Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3)

by Andy Livingstone

  ‘So what now?’ Konall said.

  Brann took a last look at the scene, as Konall hauled Philippe to his feet.

  ‘Now we run.’

  Chapter 3

  When he had ruled, the world came to the Emperor. Now it seemed that some things had relaxed.

  Arrogance that relaxes standards will build complacency from indolence just as easily as it builds dismissiveness from pomposity. Either forms weakness, and weakness offers less resistance to pressure.

  A cracked wall will never again be truly strong, no matter the patches. In some cases, a wall will, weakened, still serve its purpose, for the pressures it will face are less than even the reduced strength of the wall.

  But when the wall faces strong and repeated pressure, even the smallest cracks will spread and widen and fracture and bring the wall to rubble. When even the first small cracks appear, one remedy alone will suffice: tear down the wall and build one anew; the only question being when, not if. But the new wall must be completed before the old is destroyed, for even a weakened wall is better than none.

  Such is the wall of an Emperor’s power.

  He had known it, had maintained an Empire on it. Set the minimum standard at the highest level, and tolerate no relaxation.

  Those who ruled now did not know it. They governed for their pleasure, believing they governed efficiently, never knowing that they benefited from the decades that had come before. Place the running of the Empire before all, and the pleasure will come in its wake; rise each morning with the first thought of your own contentment, and the source of the contentment will be pulverised by inattention.

  The wall will crack.

  A guard’s rap at his door heralded the entry of the current incumbent of the throne. He slumped in his chair and fixed a bland ghost of a smile to his lips a moment before the Emperor strode in.

  He mumbled pleasant inanities in response to the eloquent and almost-believable claims of successes and assertions of wise rule that followed the cursory enquiry after his well-being and were intended, he was sure, to bolster the man’s own self-belief as much as the ostensible purpose to reassure a venerated elderly relative that all was well with the world.

  As soon as the door closed, renewed determination drew his posture straight once more. He moved to his desk and drew up rapid notes in handwriting that few could read and in a cypher that none but he could understand. To a reader, they were the scratchings of deranged senility; in reality, they formed architectural plans.

  Plans for a new wall.

  A wall already under construction.

  The cracks were growing.

  ****

  They ran.

  Joceline saw them coming and started to ask, presumably about Eloise, but the question died on her lips at the sight of the stricken Philippe. Konall’s handful of tunic propelled him and horror and disbelief filled his eyes. She glanced at the small girl, now in Gerens’s arms, stronger as they were than those of Sophaya, but postponed any curiosity in favour of turning and lifting her skirts to allow her to match their pace, leading them through the winding streets with an assurance that defied the darkness of the hour.

  Not for the first time, Brann tumbled on cobbles. Ignoring the pain, he glanced enviously at Gerens, the only one of them not to have fallen – a fortunate fact given his burden. Moonlight allowed the other boy to see his look.

  ‘The slopes around my home were rock, not nice smooth grass. Rock teaches you early on how to keep your balance… and that you want to learn it.’

  Streets blurred into one twisting, slipping, frantic journey. At first, their footsteps were the only sound but, before long, bells began to ring their message of alarm.

  Joceline half turned, gasping at them. ‘If we can stay ahead of their messengers, we should reach the gate you asked for before the various barracks near the walls know exactly why they are being roused.’

  ‘Good.’ Brann was panting as much as she was. ‘As long as the messengers don’t use horses, we should have enough of a start to stay ahead of the communication, and they won’t know that they are to look for us, or in fact search at all.’

  Joceline stopped at the edge of an open area that lay between the last of the houses and the town walls, a killing ground perfect for archers should an enemy breach the defences. She pointed at the base of the wall, where they could just make out the darker colour of a door.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘It bolts on this side, as does the door on the far side of the wall. As you wanted, the nearest gates in either direction are distant enough that you should be able to get enough of a start on any pursuers to see you away.’

  Brann nodded. ‘And the size of the tunnel? And doorways?’

