Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3)

by Andy Livingstone

  Mongoose grunted. ‘I don’t care. Just tell me we are ending this journey of hell.’

  Garryk put the cloth in her hand and stood. ‘We are ending this journey of hell, girl.’

  ‘Good.’

  As the hull bumped gently against a quay, two of the grandsons were already leaping ashore to help the passengers and their baggage from the boat. Not a second was wasted when the task was complete; with a smile and a nod, the pair stepped back aboard and pushed against the quay in one smooth movement. Without any further backward glance, the boat was heading back the way it had come.

  ‘What now?’ Konall said, feeling in a pocket on his pack to check his bowstrings for dampness.

  ‘Now,’ said Brann, ‘we find an inn for rumours or news on goings on that sound like the work of the likes of Loku, Daric and the rest of them, and we find horses for sale.’ He looked at his father. ‘And what now for you? Home?’

  His father nodded. ‘Home. Though, first, I would share this part of your quest with you, if you would allow it.’

  Brann took a step back in astonishment. ‘You are the father, and I the son. I ask permission from you, not you from me.’

  His father’s face was hard, but there was pride in his eyes. ‘In this, I do.’

  The inn proved fruitful as they found the fishermen, on returning from the day’s work, were eager to swallow ale and spout stories gleaned from crews they had encountered from other harbours. Merchants who had waited for the uncertain time of return of the boats were also eager to pass the time and added news from inland to the mix.

  It appeared that the efforts of those under Daric on the North Island had proved less successful than on its southern neighbour; the widespread communities and the hardy people, bred into a harsher climate, making for greater resistance for smaller gain.

  ‘He will need more men up here,’ Grakk had observed. ‘Once they have their objective on the other side of The Break, they will either try to sweep quickly through the softer targets of the more southerly two kingdoms and then flood this place with men, or will head here first to leave the easy target down south as a final loose end to be tidied up.’

  Brann had agreed. ‘Either way, he can do nothing while there is so much activity in Ragalan, and all he does on this trip is to gather facts to present to this Council of Masters, probably with the next move to be decided at that point. If we can work out where their activity here is, then we can seek to intercept him.’

  The merchants had directed them to the farm of a horse breeder who had been delighted with the unexpected sale of fourteen animals without having to take them to market. Perhaps of even greater value, he was also able to pass on tales of atrocities committed by bands of men with the faces of demons, and knew the names of several villages and hamlets that had been attacked. The towns, for now, seemed too large to be under threat. Brann had produced the map and the man had been happy to mark the positions of the affected settlements.

  ‘If you and your friends could send these demons back to their hell, I am happy to help you find them,’ he had said, his fingers tracing a symbol in the air.

  ‘They are not demons, but merely men with masks,’ Brann had corrected him. ‘Nevertheless, they deserve a hell all to themselves, and we are more than happy ourselves to put them there.’

  ‘Good enough for me,’ the horse famer had said with a smile reflecting the grimness in his voice.

  At their camp that night, Brann hung a small lantern on a branch and spread the map beneath it. His father, Konall and Grakk moved to look at it also when they noticed. Brann looked up at them. ‘I am seeing a pattern in these attacks,’ he said.

  Grakk nodded. ‘The same thought had occurred to me when the farmer marked them. All a similar distance from a central point?’

  ‘You would attack their camp?’ his father said. ‘Is that wise?’

  Konall looked at him askance. ‘You fear to attack them?’

  The response was familiar in its lack of patience for being challenged. ‘I care for my son, fool. My own safety is secondary.’

  Konall bristled. ‘Your son has followed a path often treacherous for some time without a nervous mother hen.’

  ‘If you are willing to accept his death when an alternative course could have been taken, then you are as callous as you are stupid. Typical Halvekan.’

  Konall leapt to his feet, eyes flashing and hand reaching for his knife. Brann and Grakk hurled themselves between the two men as Garryk roared, ‘They will not kill my son, noble boy, and neither will you!’

