Hero Grown

by Andy Livingstone

  He stared at crates discarded against shabby walls tall enough to block the sun, deep doorways and open steps leading into shadows on their way to basements. His right hand edged along his belt to sit close to his sword hilt. ‘My Lady…’ he began.

  A man stepped from a doorway in front of them, and another emerged from behind a large crate to lean nonchalantly against the wood. Both looked as if a bath was a more rare experience than a brawl. ‘Well, good day to you, ladies.’ Persione gave a short scream before covering her mouth with both hands. Myrana just stared at him. A short club swung absently in his hand and the second man carried a sword that, though pitted with rust, looked perfectly capable of causing injury. Brann grabbed at his own sword but a brawny hand moved from behind him and seized the hilt, drawing the weapon for him. A fourth man did the same on his right with the long knife on that hip.

  ‘That will prevent your young warrior from doing anything silly. Not that, you would think, he could actually do anything more silly than allowing you to take a turn like this. Bad for you, but good for us, I would say.’

  Myrana drew herself up straight. ‘We have coin. Take it and leave us alone.’

  ‘Oh, I will take it, lady. But as for leave you alone? You and your tall friend have far more to offer than just payment for your passage.’ He nodded towards the doorway his companion had stepped from. ‘Take them.’

  Brann’s hands slid quietly together, palm to palm, and continued the movement to reach the hilts of the knives strapped under his sleeves. His arms drew apart and brought with them the blades and in the same movement he spun to his left in a crouch, almost kneeling in his attempt to go as low as he could manage. He had no idea what weapons the men behind him had brought with them, so he determined to target first the one he knew had his sword. The crouch proved valuable as something, possibly his own weapon, flashed above him, causing a cry of surprise from the other man and the sound of scuffling alarm as, presumably, he jumped back out of the way of the swinging weapon. Brann sliced his first knife across the shins that appeared in front of him and the second followed an instant later to deliver a jab into the side of the left thigh. The scream was gratifying.

  The wounded legs had flipped back on impulse and the writhing body fell to the ground hard, Brann’s sword falling with a clang. He rolled away from it though, because the movement took him away from the unseen danger of the second man. Coming to his feet, he saw the man, surprise on his face and a blade more suited to a butcher’s place of work in his hand. Brann’s sword lay between them and, without hesitation, the boy dived for it, reactions honed in the Arena and on the practice field driving his body. Letting go the knife from his right hand, he came up with the sword. The man had been frozen in indecision. He was more decisive now. He dropped Brann’s long knife and fled.

  The remaining two were coming at him. The one with the sword was rangier, more muscled and, it would seem, the more dangerous. There was a crafty look, though, about the other, the leader, despite him being armed only with the club. Brann decided quickly that he was the one to watch. As he had heard many times on the rowing benches in the tales of dockside adventures, more people in street brawls had their heads caved in from behind than died of sword wounds.

  He backed off slightly, as much to buy a few seconds as to move towards the spot where he had seen his long knife fall. He felt it by his foot and shoved the shorter blade back in its sheath on his forearm, crouching to feel for his knife while keeping his eyes fixed on the pair approaching. They spread slightly as they came, obviously no strangers to this situation. But neither was Brann: more than a few times he had faced multiple opponents in training as Cassian had looked to improve his awareness, reactions and stamina, and on those occasions he had faced experienced and skilled fighters. However, it was sometimes easier to fight those who fought properly; the unpredictability of the inexperienced can work in their favour, something he knew well from using it to his own advantage against veterans of the fighting circles. The man with the slashed legs lay curled and moaning to the left, clutching his wounds. Brann edged away from him. A wounded man could still lash out.

  The two other men closed. The swordsman snarled from behind a grime-smeared beard. ‘You won’t catch us by surprise, you little bastard.’