  ‘Small enough that nothing bigger than a man can fit through. Dogs, yes, but no horses.’

  Sophaya frowned. ‘Not much use as a gate. Not many options.’

  ‘It will be a sally port, young lady,’ Grakk said. ‘Far enough from the gates that defenders may issue from it unseen to take unawares besiegers at those gates, or even sneak a messenger away to request help from elsewhere.’

  ‘Right, so they can’t chase us on horseback. Good,’ Gerens said.

  Shouts broke out in the distance to their left, spreading quickly through the streets behind them. The pattern was repeated shortly after from the right.

  ‘It seems they can send messages on horseback, however. Maybe time to leave?’

  Sophaya lifted the little girl from Gerens, and set her before Joceline. ‘This is Antoinette. Do you think you could manage to find her parents?’

  The woman nodded, but the girl looked up with eyes that were as dead as her voice proved to be. ‘My mummy and daddy are dead. They shouted at the soldiers when they took us away.’

  A tear started in Sophaya’s eye, but Joceline merely crouched and took the girl’s hands in hers. ‘Well, I will just have to take care of you, won’t I? We will find you work to occupy you and train you in skills you never imagined you could learn.’

  Brann was shocked. ‘She is no more than six years! You don’t mean to bring her up as a…?’

  Joceline’s glare cut him off. ‘The seamstress across from the inn has need of an apprentice.’

  He was glad the darkness would hide his blush. ‘Good. Of course. We should go.’ He looked at her. ‘Thank you, for all of this.’

  She shrugged. ‘Just tell me this: does the Duke still govern?’

  ‘Not in this world.’

  ‘Then the thanks are mine to give to you.’

  Shouts drew closer. Without a word or a look back, Joceline took Antoinette by the hand and ran for the shadows. Brann looked at Philippe, who looked after the receding pair, almost out of sight already, and then turned back. ‘There is nothing here for me now but sorrow,’ he said. ‘If you will allow me, I would like—’

  Brann’s answer was to grab his tunic and drag him with him as, without further hesitation, he bolted for the wall. The others, impatient to leave, needed no encouragement to run with them.

  To expect to reach the cover of the door without being seen would have been pushing optimism too far, but they almost made it. A score of paces from their target, a group of men rounded a distant corner. The open ground and full moon gave the guards a view that was sufficient to show several figures behaving suspiciously, and to men already enthused by the chase, anything questionable became prey. The men began to shout and run in the same instant, although one lingered long enough to sound three blasts on a horn. Answering horns sent back single notes from at least four locations.

  Brann thumped into the wall, his chest heaving, at the same time as the others. Gerens paused for nothing, hurling his shoulder at the door without missing a stride. The wood shattered inwards and the boy tumbled through, already back on his feet by the time the others piled in.

  ‘It may have been open, you know,’ Konall pointed out.

  ‘It definitely is now,’ Gerens said.

  They hurried into the short
corridor through the wall, barely more than a few hands of space to either side of their shoulders.

  ‘I dare you to do the same to the next door,’ Konall said.

  Gerens grunted. ‘I don’t mind getting wet. Better than waiting to be stuck with a sword.’

  Light penetrated no more than a few yards behind them into the passage, and they felt their way at a trot through the black, feet slipping on the damp stone of the floor. Brann strained his eyes for the slightest hint of light ahead but still discovered the door with his hands rather than his eyes. The others piled up behind him, then backed off slightly as his fingers found three large bolts and slid them free. He yanked at a handle, and old hinges groaned as he heaved it open at the second attempt. The moon was shining from the far side of the town, but outside was lighter than the tunnel and some little vision returned to them, the water of the moat a deeper black than what lay beyond. He knelt and felt in the darkness.

  ‘There should be a plank lying at the side of the tunnel,’ he called urgently. ‘Run it across the moat and we are away.’

  ‘I have it,’ came Grakk’s voice. ‘But it will not be our bridge. Wet floors and wood are excellent for rot, but not for strength.’

