Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3)

by Andy Livingstone

  ‘And the loyalty of the soldiers?’

  Philippe shrugged, having to grab at Marlo’s waist to regain his hold as his hands moved with his shoulders. ‘They are loyal to the job. Like every other job, some are in it for the money, some like to feel important; some are good men, others are bastards. And like everyone in that town, all were in fear of even the appearance of disobedience.’

  ‘So what I’m wondering is, how much will they be inclined to follow us?’ He paused as he thought of Philippe’s background. ‘I’m sorry, how could I expect you to know? You were not one of them.’

  The level gaze never left him. ‘But I do know people. And I know that when he,’ his head nodded at Gerens, ‘let loose his grip, he not only rid the town and these lands of a madman, but in one heartbeat he also created uncertainty. No one stood ready to step into his place, because he trusted no one to repress the ambition he would have held in their place. And the Captain of the Guard was also killed. They will not follow after they know the truth, and dawn is more than time enough for that.’

  Brann bit on his lip as he considered it. Once the officers realised fully what had caused the alarm and that their leader was no more, and once those holding positions of power in the town – and those who would wish to do so – discovered that the Duke was dead, all concern would focus on the question of who would assume control, and any interest in the small group of unknown people would disappear along with the shapes into the dark of the surrounding countryside. Philippe was right. ‘Thank you.’

  The young man turned his face forward once more. Brann saw the glisten of tears start to shine in the moonlight, and was struck by a memory of a voice of feigned coarseness in a dark alley. Remember me like this, my lover. He fished in his coin pouch, fingers finding the button Eloise had handed him immediately before walking into the danger of the Duke’s keep. Leaning across, he pressed it into Philippe’s hand.

  The young man stared at the button in silence, the tip of his thumb rubbing gently across it as if to confirm it was real. An object of such simplicity, but holding an enormity of sentiment. His chest constricted sharply as a violent intake of breath was prevented from becoming a sob only by a jaw clenched with fierce determination. His fingers closed tight over the button, and eyes drenched in conflicting emotions turned to meet Brann’s. He nodded, once.

  Brann steered his horse away, allowing him his sorrow.

  They continued at a canter until light started to creep from above the horizon ahead. Brann slowed them to a trot, and then a walk and, when the sun was fully in sight, Mongoose spotted a brook not far from the road.

  As the horses drank, they broke out dried meat and bread, noticing their hunger now that they had stopped. Brann untied the bag of documents and pulled out the map, spreading it on the ground before him. He called Cannick over.

  ‘What have you there?’ the old warrior said.

  ‘A present from the Duke.’ Brann grinned. ‘I suppose it’s now a bequest.’

  Cannick smiled back. ‘Very good of him. Is it any help?’

  ‘That’s what I want to know. You know this area – what do you think?’

  The older man groaned slightly as he knelt beside Brann. ‘I don’t know these lands intimately, but enough to understand this easily enough. There is Belleville, and we are here.’ He indicated a spot. ‘See where the river runs in close to the road, just after the road bends sharply?’

  Brann traced a finger across eastwards to a symbol marked onto the map in fresher ink than the main design. ‘So this must be the camp the Duke said Loku headed for.’ He frowned. ‘There are three more of those symbols in the area around the town. I don’t like the look of that.’

  ‘There is much of this whole affair I don’t like the look of,’ Cannick growled. ‘The sooner we have a chat with that bastard Loku, like we did with the Duke, the better.’

  ‘You are right.’ He called to the others and wrapped the map up once more with care. ‘At least we know it is a single road to reach it, with just a fork near the camp.’

  Cannick nodded. ‘If I am picturing the distances right, we should reach it shortly after noon.’

  As it transpired, they reached the fork late morning, though it proved to be less of a fork in the road than it had appeared when drawn on the map, and more a narrow offshoot of a track, overgrown with the bushes, thick and thorny of branch, that grew abundantly on both sides of the road.

  Konall rode close, his hunter’s eye drawing his curiosity. ‘Someone has worked hard to make this look unused and unwelcoming. Look.’ He leant to the side and cautiously grabbed the end of one branch, taking care to avoid the large curved thorns. As he nudged his horse to walk it away, the entire bush moved with him, opening the start of the track to allow easy passage.