  Brann just waited, watching. Then, just before they attacked, he did. He sprang at the swordsman, forcing him back with a rapid flurry of blows. Almost immediately, though, he dropped to his left knee, turning that way and rising to the side of the man who had swung his club from behind, as Brann had guessed he would. His knife cut across the man’s wrist, sending the club spinning through the air, and he swung back to the swordsman, leaping forward to thrust his sword-tip into the man’s right shoulder, drawing a grunt of pain. The rusty sword fell from spasming fingers and the man spun and ran. Brann had already wheeled back to the leader, who had produced a completely inadequately sized knife from within his unkempt clothing, and his sword thrust towards the man’s throat. He caught the movement, the blood-smeared point coming to rest just under his chin. He looked past the face, frozen in helplessness, and saw Myrana, eyes bright with excitement and widening in anticipation.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Her voice was thick with glee. ‘Finish him. And the other.’

  Brann’s eyes flicked back to the man in front of him. He met his gaze, and nodded at the knife in his hand. ‘Put it away. Unless your arm is twice as long as mine, it won’t be much use to you.’

  Slowly, the man did.

  Brann lowered his sword. ‘Now piss off. And take your friend with you before he dies of self-pity.’

  The man backed off, wariness in every move. He hauled the wounded man to his feet and half-supported, half-dragged him away.

  Fury infused Myrana’s face and voice alike. ‘You let them go? Four men attack the Emperor’s niece and you let every one of them go? That is as much treason as the attack itself.’

  Brann retrieved the dagger he had dropped when he had grabbed his sword and found a rag behind one of the crates to wipe each of his blades. ‘I don’t recall any of them actually attacking the Emperor’s niece, My Lady.’ His tone was tight with suppressed anger. ‘As I remember it, they focused their efforts on me.’

  ‘But they attacked you. Why did you not kill them? Why?’ She was close to screaming. Behind her, Persione stood silent and staring, her face having drained white in contrast to that of her mistress.

  He stared into the eyes, so attractive previously but now slitted in rage. The violence had, however, presented perspective enough to dispel the awe he had felt in her presence.

  ‘I do not, My Lady, kill for your entertainment.’

  ‘You killed in the Arena, and before.’

  ‘In all my fights in the Arena and elsewhere, I killed only once, and then because it was the only way to stay alive. And before, for the same reason. On this occasion, you and your… companion came to this area looking for just this sort of encounter. Men do not deserve to die to assuage your boredom.’

  ‘You dare to speak to me like this? You dare? I will have your head.’

  He shrugged. ‘If this,’ he swept an arm around to indicate the alley, ‘is an example of your bloodlust, I would not be surprised if you would. But you will have to tell your headsman to move fast to perform his duties before I take my leave from your service. Those men will be long gone now and my priority is to see you safely back to your quarters. I will do so and then gather my possessions and leave. I clearly do not meet the requirements you have in mind for a personal guard.’

  ‘The headsman is as quick as I want him to be,’ she snarled. ‘Come, Persione.’ She whirled away and stalked up the street. On the direct walk back to the citadel, he was as watchful as ever. But a weight had also lifted from his shoulders at the thought of leaving to meet up with his friends. Myrana’s uncle had said to him that once miscreants disappeared into the mass of the city, he lost interest in them. He fully intended to take advantage of that att
itude.

  He had almost finished the short task of gathering his belongings into a bundle when he heard the perfunctory rap on his door.

  Persione stood there, having recovered the haughty demeanour that had deserted her in the aftermath of the fight. ‘She wants a word before you leave.’

  ‘Why not?’ He watched her back as she walked past Myrana’s door and continued out of sight, leaving him to knock on the door alone. On the command from within, he entered to find her on a small couch, her legs tucked up beside her, a goblet of rich red wine in hand and garbed in a robe made from the very material they had bought that day.

  She noticed the direction of his gaze. ‘Our seamstresses can be extremely quick when they work for the Emperor’s niece.’ She smiled softly. ‘You were right about the colour. Let me thank you with some of this delightful wine from one of our more distant provinces.’ She indicated a small table at the other end of the couch, holding a second goblet and a clear decanter of the ruby liquid.

