Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3)

by Andy Livingstone

  Grakk nodded thoughtfully, his hungry mind already absorbed in this new task. ‘By contrast, we were delayed three weeks, roughly, by the inconvenient siege of Markethaven, but were then able to cut diagonally across country to here, a trip so far of nineteen days.’

  ‘Which,’ Brann said slowly as his thoughts collected, ‘would put us maybe a dozen days behind him.’ He brightened. ‘Which isn’t too bad considering he doesn’t know we are chasing him. And this is his journey, so he will keep moving. We, of course, do not know what business he will conduct when he reaches his destination, as discovering that is part of our mission, but in conducting that business his progress will be slowed, and all the time we will draw closer.’

  ‘You see,’ Grakk beamed, ‘I was certain we could cheer up your disconsolate face.’ He turned to Cannick. ‘Now, about the gods and nature. Where would you say the gods’ influence ends, and the innate actions of flora and fauna begin?’

  Brann groaned and slowed his horse to drop back, out of earshot. He studied the fields around them, quiet as dusk approached. The creaking and squeaking of the cart and the knock of the horses’ hooves were the only sounds: loud enough to mask the few voices that chatted – only Grakk and Cannick, as a matter of fact – but quiet enough to let him realise that work had finished for the day in the fields. The crops around this part of the road swayed slightly in the early evening breeze, their colour combining with the varying hues of other, more distant, fields to form a patchwork broken only by the occasional pasture hosting, in those he had seen so far, goats or cows. It was a scene that reminded him of home despite the harder ground and the irrigation channels Grakk had pointed out to him – a feature unheard of in his own rain-drenched homeland. He sighed. Home was a thought he had tried to avoid for the past year, but it had wormed its way into his head ever more often recently as they moved towards the islands. Depending on Loku’s movements and where they led Brann and his party, he may never travel any further north than the South Island, but even just to head in this direction made repressing memories more difficult by the day.

  He shook his head in annoyance. He had to focus on the danger this town presented now. He fixed his attention on the approaching gate, analysing the situation, to force aside his self-indulgent maudlin musings.

  Two guards lounged at the entrance, one leaning against the gatepost, his jaded gaze resting on the approaching party. The other rested a shoulder against the outside of the wall, facing his companion as they passed the time, and seeing nothing in the first guard’s expression to cause him to feel the need to turn his head towards the cart and its escort.

  Brann’s eyes had already scanned their weapons, though – they were well-tended and to hand. His own hand strayed onto his belt, close to his own sword hilt. Just because someone looked lazy and disinterested now did not mean they would stay that way. And just because they looked as if they would take an extra second to lower a spear or draw a sword did not mean that they did not know how to use them once that second had passed. Just because they obviously did not expect trouble did not mean they were unable to deal with it were it to appear before them.

  The hooves of the lead horses clattered for a moment as they passed over the stone at the start of the bridge across the moat, then gave off a deeper rumble as they moved onto the wooden main section. Brann’s eyes narrowed in curiosity, glancing from the bridge surface and then at the gateway, where a stout metal portcullis was ready to be dropped and where thick gates, banded with iron, could further block the way… but where no chains ran to the timbers of the bridge. He moved his horse beside Cannick’s.

  ‘No drawbridge?’ he said quietly. ‘Strange, given their desire to protect themselves from outsiders.’

  ‘Look where the bridge meets the other side,’ Cannick murmured.

  Brann saw that the wood of the bridge led into a slot in the stone of the gatehouse. Cannick slowed his horse, pretending to check with a glance at the tailgate of the cart, to avoid closing on the guards while they were talking, and Brann followed suit.

  ‘It slides in?’

  Cannick nodded.

  Brann’s curiosity awakened. ‘But why? It seems a great deal of extra effort to construct this. And a normal drawbridge provides an extra layer across the gateway to penetrate.’

  ‘A normal drawbridge remains exposed when lifted.’ He smiled as Brann felt his face light up in understanding.

  ‘A lifted drawbridge prevents attackers from crossing the moat, but also prevents defenders from doing the same,’ Brann said. ‘If those besieging the place can damage the drawbridge while it is raised, defenders cannot issue in numbers from the main gate for a counter-attack, and if the intent is to starve them, then it will also help to trap them within.’ Brann brightened with enthusiasm as his understanding unfolded. ‘This way, it can be withdrawn and protected. They already have a strong portcullis and gate to protect the entrance, not to mention the moat.’

  ‘Good lad. I thought you’d get there eventually. The moat flows in from the north and out at the south, but they stop the exit during these drier months to keep the level high, only letting water escape as they need to.’

  Brann thought back to the towns of Konall’s and Hakon’s homeland, ingeniously designed to make an attack virtually a suicide mission. ‘Looks like they could give our friends in Halveka a run for their money in designing defences.’

  Cannick grunted. ‘No one touches the Halvekans on that score, and certainly not here. When you get inside, you’ll see.’

