperor stood. In seconds, the noise had petered to a silence as heavy as the clamour had been. A twitch of a regal hand brought his Scribe to his side, and the tall slave in turn moved to the fat herald. A grunt from Grakk seemed all the sound he could muster, but it successfully caught Brann’s attention. The tattooed head nodded in the direction of a soldier who had advanced towards them and was waving them to approach the royal section.

  They stopped where they had earlier recited their homage, and dropped to one knee, waiting, as did the masses, for the herald’s words. The sing-song voice rang out.

  ‘His Magnificence, Emperor of the all the Civilised World, has spoken. Never before has he seen such a contest. Never did he expect such a spectacle. Two warriors, of styles differing but ability perfectly matched. We have witnessed a duel the likes of which will spawn ballads and fuel the tales of legend.

  ‘But the gods have spoken. These two cannot be separated, and His Magnificence will not gainsay the gods. If their will is that these men shall both live, these men shall both live.’ The roar of the crowd was instant and tumultuous. The herald raised a hand and the horn demanded silence once more. ‘The gods have spoken, and so has His Magnificence. Such a match is seldom, if ever, witnessed, and as such cannot be matched. These two men shall fight no more, but shall walk from here free men, living in your memories through the sight you have seen today.’

  If Brann had believed the previous noise was as loud as it got, he was proved immediately wrong. Any disappointment at the thought that they would not see either of these men fight again was overwhelmed by the privilege of being present at an occasion that grandchildren would recount to their grandchildren. The cheers washed over them in waves, and the Emperor stood, waving genially as if he himself had fought out on the sand. Loku, his face flitting between shock and fury, had pushed past an elderly man with a long beard and was remonstrating with the Emperor’s Scribe who, implacably, waved him back to his seat, clearly reminding him of life-saving etiquette. Brann half-rose, wondering if it was permitted to do so, but the hand of a soldier on his shoulder ushered him back down.

  ‘My apologies, sir,’ he blurted.

  ‘No need for that, lad,’ the man, a wiry grey-head with all the marks of a veteran, said cheerfully. ‘A free man has no need of that sort of speech. I just need you down there because it’s easier for both of us. But if you want to stand, I’m certainly not going to argue with you or your friend there on any matter, rest assured of that.’

  Brann saw a pair of long-handled cutters in the man’s hand, and nodded, remaining on his knee. In seconds, the chains had been cut from his neck and Grakk’s, and the pair stood staring at each other. Brann grinned as he realised they were identically massaging the absence on their necks of the accustomed weight of the chain.

  The Emperor gestured towards them, prompting a concerted cheer from the crowd, and the two bloodied fighters bowed to all sides of the Arena, starting and finishing with the royal section. The Emperor sat down and started chatting to the man seated at his left.

  The soldier who had cut off their chains ambled up beside them. ‘I guess that’s your cue to take your leave, lads.’

  A chant started in one area of the throng and was quickly picked up by all. ‘Two walk out, two walk out, two walk out, two walk out…’ Brann found it hard not to let his feet start marching in time to the words. The shouts demanded a response and the pair waved and smiled their way across the Arena.

  ‘Did that just happen?’ Brann said to his companion as the events started to sink in.

  Grakk smiled. ‘Your assessment of the mass feeling was correct, it seems.’

  Brann wiped sweat from his brow with a forearm, leaving a smear of blood across his face. ‘I thought I wasn’t going to get up at the end. I was glad when you decided to fall over as well.’

  ‘There was no decision involved. I have not experienced so exhausting a physical encounter since my final fight in training as a youth.’

  ‘You fought someone to that standard as part of training?’

  ‘Three someones. And it took a fraction of the time for me to be able to triumph. On that day, the challenge was in the number. Today it was in the quality. You have improved somewhat since our last meeting, young fellow.’

  ‘I had a clever teacher.’ Brann’s smile held a tinge of sadness. He would have to leave Cassian’s school now that he was no longer a competition fighter. At least he could live with his friends in The Pastures. Or maybe Cassian would let him help train the fighters. Or perhaps he could do both.

  ‘And that was a clever man up there.’ Grakk nodded at the royal section and saw Brann’s eyebrows rise in question. ‘He not only listened to the crowd, but he was aware of the danger of allowing us to fight on in future. Rulers do not sit easy when citizens, or even slaves, become too popular.’

  ‘His Source of Information did not seem to agree.’

  ‘His Source of Information was blinded to logic by his hatred.’

  Brann smiled. ‘That may prove a useful weakness to be aware of.’

  Grakk smiled in reply. ‘You think well, young Brann.’