  Brann cursed. There was no option. ‘Gerens, you will get your swim after all.’

  The shouts behind were nearing the broken door behind them. Brann launched himself blindly into the moat, hitting the water and hearing the muffled splashes of the others doing likewise before he regained the surface. The distinctive taste in his mouth was expected – and welcome, under the circumstances – but had obviously come as a surprise to Konall.

  ‘What in all the hells have we jumped into?’ the boy spluttered.

  Brann grinned. ‘Just don’t drink any of it.’ At least it meant that the others were waiting for them.

  Grakk called to him. Brann saw his dark silhouette crouched at the doorway and was handed the bundle of documents. He took them in one hand while his other kept his head above the water, then watched in alarm as the gangly figure leapt wildly past him in the general direction of the others.

  ‘That was Grakk!’ he yelled above the sound of the splash. ‘Remember he can’t swim.’

  ‘Got him, chief,’ came Gerens’s voice. ‘What are you doing back there?’

  ‘I’m on my way.’ An explanation seemed irrelevant. ‘Just get him to the other side quickly.’

  He heard the water thrash as they struck out and followed in their wake, swimming one-handed as fast as he could while carefully keeping the bundle of documents clear of the water. He made the far side as figures, lit by a torch, started to appear at the doorway. Cries from the guards increased in excitement as the splashing of Brann and his companions being helped from the water by strong arms from above told them how close their quarry was. A scrape of wood on stone was followed by a curse.

  ‘Sounds like they have discovered the rot in the wood,’ Brann said to Cannick as the man pulled him to the bank of the moat with an ease that belied his age, while Hakon and Breta could be heard helping the others. ‘Is all prepared?’ He received a nod. ‘The horses?’

  ‘It was too noticeable from the wall to have them waiting here. They’ll be on their way soon.’

  ‘They are not here?’ There was panic in Philippe’s voice, the alarm increasing as the splashes of men jumping into the water started to be heard in rapid and unceasing order. ‘It doesn’t matter how far we are from the nearest gate, if we are on foot they will ride us down with ease.’

  Konall swept his wet hair from his face and reached to tie it behind his head, as he always did as a precursor to a fight. ‘He has a point, if a little dramatically expressed. And we are fairly outnumbered by those already on their way.’

  A soldier started to drag himself from the moat, and Gerens casually swatted him with his sword, looking across the water as the baying of hounds could now be heard from the tunnel. ‘And then there is that development, too.’

  Philippe grabbed Cannick by the arm. ‘So when will the horses come? When?’

  Cannick gently disengaged his grip. ‘Just as soon as they see the fire.’

  ‘Fire?’ Philippe cast about wildly. ‘What fire?’

  Cannick lifted a lamp that was shuttered to send light only towards the empty land outside the town, and smashed it onto a towering pile of dry, brittle branches loaded into the back of the cart, now empty of its barrels of oil. The dry wood flared up in seconds.

  ‘Ah,’ said Konall. ‘That fire.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Cannick said, as Breta and Hakon leapt forward to run the blazing cart at the moat and tip it headlong at the water. ‘This fire.’

  Fire arose from the water as if by magic. Swimmers screamed as much in shock as agony, and the men at the doorway, lit by the spreading flames, shrank back against those behind. The light gave them vision at their own side of the moat as well, revealing two large barrels lying at the side of the water, their tops staved in and contents gone.

  Gerens grinned with cold humour. ‘The oil.’

  Brann nodded, remembering the trickle of oil in the rear yard of the inn the night before, when the idea had slipped into his head. He was glad it had worked; the still water of the moat letting the oil stay concentrated at that spot for the short time since it would have been poured there.

  Two arrows flickered at the corner of his vision and thunked into the ground not far from Grakk.

  The tribesman looked at him then raised his eyebrows. ‘Shall we move?’

  ‘In the gods’ names yes,’ Brann gasped, aghast at his complacency. The flames that kept men and beasts at the foot of the wall from following also made their little group perfect targets for archers at the top of it. In any case, he had no idea how long the fire on the water would last.