  The others stirred quickly around the fire. Brann felt sick in the pit of his guts at the sight of the two facing off, but Grakk maintained a stillness and placed a hand on the heaving chest of each man.

  ‘You are both right,’ he said. ‘We are not afraid to attack them, but there may be better ground than that chosen by them.’ He looked at Brann. ‘Is that not so?’

  Brann found himself struggling to collect his thoughts, as though they were butterflies in a breeze, but forced his brain to work. ‘Yes,’ he stammered. ‘Yes.’ He took a breath, letting logic take hold. ‘These men here are different from those we found in the camp near Belleville. These seem to be a vanguard, fewer but more redoubtable and organised. Perhaps the officers who will control the wild troops, if they can be compared to anything organised. So their camp will be better defended and they will be less inclined to surprised flight. But the priority is not killing them, but getting to Daric and finding where this Council of Masters will meet.’ He looked pointedly at Konall. ‘We can kill them all later, but have to be patient.’

  In the time his words had taken to say, the tension had lessened slightly. He looked from one wild face to the other, and saw the tightness start to ease there also. ‘If we can look at the possibilities?’

  Both nodded, and slowly squatted once more by the map. Brann and Grakk did likewise, between them. ‘He said he was coming from Ragalan to here and then on to Halveka. So if the camp is there, we can look at his options for heading for the east coast. Let’s start with that.’

  As Brann finished his meal, he heard several of the horses snicker. Marlo was ahead of him in moving to settle them, but he waved the boy back and told him to take the chance to rest. Sometimes, he needed to think, and he did that best alone.

  He heard footsteps before Konall’s voice, so he was surprised less by the presence behind him than the identity of the speaker. ‘Happier with horses more your size?’

  Brann smiled. ‘These are what I thought all riding horses looked like until your uncle took me away from this. We also have pulling horses, which are massive, but I didn’t realise there was a size in the middle more suited to the long distances and flatter land of the big land outside these islands. But then those horses wouldn’t cope as well as these little fellows with the hard ground and slopes we have here.’

  ‘I know.’ Konall sighed. ‘We have the same small ones as you, just for getting to a fight, mind you. Real fighting is done on a man’s own legs.’

  ‘Real fighting is done in whatever way wins. Congratulate a man for dying well, and do you think he hears you?’

  The blond head nodded. ‘You have taught me that, amongst other things.’ He stroked the neck of the horse before him. ‘We have none of these really big ones. I would like to see one, they must be an impressive sight. Hakon horses.’ He laughed awkwardly.

  Brann looked up at him for a long moment. ‘Why are you being nice with me, Konall? I don’t feel any more comfortable with it than you do.’ Realisation dawned as he spoke. ‘You are apologising!’

  ‘I am not! Did you hear me say the words?’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So you are apologising.’

  ‘I am.’

  Brann smiled. ‘Thank you. But you should really apologise to my father.’

  Konall turned and looked into the darkness. ‘I did.’

  ‘You did?’

  �
��Are you deaf? I offered to let him hit me.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘No.’ Konall spat in the dirt. ‘He apologised to me, for his words. Except he did it with dignity.’ He shook his head. ‘Your weirdness is obviously a family trait.’

  He turned and walked back to the fire. Before he had gone three paces, and without turning, he said, ‘Sorry,’ violently hawked and spat, and punched a tree branch.

  Brann smiled.

  He sought out his father, and found him sitting against a tree, a short hunting spear propped against the trunk, a broadsword, whetstone, and oil-damp rag neatly laid on a cloth by his side. A buckler sat on his lap, and he was working intently with a needle and thread on a leather strap that looked so well kept that it could have been crafted that morning. ‘Meticulous as ever,’ Brann thought, nostalgia stabbing through him.

  He slid down to rest his back on the trunk also. ‘Want a hand?’ He pointed at the sword.

  ‘If you like.’ The man grunted. ‘Seems like yesterday I had to force you to do the slightest thing around the mill. Now you’re offering to work.’