  They had reached the gateway and with one last wave for the crowd, they gratefully accepted the cool of the torchlit passages. As the heavy door swung shut, Brann enveloped Grakk in a hug with the power that could only come from the heart.

  ‘I can’t believe we are seeing this, this reality. I can’t believe we are both here, standing, breathing. Alive!’

  Grakk pushed him back. ‘I won’t be for long unless you let me breathe.’ But there was a smile in his eyes.

  A guard met them and led them to the familiar Room of Baths, where the blood, sweat and grime of countless fighters had been washed clean. Grakk, as in everything, was quick and efficient in washing. Brann preferred to soak and savour the experience.

  ‘You want
to linger here? You will no longer belong here when you leave,’ Grakk pointed out.

  Brann smiled. ‘That is exactly why I want to linger here. I will miss this place.’

  Grakk frowned. ‘I will not. And you should not. There is more to life than this, young Brann.’

  ‘Not in my life. First and last visits apart, this has actually been a place of happiness – and even those two visits ended well, even if they were awful for the first part. I have never felt as valued as I have here; I have never felt as natural as I do when I fight.’

  Grakk regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Have a care, young man of the North. Do not grow to love the violence, lest it usurp you as the master of your life.’

  ‘But, Grakk, do you not feel it? The thrill of doing something you are so skilled at, and people loving you for it.’

  ‘The love of many for the figure is worth far less than the love of the few for the person.’ The bald head shook slowly. ‘And do not think that because I can fight with skill, I therefore enjoy it. I can do more than that, and my enjoyment lies in other areas. I only fight when I must, and if I never have to do so again, I will be a happier man for it. But we are all different, and we are what we are. So long as you do what you do for the right reasons, and with a good heart, that is what matters. There will be times in this world when you have to do a bad thing for a good reason, or because the choice is taken from your hands – it is then that you will need to draw on the memories of the good things you have done to remain the person you are, else you will be lost and only know that fact when you are unable to find your way back.’

  Brann looked at him. ‘Well, that’s a cheerful thought for a day that was taking a turn for the better.’

  Grakk laughed and ruffled the boy’s wet hair. ‘You are right. That is talk for another day. I merely care for your wellbeing, boy, and would see you happy. There is a big life ahead of you, and you will find contentment in many ways. Do not close yourself off to them.’ He pulled on a clean tunic and spoke quietly. ‘I will take residence with your friends from the Northmen’s ship and we will wait, ready to provide any assistance the hostage lord may require. Should you wish to find us, I believe your friend with the wild hair and the wilder eyes will find you. I hope to see you soon.’

  And with that, he left.

  Brann soaked for a while, thinking on his experiences in that building and on the sand in its centre. It was hard to make the move to step out of the pool, because he knew it was the first step towards a leaving that would be a wrench. But there came a time when the water started to lose its allure, and he stood at the side, waiting for the drips to stop. He padded into the next room to fetch a towel.

  ‘I thought you would never emerge.’ He jerked in surprise. The Emperor’s Scribe stood impassively in the corner. Grabbing a towel, Brann covered himself. ‘Oh, your modesty is touching. But then, you are full of surprises.’

  Brann grunted. ‘As are you. I nearly had to clean myself again. What do you want?’

  ‘Modest and blunt. Well, I have waited long enough to speak with you.’

  ‘You waited all that time when you could have stepped through the doorway and told me whatever you want to tell me without delay?’

  The face was impassive. ‘That room is for fighters alone. Rules are there to be obeyed, or order is lost.’

  ‘And order is everything?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Talking of order, or rather orders: yours are?’

  ‘My orders are to deliver the following message.’ Implacably, the Scribe drew a sheet of paper from his satchel. Peering down his nose at it, he intoned, ‘Brann, of the Northern Isles, as a free man you are invited to take up the position of personal guard to the Lady Myrana of the Royal Court of ul-Taratac. Your acceptance is requested by sundown tomorrow.’

  Brann stared at him. ‘My acceptance is requested? I’m afraid I have other plans.’

  The Scribe’s expression never flickered. ‘You need not be afraid. You no longer have other plans.’

  ‘Come on, Narut. You live by order and precision. Free man? Invited? Those words have a definite meaning. It is my choice. This is not for me.’

  ‘The words hold one meaning, but reality holds another. Order governs all life, not least the standing of one man to another. You should know that the Lady Myrana is niece to the Emperor of the Civilised World, and as such any appointment to her personal staff must be sanctioned by the ruler himself. Emperor Kalos has decreed that you may become personal guard to his niece. To be specific, he thought it an excellent idea.

