‘I am sure you will find out some day.’ Brann was rolling down the sleeves he had folded up for the practice, but his father’s finger stopped the material. ‘Two sheaths on your forearms, one filled and the other empty.’
‘I lent one to someone.’
‘Lent? As in hoping for it to be returned?’
‘Unlikely.’ He thought of the recipient, and the mystery she had radiated. She had aroused a curiosity that he could not shake off. He shrugged. ‘I am so used to the feel of them on my arms, I have to wear the pair. I will see it returned or find another to fit the sheath.’
‘Handy place to have them.’ His father paused to regard him, his look searching. ‘Any others?’
‘Possibly,’ Brann admitted. ‘One in each boot, one across the back of my belt for my left hand to reach and,’ he stretched behind his neck to pull the throwing knife from between his shoulder blades, ‘this one. That’s the lot.’
‘Sure you’ve got enough?’
‘Well,’ Brann said, ‘it’s always good to have…’ He stopped. Memories hit him in rapid succession: the extra couple of bags of flour kept back from market in case of a neighbour’s unexpected need; the extra purse hidden under the seat of the cart, just in case; the extra horse in the barn; the extra hammer beside the tools; the extra millstone in the corner. ‘It’s always good to have something more in reserve.’ He stared. ‘You always… And, in these past times, I have so often…’
Garryk’s face did not move, but there was a smile somewhere in his eyes. ‘I’m glad I actually managed to teach you something.’
Brann threw his arms around his neck. ‘You taught me everything that matters.’
His father winced, working himself gently free of Brann’s arms. ‘With care, boy. Your friend hits harder than I will ever admit to him. I need to ease these shoulders before what is coming in the days before us.’
‘Then come and we will see Grakk. He has magic fingers for the relaxing of muscles.’
They walked slowly towards the firelight, Brann swinging the lantern at his side.
His father broke the silence. ‘A throwing knife? Throwing? You?’
‘On the odd occasion, I get lucky and hit someone. Sometimes the right person. If I’m really lucky, with the right end of the knife.’
‘Sounds about right.’
There was another long silence.
‘Still can’t catch either?’
‘Still can’t catch.’
A contented sigh. ‘Comforting.’
Brann found his side was pressing close to that of his father. ‘It is.’
They lay on the top of a low rise, the grass damp under them, overlooking the dark packed earth of the road as it wound, the height of two men below them, around the base of the hill.
Konall eased his sword free for the inspection he had given it every dozen breaths since they had settled there. ‘You are certain they come this way?’ His voice was a whisper.
Brann gritted his teeth and hissed his reply. ‘As I told you every other time you asked that very same question, there are only two roads coming this direction in this area: this low road and the high road. Grakk scouted a score of riders on the low road, all with demon masks under their dark hoods, and one at the van with red hair to his waist. They come this way.’
Konall stared at the road. ‘Just want to make sure.’
Brann stared at it also, but felt the grass and the soft earth under his fingers. The familiarity was welcome; he felt like he belonged. But… he felt something else, too.
He realised. The last time he had lain on grass like this, his brother had died in front of him, mid-conversation, mid-smile. His chest constricted, sucking in a breath sharply.
His father looked at him. ‘What is it?’ he murmured.
He didn’t want to talk about it right now. ‘Nothing.’
The eyes narrowed. ‘I know that look. I have seen it many times. I have caused it more than a few times.’
‘I told you, it’s nothing. And we should be quiet.’
‘Why? They are not close.’ But his voice had dropped to a whisper nonetheless.
‘Exactly. We need to listen. We can see a fair bit down the road, but to know of their approach further in advance, we will hear them before we see them. It is the opposite of seeing the dust in the desert.’
His father rolled on his side to let him look at Brann more easily. ‘I’m sorry, in the what?’
‘The desert. Surely you…’ He stopped. How would his father know of the desert any more than one of the camel-riding Deruul, the tribe who led caravans across the sea of sand beyond Sagia, would have heard of snow? He continued, his voice soft and low and his eyes fixed on the road below.‘It is a land of emptiness, like a sea of sand. No respite from the heat during the day, no comfort in the cold at night, no trees, barely no animals, and definitely no water. And the slightest movement kicks up dust, meaning you see the signs of riders before you hear them.’ He grinned. ‘About as much the opposite of this place as you can imagine.’
His father grunted. ‘Doesn’t sound the most appealing of places. This place here will do me fine, I think.’
