Hero Grown

by Andy Livingstone

  The slave rapped softly on the wood and, without a word or even a glance, left Brann alone.

  The door opened almost instantly, revealing a lady of great but indeterminate age, her bearing proud and her eyes keen. She ushered him in and stepped out in the same movement, shutting the door behind her as soon as he was inside the room.

  He stepped back, feeling the wall behind him as he scanned the room. It was a large chamber, similar in size and shape to the one Myrana had occupied. His heart constricted at the sharp memory of betrayal and the deeper, burning desire for retribution, but just as quickly he pushed the feelings aside. This was a time to be alert, ready.

  The room had an old feel. The furnishings held an air of a bygone era, though not a lesser one: they were rich and ornate, and of a quality few could afford. They were not, however, over-numerous. There was only what was necessary, being a large bed, shelves bearing old tomes, no two of which were the same size and shape, and beside them a desk strewn with sheets of parchment, all blank. A huge map was fixed to the wall near the desk and a few small tables stood here and there and a tall-backed easy chair sat before a large fireplace with the tracks in the dust still evident from its partner having been dragged to the balcony where it now sat, facing out to the Deadlands that he had just crossed for a second time. A curtained opening to one side led, he guessed, to a privy; this was the room of someone of far too lofty rank to have to wait in the passageway to empty their bowels like the lesser beings.

  And the door which he had entered was the only visible means of exit.

  The wide sleeve of a robe extended sidewards from the chair on the balcony and the long fingers of a thin-skinned hand beckoned to him.

  He walked across the room, his soft Deruul boots silent on the stone flags of the floor. Shading his eyes against the glare of the sunlight on the balcony, he walked to its edge to allow room to turn and face the chair. An old man slouched in it. Very old: his beard was long grey wisps, as was his hair, his skin was tight across his bones, his frame sagging under the weight of time.

  But the eyes: there he possessed fire greater than many a fraction of his age. To be complacent with this man would be a grave mistake.

  Those eyes regarded him, and Brann waited in respectful silence. When the voice came, it grated against his throat like rock against rock. ‘Know who I am, do you, boy?’

  Brann shook his head. ‘I recognise you, but do not know who you are. I have seen you sitting to the side of the Emperor.’

  The old man spat into the sand that formed a fine cover for the balcony. ‘Emperor.’ The word was spat as well. ‘He is an insult to that word. When you think of those who held that title before him, what they achieved, how they ruled. To use this great empire as a plaything, a means for luxury and lifestyle…’ He shook his head and snorted in disgust. ‘Were my arm strong enough, I would take his head from its shoulders, and the Empire would be served a favour.’ Brann’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Oh, you think me unwise, uttering such treason in the hearing of another? Think on it, boy: were your presence ever discovered even close to anyone who matters in this place, you would be dead before your lips could ever betray me.’

  Brann shrugged. What could he say? The truth in those words was clear. But the words also showed that this man could prove a useful ally.

  The eyes looked him up and down. ‘I see the grime of the desert still upon you. You did not take time to clean yourself before you came to visit.’

  Brann slapped his hands against his tunic and the top of his breeches, dislodging just a small amount of the travel dirt. There was the beginning of anger in his movements, though. ‘I apologise. I had no time before your man brought me and I trailed through tunnels of shit to attend you.’

  A hint of a smile threatened to twitch the corner of the man’s mouth. ‘You misunderstand. I count it a compliment to me that you did not attend to yourself in even the slightest way before you answered my call.’ Brann decided against mentioning that he had been given no choice in the matter. ‘In some small recompense, can I offer you wine?’

  ‘Water is fine, if you have it.’ He was sure he would need his wits as sharp as they could be.

  ‘Of course.’ The hand waved to a small table, where a pitcher of water stood alongside two glass goblets, one still half filled. ‘If you would excuse the weariness of age, I would ask you to pour for yourself.’

  He did so and moved to top up the other glass while he was there. The hand stopped him. ‘Thank you, but I have enough in mine for now. But drink, please. You must have a thirst after such a journey.’

  Brann’s head snapped round. ‘What do you know of my journey?’

  A small laugh, but humourless. ‘Everything.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Alam-ul-Nazaram-ul-Taraq, though that will mean less than nothing to you. However, the least you deserve is the courtesy of being told my name.’

  ‘The least I deserve? Why would I deserve anything?’

  The eyes fixed on him. He waited. A bird of prey keened high above, and the breeze gusted fresh relief and fine sand dust over the balcony. Both of them instinctively covered their drinks with a hand until the soft wind dropped.

  ‘For I put you through much.’

  Realisation dawned. ‘You are the mysterious benefactor that Grakk and Cannick spoke of?’ A nod. ‘Then it is I who should show gratitude, not you. You helped our escape, did you not?’

  Another nod. ‘From the tunnels and from the city. And more, though on a more subtle scale.’

  ‘Then your words confuse me. Why should I deserve more from you? Apart from anything, you helped me from the City Below.’

  He took a sip of water. A long look, then: ‘But I also put you there.’