  ‘Very good, young lord,’ said Grakk, and dismounted to lead his horse with care between the narrow path between reaching branches.

  They followed him up a short but steep slope, eyeing the wicked barbs of the thorns and imagining easily the damage just one could cause if ripping the skin of a passer-by, whether human or animal.

  On cresting the rise, they saw a dramatic transformation. Where the track was unable to be seen from the road, it had been cleared to allow easy movement, and was clearly well used.

  Despite the caution that potential proximity brings, they moved with as much haste as they could manage. Well used meant the chance of meeting one of those well-users was high, and uncomfortable. The way ahead started to lead upwards again, though not as steeply as the stretch from the road. Brann saw a rocky outcrop a couple of bowshots to the right, and whistled softly to attract Grakk’s attention. He pointed that way, and the man nodded, realising, as Brann had, that they did not know what lay over the crest of this small hill.

  Mongoose pulled up alongside him. ‘Don’t fancy knocking on the front door, then? Pity, you lot had all the fun back at the town.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Brann reassured her. ‘I’m not ruling out any fun here too.’

  They led their horses into the outcrop, great angular rocks jutting at angles but with space to pass easily between.

  Brann looked around. ‘We are far enough in to be hidden. Marlo, watch the horses while we have a look.’

  For once, Marlo’s face was missing his smile. ‘Why am I always the one to stay behind?’

  ‘You have a way with the horses, and it is important to keep them quiet.’ He didn’t want to say that the real reason was his reluctance to place the boy in any greater danger than was ever necessary, but relented at the disappointment written across Marlo’s face. ‘Fine. Gerens, show Philippe how to keep the horses quiet but ready for a quick departure if necessary.’ He looked at Marlo. ‘Grumpy, you come with us.’ The smile returned.

  They crept through the rocks, reaching the highest point of the small hill. They crawled the last few yards, rough ground scraping beneath them but otherwise silent. The whole group, bar the two at the horses, eased their heads in unison to look at what lay beyond.

  Brann gasped slightly. The sight that greeted him was familiar, similar in so many ways to the village he had seen in the mountains of Konall’s homeland. The squalor, the hovels, the impalement stakes that were almost like religious focal points and, most of all, the people, with their air of belligerence and degradation and, no doubt, the same dead eyes. Similar in so many ways, but different in one: here there were no women or children, leaving the scene both more tense and less horrific. For Brann, worse than any other aspect of the previous village had been the acceptance of casual brutality and torture as commonplace and routine by children who knew no other way of life.

  They slid away from the edge and moved back to the horses before anyone spoke. Brann saw Konall, Hakon, Cannick, Grakk and Gerens, who had also travelled south with Einarr from Halveka, look at each other, the same grimness in each gaze.

  Breta growled. ‘What in the darkest hells was that?’

  ‘We have seen such before,’ Brann
said, ‘in the North.’

  ‘Ach, shit.’ Gerens spat in disgust. ‘When that fool dangling from the window mentioned a camp, rather than town or village, I had suspected such but hoped for different.’

  Brann realised that Breta, Mongoose, Sophaya, Marlo and Philippe were looking at him intently. He shook his head at the memories that filled it. ‘In the mountains of Halveka, near the home town of Konall and Hakon, a camp had been secretly established by Loku, and populated by the worst in society: those who glorify in inflicting pain and torture, who feast on suffering; the scum of every society brought together and with their basest and cruellest features encouraged and fed.’ He looked at Hakon and Gerens, his eyes flitting from them to Grakk. ‘Some of us were taken there and subjected to their degradation.’

  Hakon stood from where he had been scratching meaninglessly in the dirt with a dagger, knuckles white where he gripped the hilt. ‘And two of us went there voluntarily to bring the three imprisoned in it to safety.’ He looked at Brann and Konall. ‘Some things are not forgotten.’ He sheathed the knife and slipped an axe from his belt. ‘I also do not forget that we gave those bastards a beating, and we can do the same to their cousins here.’