  Brann started tending to the sword’s edge. As he had expected, it could be used to shave before he even started. He grinned. ‘I might have worked more in those days if you had offered me a sword to work on. Sharp weapons are always more exciting to young boys than sacks of flour.’

  ‘Those who have never used a weapon see the shiny blade; those who have, see the butchered flesh. Not so exciting then.’

  Brann nodded. ‘There is truth in that.’

  He father’s hands stopped but he still stared down at the small shield. ‘I wasn’t there. You have seen so much you should not have seen, and had to endure what you should never have faced. A father should be there for his son. I was not.’

  Brann’s voice was equally low. ‘You could not. It was what it was. I am lucky.’

  His father looked at him sharply. ‘Lucky?’

  ‘Yes.’ He ran a finger gently along the edge of the blade. ‘I had something that let me survive. It was in me. Others built on it, but it was in there already, and I played no part in putting it there. Someone else in my place might not have had that, and would have died. I was lucky.’

  ‘I could be there now, though. But I return home. I was not there for you, but I can be there for my other children, and I must. The stories I heard, they tell me you can take care of yourself in the world you now inhabit, but I have to ensure the twins can be ready for the world they will find. Can you understand why I must fail you again?’

  Brann grabbed his father’s arm urgently. ‘You are not failing me! You have given up how many months of your life on the barest whisper of a chance of finding me, and you achieved it. And now if you go home, I have a family there I thought were gone. You have given me something to return to. I have survived times where all I thought I had of my own was my life, and I fought hard, so hard, to keep that. Think of the urge to survive when I have the four of you in my mind.’

  The man grunted. ‘You are right. Sometimes the right choice is the one that hurts the least people. Not much fun for the “least people”, though.’

  Brann smiled. ‘I’ll survive.’

  ‘You’d better,’ his father growled.

  Brann sighted down the blade, more than satisfied with its condition. ‘This is a nice weapon. Good balance.’ He laid it back on the cloth between them. ‘Seems strange to picture you with a sword, though.’

  ‘If I had wandered the open roads alone without learning how to use one, my search wouldn’t have lasted very long. What we are planning here is different, though. I have always reacted to a situation, never had to sit and think about it beforehand.’

  Brann sighed. ‘They say the waiting is the worst, but it’s not true. The sewing up afterwards beats it every time.’ He smiled. ‘But the waiting isn’t great. Want to practise? See if I can help.’

  His father looked at him, his face as hard as ever. ‘Do you know how ironic that sounds from a child?’

  ‘I’m not a child any more, Father.’

  ‘You are to me. Always will be, and never you forget it.’ He stood. ‘But in the meantime, I am not too proud to accept some pointers if it helps me to watch your back.’

  Brann rose also. ‘I work with Marlo most nights, so we can include him.’ He whistled over to the boy and nodded in the direction of a space the other side of some bushes, and Marlo jumped to his feet immediately, sword in hand.

  Brann faced his father first. The man was tentative, never having faced anyone in practice before, let alone his own son and with an edged weapon in hand. Brann parried and moved carefully, letting the strokes build in assurance as his father grew more confident that he would not kill his boy.

  Brann felt the power held back and, mixed with a basic aptitude learnt through necessity, it would compensate for the lack of teaching against a certain level of foe. In fact, he was surprised at the level his father had brought himself to, for although the blows lacked anything close to skill or fluidity, each movement was deliberately intended and efficient as a result.

  He paused, stepping back and holding up a hand. ‘Apologies, Marlo. I did not ask you over to watch. You two practise, and I can watch more closely from the side.’

  The pair proved to be fairly evenly matched. Brute strength and a practical style met a careful grounding in technique and years of watching masters at work. More than once, Marlo’s nimble footwork or deft parry avoided a shoulder to the chest or a pommel to the jaw, and Garryk’s buckler or braced blade absorbed the full force of an overhead swing or knocked a thrust wide.

  ‘Stop,’ Brann said. ‘Catch your breath or one of you will make a mistake and someone will get hurt.’