  Marlo reined up the horses in front of one of the guards, who had managed to rouse himself to confront them. The man looked sullenly around their company.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Marlo cleared his throat hesitantly. ‘I am bringing produce intended for the merchant, Patrice, in the Third Quarter, sir.’

  The guard grunted. ‘Don’t know your face. And it is not a face that was born anywhere near here.’

  ‘My family moved here from the Empire, good sir. I work for my uncle, who heard there was good work for carters here.’

  Brann had already noticed that, while the second guard still lounged against the wall, his gaze had never stopped watching the riders, flicking from weapons to callouses on hands, from where they were looking to how they looked. These two maybe didn’t expect danger, but they were watching for it.

  ‘Why so many swords with you?’ the first man asked, with more curiosity in his tone than suspicion.

  His eyes scanned the group once more. Hakon was trying to slouch himself into a diminished size, but was still hulking over the man from his mount. Several of the others were no less intimidating: Konall knew no other way to hold himself than with the casual arrogance of one with years of training and of being obeyed; Gerens had a stare that suggested he would cut your throat without a passing thought; Cannick had the scars and the carriage of an experienced campaigner; Grakk just looked downright fearsome; and Breta… when the man’s eyes alighted on her, he froze with a slight gasp. She treated the guard to what Brann knew she would be intending as a winning smile; the reaction from the man was a nervous swallow and a tightening of his fingers on his spear as he took a slight and involuntary step back.

  Brann noticed he had not been one of those to elicit a response from the guard – he was happy for that to be the case. To be regarded as not a threat was to gain an advantage before the fight even started. The sentry steadied himself and glared at Marlo, seeming to be reassured by the fact that Marlo looked as nervous under his gaze as the man himself had done when noticing Breta’s intimidating appearance.

  ‘Pardon me, sir.’ The fact that the anxiety evident in Marlo’s voice was entirely natural was what had made him the obvious choice for the role. ‘Pardon me, but my uncle had heard there was good work for carters here, but also that there was an element of danger. He preferred to err on the side of caution, as far as security was concerned, until we better learnt the true nature of the peril, as he had heard say that t
here were parts of the route where transported goods attracted the attention of nefarious brigands.’

  A rough laugh burst from the man at that. ‘Nefarious brigands? I have heard them called many things, but that is a new one on me. So tell me, well-guarded young carter: why does your uncle the carter not drive his cart?’

  ‘My uncle, sir, prefers to organise the business and to let his nephews carry out the simple task of driving the carts.’

  ‘Your uncle prefers to sit in the safety of his home and let his nephews face the dangers he sees in the shadows, more like.’

  Marlo was proving so effective that Brann found himself hating the fictitious uncle and warming to the sentry.

  The guard stepped to the side and flicked his head towards the gateway. ‘Typical Sagian. As if we don’t have enough of your lot here already. Better get yourself and your many helpers into the safety behind our walls then. On you go.’

  Marlo flicked the reins. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  They filed in after the cart. Breta winked at the guard, winning herself a flinch of fear. The young woman looked hurt.

  Cannick had noticed as well. He slapped Breta heartily on the shoulder. ‘Would you help me, good lady, find a suitable inn for us? I don’t know about you, but I need an ale.’

  Breta brightened immediately. ‘First decent suggestion I’ve heard all day. Hopefully there are some men in this town who are less scared of the fairer sex than that mouse at the gate.’

  And hopefully, Brann thought, there were plenty of them willing to talk. They needed information, and they needed it fast.

  Chapter 2

  The girl was still nervous in his presence. He liked that. It was a refreshing change from the confidence of the crone, and the fact that the old woman was usually right in what she said. But since the young one had started working for him, learning from him, striving to impress him, she had grown more adept at covering the nerves from all but eyes that sought it. He liked that more.

  He did not look up from the fire. He also liked to maintain the nerves. And in the fire, he also saw welcome heat in the chill of the evening.

  ‘You have news?’

  ‘I expect you know I do, my lord.’

  The nerves may still have been there, but had lessened sufficiently to allow room for boldness to creep in. Not a bad asset if she were to be effective for him, but he could not allow her to know he approved in even a small way where the boldness was directed at him.

  He barked at her, his dry voice harsh. ‘You forget who you address, girl. You served the princess well, but she is here no more and you have but one master now, regardless of what the Steward of the Household Staff may think.’ His head snapped round, eyes boring into her. He could see from the slightest of flinches before she caught herself that his glare had retained its potency despite his years. Maybe the age added to it. There must be some few counter qualities to infirmity, surely.

  She dropped her eyes. ‘Apologies, my lord. I do not forget your eminence, but do forget myself. Forgive me.’

  If it was an act, it was the right act. He grunted and waved a hand dismissively, looking back at the fire. ‘Your news, now that you have remembered your manners?’