  ‘I’m not thirsty.’

  ‘Wine is not drunk to quench thirst, but to bring a warmth from within.’

  ‘This is hardly the country where you would seek to add heat.’

  ‘It is not that sort of heat. But,’ she shrugged, ‘it is your choice. If you wouldn’t mind, though…’ She held out her empty goblet. ‘Persione has duties elsewhere.’

  He was not her servant. He was not even her guard any longer, as far as he was concerned. But the sooner this was over, the sooner he would be on his way, and replenishing her wine would take less time than arguing about whether or not he should comply. He took the goblet, unable to prevent himself admiring the quality of the heavy glass.

  When he handed it back to her, the princess’s hands closed over his. He couldn’t withdraw his fingers without jerking the drink, so he waited and met her eyes.

  Her voice was quiet. ‘The offer of the wine was not, in truth, to thank you for choosing a colour of cloth. It was a selfish attempt to make it slightly easier for me to start an apology.’ She slipped her hands up to take the goblet from his grasp. ‘Please, indulge me. I will not keep you long thereafter, I assure you.’

  He stared at her for a long moment. Why not? If he indulged her, he could leave her service without rancour on her part, and his disappearance into the anonymity of the city would be much the easier. He filled a goblet of his own. She swung her legs down and he sat beside her, stiff and awkward in every movement.

  He took a drink to ease his discomfiture and immediately knew the truth of her words. A warmth spread from his belly and another sip quickly followed.

  ‘Apologies do not come easily to me.’ Her eyes stared at her finger, drawing circles on the fabric between then. ‘My upbringing teaches that admitting wrong is revealing weakness that can be exploited. But today,’ she paused, biting her lip. ‘Today I was too wrong to avoid saying what must be said.’

  She stood and paced a short distance. He took another drink as he watched her stand with her back to him, her eyes staring into her own goblet as if the surface of the liquid held an image of the subject of her words. ‘I know not why I did what I did. But I did it, and that cannot be undone. What cannot also be undone is the position I placed you in.’

  She walked to the table and lifted the decanter. ‘Allow me.’ It was only when she started to pour that he realised his goblet had been empty. He thanked her. She was being kind, after all, and the wine did have a very nice taste. He took another sip. She sat beside him, curling her legs up beside her again, but this time on the other side so she was leaning close. He assumed it was because she wanted to be heard and thought it polite not to interrupt what she was going to say, so he took another drink instead.

  Her head was tilted down in embarrassment but the big eyes looked up into his. He could see them over the rim of his goblet, and there was a pleasantness to looking into them, so he happily stared. ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘The position,’ he offered helpfully. ‘The one you put me in.’

  She smiled, a sad smile that made him feel sad, too. ‘Of course. It was a terrible position. I asked you to do something terrible, and worse…’ A tear welled up in one eye. ‘What was worse was that you could have been hurt yourself.’ The tear escaped her eye and started to trickle down her cheek. Her voice was a whisper thick with emotion. ‘You do not deserve that.’

  He felt her sorrow. He wanted more than anything to soothe it. A finger stretched out to halt the tear, then moved slowly up her soft cheek to gently wipe the trail of its passage. ‘You shouldn’t be sad,’ he reassured her earnestly. ‘You didn’t realise, that was all.’

  Moving to a cabinet beside the bed, she pressed on in a voice hoarse with remorse. ‘But I should have realised. What if you had been badly hurt?’ She placed her drink on top of the cabinet and opened it to lift out a fresh decanter. ‘What if you had been…?’ Her eyes filled with tears.

  It was more than Brann could bear. Swigging down the rest of his goblet so as not to spill any as he moved, he strode quickly to her. One foot stubbed his toes on the short leg at the end of the couch as he passed, but the pain went unnoticed. His goblet was left on the cabinet as he moved close, using both thumbs to wipe the tears as he tenderly cupped her face in his hands.