  ‘Therefore, as I said, you no longer have other plans.’

  ‘Why in the names of all of your gods and mine would he trust me with his niece? The last time he spoke directly to me he wanted to push me off a rooftop.’

  ‘That was not personal. It was expedient. At that point, you were an untidiness that required disposal until his Master of Information found a better use for you. Now your situation has changed unexpectedly. As a free man of some renown, there would be avenues open to you to become an irritant to the order of the city, especially when you have friends still guesting at the palace. But as one in the employ of his niece, you will be surrounded by eyes and steel at every turn. You will be in his control, which is one of the places where he likes to have potential irritants. The other place is in the next world, but the public reaction to your death in the near future is the unknown outcome that has, I would say, saved your life.’

  Brann’s heart sank and, with it, his resistance. He slumped to a bench, his towel across his lap and his forearms on his knees. ‘I really have no choice, do I?’

  ‘You do not. Other than the choice between the Lady Myrana and the executioner. Your taste in beauty may be your own, but it is likely that you will find the executioner less pretty.’

  The comment was undoubtedly devoid of humour, but it still drew a weak smile from Brann. ‘This just sums up my life.’

  The Scribe cocked his head, looking more bird than man as he considered the comment. ‘Not fully. You have spent much of your time as a slave. Now you are a free man.’

  Brann snorted. ‘In name alone. A free man has choice.’

  ‘You can choose to live or die.’

  ‘That is the choice of a slave.’

  The Scribe picked up a soft cloth and dipped it in a stone basin set into the wall, soaking it in cold water then carefully squeezing away the excess. ‘Not always. Whenever you have the choice to live, it is a valuable decision to be able to make.’

  ‘Fine.’ There was a resigned finality in the word. ‘I will spend a final night in Cassian’s School and, in the morning, will gather what belongings I have and present myself at the palace.’

  ‘You need not trouble yourself. Your belongings have been transported there for you.’

  Brann looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘The sundown tomorrow bit. That was words versus reality again?’

  ‘Your own transport awaits you.’ He gave the cloth a final squeeze and walked across to examine the nicks, scrapes and cuts Grakk had inflicted. He began to wipe them with a surprising gentleness. ‘But it is transport furnished by the palace, and it would be unseemly to bleed on the cushions.’

  Deft and careful as his movements were, they brought a thousand stings to every part of Brann’s body. It was a pain that was now familiar, and the boy sat in silence. A murmur of disapproval signalled the Scribe’s unhappiness.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Three of them require further attention.’ He placed a finger in turn on his calf, ribs and bicep beside three of the gashes, deeper than the rest.

  Brann started to rise. ‘I’ll see the physician, then. Where will I find you afterwards?’

  ‘You will go nowhere near those butchers.’ Brann’s eyebrows rose, bringing a wince as he aggravated a bruise on his forehead. The Arena physicians were highly regarded among their caste and valued by all who had fought there. ‘Sit still.’

  He produced from
his satchel a small flat pouch. Unwrapped, it revealed a small medical kit, from which he selected a needle and a length of cotton thread. The needle he thrust into a brazier at the far side of the room, ignoring the searing heat of the glowing coals, and moments later he had it threaded without a fuss.

  His stitching was quick and neat. It was another sensation that Brann was well accustomed to and he watched in interest, forced to admit that the Scribe’s skill did indeed outdo that of even the esteemed healers of the Arena.

  ‘I am impressed, Narut. Your work is excellent.’

  With pursed lips, he surveyed his work. ‘Not excellent, as I’m sure my boyhood tutors would attest, but it shall suffice under the circumstances.’ He noticed Brann’s look. ‘I did not grow up a Scribe. And you are lucky that this one,’ he tapped the cut on Brann’s bicep, ‘is on the arm that does not bear your artistic but primitive adornment. No amount of skill could have kept that unblemished.’

  Brann ran his finger over the tattoo of the dragon. The girl who had designed it and the boy who had earned it seemed part of another life, strangers both. His touch dropped to the runes, reminding him of their message. Dare to dream. Trust your heart. Let your soul fly. The first two were still possible, but his soul was more caged now by another than it had ever been. He sighed, drawing his attention back to the room and the man before him.

  ‘Still,’ Brann looked over the areas of treatment, ‘it is work that I am more than happy with. Thank you.’

  The Scribe looked surprised. ‘Your spirits seem to have risen.’

  He shrugged. ‘A man told me that there are no better devourers of good time and thought than conjecture and chance, and that worrying about what I have not or wish was otherwise will waste the opportunity to attend to improving things. He said I should plot only the course I see before me.’