  Marlo rested his hands on his knees, his chest heaving. He looked across at Brann once he could speak. ‘He uses his strength like you do, but needs to learn to use an opponent’s attack movement against him to gain an angle or unbalance him.’

  Garryk grunted. ‘No chance of that. I am what I am. My feet are rooted into the ground for strength, and I will never be described as graceful.’ He glanced at Brann. ‘Your mother, though, that is a different manner. Remember how she dances?’

  Marlo grinned, slapping Brann on the back. ‘You see, you are a perfect combination of both of your parents. You can take absolutely no credit for any of your success.’

  Brann grunted. ‘That has sealed your fate the next time we practise, cheeky brat.’ He grinned. ‘But the two of you can show me some more of how good you are.’

  Blades clashed once more, and Marlo’s laughter rang out along with the sound. ‘I will beat you, old man. You do not even know the basics!’

  ‘You know your weakness, little boy?’ Garryk grunted in time to the thumping of his blows. As Marlo looked at him in curiosity, feinting and thrusting with smooth speed, the man’s sword rose high in an ungainly but mighty overhead swing. Marlo raised his own weapon, two hands on the weapon to ensure strength and the rising blade at a perfect angle to deflect the downward swipe in just the right direction to leave the sword arm flailing away and open the body for a winning thrust.

  Brann winced in anticipation of what was to come. And what came was not the downward swing of Garryk’s sword, but the punch of Garryk’s buckler straight between the boy’s raised elbows and into the centre of his face.

  By the time Marlo’s eyes returned to focus, he saw a man standing astride him with his sword tip resting on his chest. ‘Your weakness,’ said Garryk, ‘is that you are a slave to the basics. Not everyone you fight will have learnt the right way.’

  Brann offered Marlo a rag to stem the blood from his nose. ‘A valuable lesson. There is no right or wrong in a fight, only winning and losing. Winners earn the ability to be right or wrong afterwards; losers can do nothing but rot.’

  Marlo smiled ruefully. ‘A lesson I am eager to learn, for I have plans for the foreseeable future that do not include rotting.’ He gave Garryk a slight bow. ‘Thank yo
u, Brann’s father.’

  Garryk watched the boy’s receding back. ‘And I thought you were cheerful. What does it take to wipe the smile from that boy’s face?’

  Brann’s mouth twitched up at one side into a half smile, one of affection. ‘I hope I never find out. He is our light when we are in the darkness.’

  ‘Then keep him close.’

  ‘For his light?’

  ‘For his own protection. Leave him alone in a fight and your light will be extinguished.’

  Brann nodded. ‘I know. Why do you think I train him every night, as Grakk trains me after I finish with Marlo? I am given military history one night, which is actually fairly fascinating, and weapons practice the next, which is fun and useful. I hope to give to Marlo a better chance of life.’

  His father looked at him. ‘All of that can be useful. You never know what you will need to draw upon when life is unpredictable – which we have certainly learnt it is.’ He gestured in the direction Marlo had gone. ‘And, by the way, train him all you like, but the best gift you can give him is your sword guarding his back.’ He nodded at Brann’s weapon. ‘Talking of which, that is a fancy black blade.’

  Brann drew his sword, then offered his axe and knife to his father’s hands in turn. Garryk turned them over, examined them in the glow of the lamplight, tested their edges and swung the bigger weapons. He whistled softly. ‘I think I have just proved that I am no expert in weaponry, but someone must think highly of you to give you these.’

  Brann replaced them on his belt. ‘He seems to, though I never worked out why.’ He thought back to Alam, the former Emperor now content to let others think him a doddery old man while he plotted and schemed – the man who had sent them on this pursuit of Loku. Brann was certain Alam’s objectives were his alone, and that Brann and his companions (and all others employed by Alam) were tools he used in achieving them, but he was more than happy to undertake this mission if it uncovered the people behind what was looking more and more a bid to control power in the Northern states outwith the Empire… and if it let him bring Loku within the length of a sword thrust.