‘It will do me fine, as well, to know you are here. Assuming we can get rid of those we meet today, and their ilk.’
Garryk nodded. ‘Better get listening then.’
As they waited for the sound of horses, Brann’s eyes wandered to the positions where various members of their band waited to play their part. He would have felt more comfortable were he able to check their readiness personally, but the circumstances dictated, as they often did, that he had to trust them. Still, he could find no people he would trust more.
The rumble of the horses came; a hint on the breeze, at first, but growing to an unmistakable sound of hooves drumming on the hard-packed surface. He didn’t have to look at those beside him to know the tension that had swept through them all – he could feel it. The riders came around the far corner, and he dug his fingers and toes into the ground, ready to burst forward. But he held himself now, forcing patience into his straining muscles. They must wait. He hoped the others would. All he could do was hope. He reminded himself to breathe.
And, in seconds, the first rider, his hood thrown back to let his long red braid swing and bounce behind him, was at the mark: the twig they had laid against the slope of the hill. Hakon and Breta jumped in front of the party, their size and roars as much as their sudden appearance startling the leading horses into rearing and milling. The others bunched behind, becoming easy targets for the arrows of Sophaya and Marlo, stationed uphill to the fore and the rear of their prey respectively.
Before order could set in, Brann rose, sword and axe in hand, and saw Gerens and Mongoose do likewise on the other flank, while Grakk and Cannick closed in at the rear.
He charged, knowing the two with him would be at his side. Every way the riders turned, they saw warriors bearing down on them. Brann counted five of them downed by the arrows already, and a sixth standing by his dying horse. Two broke to meet his trio head on, and Brann took on the first, sliding feet first down the last of the slope to pass under a spear point and reaching with his axe at the underside of the horse as its momentum took it past. The fine edge of the blade cut across the animal’s belly but also across his target, the wide leather of the girth that parted like silk. As the horse reared with the pain and fright, the saddle fell loose. When the horse fell on its side, the prone man watched with a scream of horror as its full weight toppled towards him. Brann was already on his feet and turned in a crouch to see his father holding his spear in the side of the other rider, as Konall fell upon him from the other side and finished him off. He moved to his father. He was not about to lose him again.
A man on foot, his hooded cloak tattered and fluttering but his dark demonic mask still in place, came at his father, a sword and shield held ready. Brann’s chest constricted as he realised the assailant would reach his father before he could, but Garryk stood calmly and turne
d the sword’s swing deftly with his spear, thrusting in return and forcing the man to lose his momentum. As the two traded blows, Brann closed with them, but saw a second foe run at his father from the other side. By now, however, he was on them and he hurtled past his father, launching himself and crashing his shoulder into the man’s shield, knocking him at an angle and into a stagger. The man recovered in an instant, though, and swung with an axe at Brann’s head. Brann’s own axe came up, knocking the weapon high and locking the axe heads together. The assailant’s shield came up to protect the head and chest, and Brann instead cut his sword at the knee, the black metal slicing clean through the limb and into the other leg. The man’s scream as he flipped to the side was cut short as Brann’s axe hacked into his neck.
He was already sweeping around one knee, and the back of his axe head smashed against the ankle of the man fighting his father. Garryk’s spear did the rest.
He didn’t have the time to ask, nor did he need to – his eyes told him that his father was uninjured. He cast about sharply, all seeming clear and instant as it always did in combat. All of the foe were down but one: his red hair flying, he was digging his heels hard as he wrenched his horse’s head towards an opening to the road ahead.
Brann pointed, screaming, ‘We need him alive!’
As the horse gathered its back legs beneath it, Grakk leapt with a whoop, landing on its haunches behind the rider. The horse leapt forward and Grakk started to topple backwards, but grabbed the long braid to pull the man with him.
The braid, and the hair, went with him as the man, his cropped black hair exposed and his mask falling loose, urged his horse away.
‘It’s not him!’ Hakon cried, and less than a heartbeat later, Sophaya’s arrow took the man through his throat.
Brann’s eyes flitted about wildly. A decoy! Had Daric known they stalked him, or was it always his practice? But what did it matter? Catching him or missing him, that was all that mattered.
His sight fell upon the ridge, where a lone rider galloped along the high road. He grabbed Konall’s arm, pointing. ‘There!’ He started dragging the boy. ‘The horses.’