  Brann’s hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger at the words and at the memory of the scene in the Princess’s chambers. ‘Loku, or whatever you people call him, put me there.’

  ‘How do you think he knew?’

  This was very strange. ‘You told him?’ A slight shrug answered him. ‘He works for you?’

  He grunted. ‘Many undertake work for me, but only a few know that they do. Those who most think they manipulate are themselves the easiest to manipulate, such is their thirst for opportunities and information.’

  He felt incredulous. ‘You let him put me in the pits?’

  ‘I hoped he would. It was a calculated risk. I felt it likely he would want you to suffer over time rather than have the quick release of death. And he also prefers others to do his work while he is free to watch and continue his other work unhindered. The pits were the perfect solution, and he did not disappoint.’

  Brann was thrown by the candour, but aghast also. ‘You wanted that? You have no idea of the life I had there. Of what I went through. Of what I had to do. Of what I became.’

  ‘I had every idea. That is why I wanted you there. And why I sent the others after you.’

  The fury surged through him and emerged in a shout. ‘You did that? My friends could have been killed.’ The knife was in his hand.

  ‘They lived, did they not? Because of what you had become.’

  ‘You arrogant, callous bastard!’ He stepped forward, bare steel catching the sun. His voice was a growl. ‘I should cut your throat right now.’

  With a suddenness of movement unexpected from his appearance, the old man was on his feet and in front of Brann, his open hand striking hard and fast at the boy’s face. Instinct saw his own free hand catch the wrist a finger’s width before his cheek. The blade was at the man’s throat, drawing a faint line of red on the ancient skin.

  ‘You think I cannot, old man?’

  The rasping voice was right in his face, so close he could feel the breath and the punctuating spit that came with it. ‘I know you can. Just as I know you will most likely not. You were made by the gods, as all of us are when we are spat into this world. But we are built by life, and what I put into your life has added to what you had al
ready become to create the you who stands now before me. The pits gave us the man who could slice my throat without remorse if that were necessary, and the skills in the fabled city brought back the man able to place thought before action.’

  ‘You found out about the city?’ He stepped back in fear of what might be. ‘You know the secret?’

  ‘Calm your panic, boy. I knew of that city and what it holds before even your father left his father’s balls. It is a secret entrusted to a few who have proved themselves of a sort who would protect it, and who can.’

  He sat back down and lifted his water, calmly sipping it. An unease grew within Brann and he scanned the room warily, angry with himself. He should have wondered why the slave had not relieved him of his weapons before leaving him with a defenceless old man. He drew his sword as his eyes flitted over every possibility. No other balcony overlooked this, so archers would not have a shot. The chamber within was light where the sun flowed through the wide opening that connected it with the balcony and no places of concealment were available, not even under the bed, which was high from the floor and open to sight underneath. He strode to the curtained alcove and stood to one side as he used his sword tip to pull the covering aside. It was indeed a privy; an empty privy.

  ‘Had I wanted you dead,’ the voice rasped from the chair, ‘there were plenty of opportunities without bringing you here to mess up my chamber with your blood. Now settle yourself and ask what you must.’

  Brann sheathed his dagger as he moved back onto the balcony and rested half-sitting against the sill, facing the old man. The sword remained in his hand, though, and the anger still burnt hot behind his eyes.

  ‘You play as a god. No man has that right.’

  ‘But some have that duty.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘When you have knowledge that affects many, and the opportunity to act upon it, you have no option but to do so.’

  ‘And that knowledge?’

  ‘Is for me just now. You have other matters to focus on.’

  ‘I do, do I?’

  The eyebrows rose. ‘I believed you had friends who were detained in this very building. Friends who you would offer the chance to walk out from it. But perhaps I was wrong.’

  ‘It happens you are right. And I will. My preparations have been delayed only by this visit.’

  ‘Your preparations will be for naught. You will all die, and all will fail.’ He slammed his empty goblet onto the fine wooden table, threatening to shatter both. ‘Think on it, boy,’ he snapped. ‘This is not an inconsequential thief and peasant Northern boy running away while the Emperor cares less about whether they live or die than he does about the next shit he has. These are two high-ranking hostages, held for reasons of diplomatic strategy and guarded with potential escape in mind and predicted. You need the help of someone with influence within the palace itself. And even you have to admit you are not blessed with alternatives.’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Should I consider it advantageous to my cause.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘Fortunately for you, I do.’

  ‘Then let us plan this at once.’

  ‘Let us consider this at once. They are not going anywhere. But you are.’

  ‘Speak without games, old man. A large part of me is still straining to put this sword through your neck.’

  ‘Very well. You will perform a task for me. I have need of it, and I believe you and your companions are capable of carrying it out. Should you do so, I will help you with your two hostage friends.’

  Brann stared out over the desert he had travelled, the expanse greater than he could see even from this great height. His thoughts considered the options.

  He sighed. Not capitulation, but reluctant acceptance of the facts. He did need this man’s assistance. ‘Fine. What do you require of us?’

  The man stood and shuffled into the room. ‘Come. See.’

  He shrugged. What did he have to lose by following? If it was a trap after all, it was already sprung and he was in its clutches.