  ‘Easy, big man.’ Cannick put a hand on Hakon’s shoulder. ‘No use in all of them and half of us getting killed.’

  Brann nodded, thoughts competing as he weighed what he knew with what might be possible. ‘If Loku is still here—’

  ‘We net two fish on one hook,’ Konall said. ‘So we go in fast and hit them before they realise they are under attack.’ Like Hakon, his weapon was drawn.

  Brann held up a hand. ‘You Northmen will be the death of me! Literally.’

  Grakk said: ‘What if Loku is killed in the confusion? Or is not there at all and we have wasted time when we could be on his trail?’

  Brann paced, options being dismissed or compared. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Still, if the bastard dies,’ Hakon was not deterred, ‘how is that in any way a bad thing?’

  Konall sighed. ‘They are right. His death will be a thing of great joy, but our vengeance, and the service such an occurrence will bring to the world in general, is secondary. First, we must determine the greater threat posed by the conspiracy he serves, whether it aims to sow discord, topple rulers or anything in between, and he must be able to talk to lead us further on that path.’

  ‘The young lord is correct, my friend,’ Grakk said, patting Hakon on his broad back. ‘We need to catch him, to learn what we can of this enterprise, of his superiors. If we know there is activity in the Green Islands, in Halveka and now here also, this is even more widespread than we envisaged. We must find Loku, and learn what he knows, whatever it takes to do both.’

  Hakon grumbled and kicked a stone. ‘Can we at least kill some of his little friends down there?’

  ‘Actually,’ Brann said, ‘it would be a good idea, I think.’ Hakon brightened immediately, and there were signs of enthusiasm from several of the others. ‘We need to know if Loku is there or not, and quickly, for if he is not we can’t afford any further distance growing between us. But we cannot live with any sort of conscience if we leave this nest of death behind us.’

  Cannick walked across. ‘So, what are you thinking?’

  Brann saw every pair of eyes upon him and pushed aside the discomfort of wondering why his opinion should be decisive to let his thoughts gather. ‘Well…’ He spoke slowly as the leaves grew on the branches of the plan that was forming in his head. ‘We cannot kill them all without sustaining casualties ourselves, and in the most practical sense, that would slow us down further. But we can disperse them. And such people tend to cowardice, so remove the bravado of the crowd and all they have is the life they lived before this. A cut-throat thief is not something I would wish on any community, but they exist already in every town and city, and better that than the slaughter and terror these are gathered to wreak, whether the murder of innocents we heard of in the South Island or the attempt to wipe out Konall’s entire ruling family in Halveka.’ He looked at Hakon. ‘And we can kill a few of them in the process.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Konall. ‘Kill a few, disperse the others, that’s the idea. So how?’

  ‘I always find,’ Brann smiled, his confidence in his ideas growing as they flowed, ‘that panic is an excellent weapon. Especially amongst those who enjoy the suffering of others but fear their own. So we make them think they are doomed. Sharp weapons and confusion should do the trick.’ He pointed at Marlo and Philippe. ‘You two take half the horses each: one of you to this side of the hill at the path into the settlement, and the other slightly further along this hill. Keep below the skyline and, at our signal, run them round in circles to make as much dust as you can. Feel free to shout a lot, too.’

  ‘Sounds fun,’ grinned Marlo. ‘But what will the signal be?’

  ‘Screams,’ said Brann.

  The rest of them were in place in minutes. Creeping close to the edge of the camp was not difficult when danger was not anticipated and standards were slovenly at best. He looked in both directions. They were in pairs – Gerens protectively beside him, Cannick with Grakk, Konall with Hakon, and Breta with Mongoose – spread wide to give the impression of a large attack. He glanced back where elements of the rocky outcrop broke out from the slope that led down towards the camp, and saw Sophaya with the vantage point she needed, placing arrows ready on the top of a slab.