  ‘But I wasn’t hurt, and neither were you, which is the main thing. Please don’t cry. I hate to see you cry.’

  She looked into his eyes. ‘You are such a kind man.’ Her voice was as soft as her skin. Her face lifted, and her lips brushed his. He pressed back slightly, and when she didn’t pull away, he pressed more. Her hand slid behind his head and the kiss became deep.

  She pulled away slightly, just enough to speak. ‘Does this mean you’ll stay with me?’ He could feel the breath of her words on his skin.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

  She smiled and stepped back, taking his hand. She stepped back again, towards the bed.

  ‘Then stay with me.’

  He woke in the early hours before dawn.

  Only a single lantern still burnt on the far side of the chamber, filling the room with shadows and the gentlest glow of light. The second decanter lay empty, and Myrana lay peaceful on top of one of his outstretched arms.

  He watched her breathing until sleep claimed him once more.

  Chapter 5

  ‘You asked for me, my lord?’

  ‘You know I did, else you would not be here.’

  ‘My apologies, my lord.’ The lamp threw her shadow against the wall from where she stood respectfully behind him, allowing him to see her head drop in embarrassment. A voice within him said, ‘Don’t fret, child, all you need do is speak with plain and simple truths.’

  But instead: ‘Two things I ask: your obedience and your wits. One alone is no use to me; if you cannot supply both, another will serve better.’

  ‘I will serve, my lord. It is my honour.’

  ‘Your honour be damned. Obedience and wit.’ But it had pleased him to hear it.

  ‘Obedience and wit, my lord. You have them.’

  ‘Should I not have to remind you again, you may serve. So, now, serve.’

  ‘He was leaving, but now he stays, my lord.’

  ‘While you serve me, you stand before me.’ He waved a hand. ‘Come, I would see your eyes as you speak.’

  The tall girl stepped forward, awkward in his sight. That pleased him. Comfort bred complacency. Complacency bred sloppiness. Sloppiness devoured details. And details were the building blocks of plots.

  ‘You honour me, my lord.’

  ‘Is your honour not damned enough already? I wish…’

  ‘You wish to see my words. To see what they mean to me.’ Her eyes widened in horror at the impulsive interruption. ‘My lord, I…’

  ‘And so the wit appears. Not ahead of time. So he stays?’

  ‘He stays close.’

  ‘How close?’

  ‘Skin close.’ There was something in her tone. She was trying to hide it, but it was
not born of happiness.

  ‘You disapprove.’

  ‘She deserves better.’

  ‘She deserves you?’

  She coloured. ‘My lord, I…’

  He waved a hand dismissively. ‘It is of no consequence. Right now, it is they who interest me. How long?’

  ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Every night.’

  He nodded. So not just skin close. Oh, to have the energy of the young once more. He almost smiled. ‘This is acceptable.’

  She could not have looked more shocked. ‘Acceptable, my lord? But she… With a…’

  ‘Do you wish to serve me?’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’

  ‘Then set aside your sensibilities. Absorb, analyse, assess, remember, use. Aught else is a misuse of information and time.’

  Her face hardened. ‘Yes, my lord.’

  This one may learn after all. It was more than a generation since he had trained a new one. He had forgotten the enjoyment.

  ‘It is acceptable because…’

  ‘…Because it may be of use, my lord.’

  ‘Correct. And he can use a weapon outwith the bed? In real life, not the sterile Arena?’

  ‘He can, my lord. But…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘She toyed with him. He is not a killer, my lord. Though he knows his own mind.’

  ‘The second is a boon. The first a weakness.’

  ‘And so, my lord? Will he not serve your purpose?’

  ‘He may yet. But he will need to learn.’

  ‘How do you change a soul, my lord?’

  ‘You cannot. You break it, and it grows anew.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Girl.’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘You have served. Now I must think. I will call when I need you again. And girl?’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Obedience and wit.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  The door clicked softly behind her.