  ‘The boy and his companions. They were heading in the direction of a town called Belleville.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘You know a town in the north of the Vine Duchies?’ The surprise was clear in her voice. ‘I do remember who you are and who you were, my lord, but this town is not a part of Sagia. Not even close to the border.’

  His voice grew softer – slightly – as his mind drifted decades into the past. ‘Sometimes to rule an empire, you must act outwith the empire. By accident or design, that town is located with great strategic advantage. There was no need to waste resources in a campaign against the Vine Dukes to add their lands to ours. We already had beneficial trade agreements and the dukes were merchant dukes, not warrior dukes. They were no threat, and we had what we wanted from them. But it was clear to me that Belleville had potential. It did no harm at all to make a gift of enough Scribes to help them establish an effective administration.’

  He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘No harm at all, when there are Sagian Scribes running a town along Sagian principles.’

  Innocence suffused his tone. ‘We are a benevolent people. I saw a chance for our principles to enhance the prospects of the people in a town where there was potential for commercial growth. Under our guidance, many there have become wealthy by the passage of travellers and trade through their town.’

  ‘Passage that is carefully controlled and documented, I am sure. With records available to the higher echelons of the Empire’s Scribes, should it be desired. And certain individuals among those record-takers who would report instead to someone other than the higher echelons of the Empire’s Scribes.’

  He shrugged slightly. ‘There were, of course, fortunate benefits.’

  ‘So if the boy…’

  ‘The boy is a man now, in life if not in years. And he had better be, or he is of no use to us.’

  ‘Apologies, my lord. If the…’ She could not bring herself to say it, he noted. The remnants of bitterness may prove useful or may require handling. ‘If he does pass through there, he will find available to him records that could tell him of he whom he follows?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘There will possibly be records?’

  ‘There will certainly be records. But he may or may not be able to gain access to them, or even know they exist. Our associates there do not know of him, or the significance of his prey. But that prey, remember, has his own network, greater than mine in numbers.’

  ‘That is to be expected. He is the Emperor’s Source of Information, after all.’

  ‘Greater numbers is rarely an advantage in the war of knowledge. To be overwhelmed with information is as paralysing as having too little. With spies, it is far better to have a shrewd person picking gems than a hundred shovelling piles of ore that take days or weeks to sift through. Fortunately, I have pickers while Taraloku-Bana has labourers.’

  ‘If I may say, my lord, I doubt it is left to fortune to govern your recruitment policy.’

  ‘That, you may say.’ He grunted. ‘So, the party we follow with interest. How long before they reach the town, if they hold to the same path?’

  ‘Already or soon, given where they were and how long it took my source to reach here.’

  ‘And your source is reliable?’

  ‘Even apprentice Scribes are meticulous. Even more so, in fact, in that they must impress to advance.’

  ‘Meticulous, but not known for being any more free with information than a corpse.’

  ‘Scribes are not celibate.’

  ‘You took him to your bed? I understood your bed companions were drawn from the gender banned from the Order of Scribes.’

  ‘Where information is concerned, my bed companions are governed by necessity. But no, I did not take him to my bed. Nor did I visit his. After several weeks on the road, merely the suggestion of such was enough to spark his tongue to life.’ She laughed suddenly – an unusual sound from her recently. ‘I mean he talked.’

  It took him a moment to mask his amusement – something else that was rare in recent times. ‘And did he know who you asked about?’

  ‘He did not. I had to do a little sifting and prompting before I could pick your gem for you.’

  ‘You are learning. Make sure you continue.’

  ‘You require obedience and wit, my lord.’

  ‘Then leave me now, and persevere to give me more of both.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Three words only, but enough to let him hear that she had heard the compliment he had given her. Or, at least, as close to a compliment as he would give. The girl was growing into her role, and he could see it before him, which was good.

  The one of whom she had spoken had grown into what was needed – now that one needed to rise to what he must do �
� and all this old man could do was sit and hope, events unfolding unseen, and unknown, until they were weeks in the past.

  He hated that.

  He felt the chill of the evening. He looked into the fire, and saw danger.

  ****

  Brann thumped into a seat in the tavern, the weariness of travelling in his bones but the fire of enthusiasm in his head. Marlo was ensuring the horses were well-tended by the grooms at the livery yard across the road, and Hakon was ensuring that sufficient food and drink were going to be available from the innkeeper’s wife, while managing at the same time to eye the woman in the corner with the laces of her top just loose enough to show most of her cleavage; she in turn was eyeing Hakon’s purse.

  ‘So,’ Brann said, ‘once we have eaten, we can start trying to gather information.’

  Gerens nodded across to the stairs leading to the bedrooms, where Hakon was disappearing with the loose-laced woman. ‘Looks like you may have to wait for the big man.’

  Brann slapped the table in frustration. ‘Does he ever think with his head?’

  Grakk laid a calming hand on his arm. ‘Fret not, young Brann. He means that it might be best to wait until Hakon has returned to plot our next move. It seems that Hakon is more keen even than you to start gathering information.’