  He looked again into the camp. The sun was high and the air thick with heat, making for torpor and quiet; few moved among the basic huts of brittle-dry branches stacked into squat cones. Insects buzzed and birds called from on high. It would seem tranquil, if they didn’t know what sort of people the inhabitants were. And then there was the tall slender stake not more than a score of paces from where he lay, a corpse with less than half its tissue remaining a third of the way from the top and a scattering of well-fed carrion birds close by. As they watched, a thin man clumsily speared one of the birds, pinning it to the ground while another threw rocks at the writhing creature until it eventually lay still.

  ‘That’s the way to do it,’ the rock man snickered. ‘Feed it till it trusts you, then it won’t suspect when you come looking for dinner. Beats hunting any day.’

  The first man jerked his spear free and jabbed it in the direction of his companion. ‘Don’t be thinking you get equal picks. It was my spear that did the business. It was me that pulled the bits of meat from her,’ the spear tip jerked in the direction of the impaled corpse, ‘to give to the bird. I get first pickings.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ The man held his hands up in acquiescence, and the other laid his spear close by his side as he knelt over the dead bird.

  But Brann noticed that a rock was still in the standing man’s hand, and that the first man never turned his back on him, feeling with his hands as he hacked chunks from the body, his eyes never dropping. With a squashed mass of dripping meat and feathers cradled in his arms and his spear awkwardly gripped in one hand, he scuttled towards the far side of the camp. As soon as he moved away, the other man seized the bird by the neck and made off with what remained, looking from one side to the other all the way as though expecting another to be attracted to his prize.

  ‘No time like the present,’ Brann muttered to Gerens once the pair were out of sight. At least there was none of the long waiting before action – time that bred nerves and ate at confidence.

  Winding a rag across his face to cover nose and mouth, he stood and walked calmly past the first hut, finding a broad-shouldered man crouched over a cooking pot. The man’s eyes widened and mouth opened to shout as he saw Brann, but in looking up he also left his throat exposed, and the keen edge of the black-bladed sword cut almost completely through his neck. Brann lifted a burning branch from the fire beneath the pot, and Gerens did likewise. He touched the flame to the man’s hut, the dry wood accepting the fire with fervour, and the pair split left and right, walking behind the next hovels in line and setting e
ach one alight as they went.

  They had each fired two more huts before the screams and shouts started to rouse the camp; alarmed men running to determine the source of the noise but finding only gathering smoke and, within, swinging blades and death. Gerens had met up with Brann and he could only guess that the others had likewise reunited as he had instructed – each would fight as a pair, protecting each other from the unexpected attack that can see even the most skilled warrior felled by the most inept.

  Brann emerged from the bank of smoke, sword in one hand, knife in the other and Gerens by his side. Sophaya’s arrows flitted over them, every one finding a target. From her high position she would be able to see through the smoke as it dissipated and distinguish friend and foe. As the huts burned ever more fiercely, however, it would not be long before she could shoot with certainty no more. It seemed as if that time had arrived when no arrows fell for several breaths, until a screaming man came running at Gerens and a shaft took him square in the chest.

  ‘Magnificent,’ Gerens’s admiring voice breathed.

  Another man, naked but for a pair of ragged breeches, darted at Brann, a hatchet in each hand. Arms and legs swinging in ungainly wildness, the man hurled one of the axes with more clumsiness than efficiency, and Brann was able to watch its tumbling flight and lean to the side to let it pass. The man continued his run, remaining hatchet held high in his left hand and ready to strike, and Brann stepped towards him with three rapid paces, closing the distance quicker than his opponent had anticipated. A swing of the sword took the high hand off at the wrist, and the knife hand opened his throat before the man even knew he had been struck at all.

  Brann stepped past the man as his sucking gurgles quickly faded, sweeping his eyes across the scene. Marlo and Philippe were undertaking their tasks with gusto, dust and shouts rising from beyond the hill in equal measure, and he stared to his left, trying to spot his companions stationed in that direction. He stumbled, knocked to the side, and turned with both weapons at the ready, but it was Gerens who had collided with him. The boy grabbed a thrust spear by the shaft, pulling the holder stumbling forward and yanking the weapon free, whirling in the same movement to stab the weapon into the back of the assailant. A good move, Brann thought with appreciation, and one worth remembering.