  They had little to gather and less to entice them to delay, and were running into the darkness in seconds. As soon as they had stumbled beyond the range of an arrow, tripping and bumping each other in blindness, Konall stopped them.

  ‘Squeeze your eyes shut, and count to ten,’ he said. ‘Your eyes still want to see in the firelight. So remind them what dark looks like.’

  When they opened their eyes, the way was clear to them, even with the moon behind clouds. Brann looked at him approvingly, and Konall shrugged.

  ‘Old hunting trick from where the winter nights would show you what real darkness is.’

  They ran again, but this time faster.

  Every thirty paces, Grakk gave a shrill whistle.

  Sophaya moved alongside Brann. ‘If he is trying to attract those who bring the horses, would he not be better advised to use light?’

  ‘The source of light is easier to pinpoint over distance, such as from the town gates,’ Brann panted. ‘The direction of a sound is easier to find up close than from far away, so we give less away to our enemies pursuing than we do to our friends seeking us.’

  She grunted, accepting his reasoning. He wondered, at first, at a girl of obvious intelligence not seeing this for herself, but remembered her background. When you spend your life, and make your living, in the confines of tightly packed buildings and narrow streets, the accepted wisdom is that light can be concealed by walls or even a cloak, but sound carries greater distances and around corners, and is the greater danger. Different circumstances, different lessons.

  Brann’s breath was loud in his head, but the growing sound of hoof beats was louder. They stopped, and Grakk whistled again, giving final confirmation. Despite reason telling him that only their own companions could have reached them so quickly, still Brann’s heart quickened and his sword found its way into his hand as he watched the dark shapes gallop towards them.

  Then a rider vaulted from his saddle, and Marlo’s cheerful voice greeted them.

  Brann relaxed, finding his horse and swinging onto its back, gratefully feeling the familiar power of the beast beneath him. Marlo was beside him, and he pointed at the dark shape of Philippe. ‘We have brought an extra passenger for
you.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘You are light enough that the horse will not mind as much taking the extra load.’

  ‘Mongoose is lighter.’

  ‘You are skinnier.’

  ‘Sophaya is skinnier.’

  ‘You want to suggest to Gerens that another man rides with Sophaya?’

  A short pause ended with a flash of white teeth. ‘Philippe, you may ride with me.’

  Hakon guffawed. ‘You might want to watch how you put that!’

  Breta slapped the back of his head. ‘Restrain your ribald comments in the presence of ladies, pig man.’ She hawked and spat as hoof-kicked dust swirled and caught at her throat. ‘Men!’

  Hakon looked at her, but thought better of responding.

  They rode as quickly as rows of vines would allow, until they reached a road.

  Brann wheeled his horse. ‘Konall? Hakon? East.’

  Without hesitation, both pointed to where the road led to their left. He saw Philippe’s quizzical look.

  ‘Born as seafarers. Under the sun or the stars, they always know.’

  The clouds had cleared and the moon lit the road to allow a gallop to be risked until they had crested three successive rises, after which Brann slowed them to a loping canter, being more concerned with ensuring the horses could last the pace as long as possible. He moved alongside Marlo’s horse, looking at Philippe.

  ‘You know the town,’ he called above the noise of the hooves. ‘Will he be mourned?’ Thoughts of the Duke clearly brought back the reality of his sister’s death and, as Philippe crumpled into himself, regret at having to seek information clenched his gut. Brann was on the verge of leaving him to his grief when the young man pulled himself tall in the saddle once more, drawing strength into himself with a long slow breath. Brann’s remorse turned to a surge of emotion as he watched courage gather in Philippe’s eyes.

  ‘They will rejoice.’ His voice was flat, controlled. ‘They will rejoice, but they will do so behind the walls of their houses, for no one under the Duke’s rule was safe from betrayal, and it takes time for trust to grow and feelings to be expressed openly.’