  The old man made for the fireplace, his slippered feet kicking motes of dust to dance in the sunlight as he passed. The hearth, of brick and stone, had clean uncomplicated lines that created a simple beauty, an impression enhanced by the skill of the craftsmanship. He stopped to one side of it, reaching to one of the bricks. Curiosity caused interest to nibble at Brann’s anger, and he watched as the bony fingers grasped at one of the bricks and slid it free with an ease that had not been suggested by its fit, that had appeared to be as precise and tight as that of the bricks around it.

  A small alcove lay behind it, just large enough to hold the box of finely tooled dark wood that he pulled forth with what appeared to be nothing less than reverence. He turned and laid the box on a table and faced Brann across its top, reaching down with both hands to ease open the hinged lid.

  Brann gasped. He had never seen its like. If the fireplace had shown beauty in its simplicity, then this was the epitome of that concept. A black dagger lay nestled in velvet of the same colour, the gleam from the blade dull not from lack of care or cleanliness but from an otherworldly quality that almost seemed to absorb the light. Not only light was drawn but, even more so, eyes. He was unable to drag his sight away from it, running his eyes over every clean, perfect line.

  The old man slipped the fingers of both hands under the knife and lifted it gently. Brann’s eyes followed its every move. ‘Take it,’ the man said softly.

  Brann reached his right hand and wrapped his fingers around the hilt, the soft leather seeming to melt into his grasp. A gasp escaped him as he lifted it, surprised by the lightness. His other hand felt for the blade, wondering if it was formed from a light wood, but to his touch it seemed far too hard and sharp.

  ‘It is metal.’

  The old man read his movements well, but he scarcely noticed. Brann ran his thumb lightly against one edge and jerked it back with a gasp at the blood on his skin, not from pain but surprise that it had cut with such ease.

  ‘It is metal, but no metal that we know. It is harder than steel, yet not brittle. It is lighter than steel, yet stronger. It seems not to lose its edge and it takes much to even scratch it, far less bend or break it. It is the metal of the gods.’

  It had to be. ‘So how is it here?’

  ‘Many hundreds of years past, more than a thousand, a stone fell from the sky, lighting up the night with the fire of its passage. Where it landed, it blew a great crater from the ground, despite being little more than the size of a sack of grain. You know that spot well, as a matter of fact. It was there that they built the Arena when they were forming a city here.’

  ‘So this is a weapon of the gods?’

  He shrugged. ‘Indirectly. It is formed from the metal of the gods. This weapon was wrought by man from metal contained within the Star Stone. This is the only item ever wrought from it.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘None has lived for many generations who could work it. This was made by those who built the wonders of the city between the Deadlands and the Blacklands, and the tunnels beyond. When they passed, the Star Stone came back to we who had settled where it had fallen, but the secrets of their working passed with them.’

  Brann turned it over and over in his hands, reluctant to let it go. It was a perfect weapon, with the single purpose of being that weapon. Its plain simplicity was at the heart of its beauty, for to adorn it would be to detract from it. ‘It is indeed a wonder beyond all wonders.’

  The old man held out a hand. With sadness, Brann handed it back, but the man merely lifted the velvet and produced a simple sheath, predictably in black, and slipped the blade into it. ‘While you carry out this quest, I shall permit you to carry this so long as you ensure you bring it back safely to me.’ Brann reached for it immediately. One wispy grey eyebrow rose. ‘That would be your acceptance of your task?’

  Brann nodded, and in the space of a few excited breaths, the knife sat on his belt. He told
himself that it was because of the lightness that his hand had to keep straying to it to check it was still there.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘The task?’ Whatever it may be, it had to be carried out so that his friends could be freed.

  ‘I want you to take what’s left of the Star Stone to one who will work it.’

  ‘You said that no one can work it.’

  ‘I said that for many generations no one who has lived can work it. Lived, not lives, for there is one now who is reputed to be a smith like no other.’

  ‘Why has he not worked it before?’

  ‘Few know what is within the Star Stone, and just as few know the value of this smith. He has a strangeness about him, a strangeness often found in men and women whose talent is beyond the understanding of all others, and a strangeness that scares many. He was seen as mad, or invaded by a spirit of the underworld, or both, and was chased from town. I had my people save him and enable his escape, but now his strangeness is heightened by the experience and he has little faith in other humans.’

  ‘But he is in your debt.’

  ‘He is. I wish you to take the stone to him, allow him to work with it and, if he finds success, bring me what he has made. He may keep what he does not use, for if he can work it, he will be the only one and it will be of no use to any other. I know him of old. I can trust him and he is far from stupid, no matter what impression he may give. No one else will know of his work, nor will they suspect him, for what apparent madman would be capable? They certainly will not know that he has the remainder of the… material. Unless you or your companions are careless with the truth.’

  ‘I know them. We have been through much.’ His voice was cold. ‘As I am sure you know.’

  The answer was of similar tone. ‘I have no option but to trust your judgement on them. However much we may dislike risks, sometimes there is no other way.’ He offered his hand. ‘Should you do this, I will help you find a route from here for your friends.’