The pair sprinted, sheathing their weapons as they went and Konall casting aside his shield. They rounded the bend ahead to find Philippe waiting with their mounts, and ignored the man’s startled questions to grab the first two available and drag themselves onto their backs.
Their horses started to gain immediately, heading fast towards the point a half a mile ahead where they could branch up towards the higher route. They had to get ahead of him to cope with the slower climb towards his road, and they inched their way into a lead, Brann finding himself watching the other rider more than the road ahead and trusting his horse to merely follow Konall’s. The thundering of the hooves filled their heads, and the damp air and mud from the horse in front hit Brann’s face, but still they urged their horses on, bending low on their necks.
They reached the track leading up, a straight diagonal up the hillside to the high road. Brann stared at Daric and at the point they would meet his path. They could make it. He willed his horse ahead, feeling the inevitable labouring along the rising ground.
Daric reached the junction ahead of them. They wheeled their horses in pursuit but, whether it was the effect of the climb or that he had a superior quality of animal, he started to pull away. He knew it, and turned, a look of triumph plain on his face.
‘He cannot get away,’ Brann yelled in despair.
Hakon drew up his horse and, before it had stopped, was already leaping from the saddle, longbow and an arrow in hand. His feet hit the ground with the surety of a tumbler Brann had seen in a southern village and, with grace and balance he drew and loosed in a single motion as Brann passed him, his horse’s gallop unabated.
The arrow streaked away and took the horse high on a back leg. It stumbled and started to fall, throwing Daric from the saddle. Brann raced his horse up to him as he started to rise and threw himself from its back, sword drawn.
Daric’s leg buckled beneath him, the broken bone clearly pushing against the cloth of his breeches. He ripped the demon mask, identical to those worn by the others, from his face and glared in hatred. If he felt pain, it was not evident. He grabbed at a large knife and held it before him.
His eyes lit on the black blade of Brann’s sword, and widened. ‘You? The miller’s son?’
‘Proud to be.’ It was a snarl. ‘And a miller’s son now has you.’
‘No,’ said Daric. ‘You don’t.’ His knife sliced across his own throat in one swift movement, spraying Brann with blood to add to that of man and beast already slick on his face and clothes.
‘No!’ Brann screamed, but as the man coughed and choked his last seconds, there was triumph in his eyes. Then they dimmed.
Brann sank to his knees as Konall cantered up.
‘Oh,’ the tall boy said. ‘That’s unfortunate.’
Brann looked at him in despair. ‘What do we do now?’
‘You do what you always do. You think about it, form a plan, and tell us.’
They relieved Daric’s horse of its pain, and although they searched the corpse fruitlessly, they found a satchel of papers on his saddle.
It was a sombre pair that returned to the others.
Grakk looked at the satchel Brann passed to him. ‘I take it he is lying up there somewhere.’
Brann nodded. ‘All of this,’ he swept and arm across the scene, ‘was for nothing.’
Grakk frowned. ‘Not so. We suffered not one injury other than a cut to Mongoose’s forehead, which she believes will add to her rakish appearance, and these despicable men will not be undertaking any more of their loathsome endeavours. That is not an outcome to be dismissed.’ He held up the satchel. ‘And considering the identity of the bearer of this, I am sure its contents are not inconsequential.’
Brann nodded. ‘I hope so. The havoc wrought by this organisation Loku is part of is worse than we ever thought. We must find that bastard’s superiors, and soon. Every day their scheme continues, more people who should be ploughing fields are dying in them; more towns are being laid waste. If they take power in one of these countries…’ He shook his head and sought out his father, who was already coming to him.
‘You are unhurt, Father?’
The man nodded. ‘I would do that any day to save my son from danger, but I hope you understand if I say I would rather not do it ever again.’
Brann found himself smiling wearily. ‘Be very certain, I wish very hard that you never do that again. I don’t know if my nerves could take it.’
His father snorted. ‘Now who is the mother hen?’ He stared at Brann, then at the ground, as if trying to find words for a feeling of great strength. He looked up. ‘You wondered, when you showed me your weapons, why someone thought so highly of you, remember? That,’ he jerked his thumb to where Brann had fought, ‘that,’ he tapped a finger on Brann’s forehead, ‘and that,’ he patted Brann’s chest over his heart, ‘that combination: that is why. This someone places great store in you.’ He frowned. ‘But whatever he thinks, he is not more proud of you, nor does he love you, like I do. You are my son.’ His glower was fierce. ‘But don’t you ever tell your brother and sister I said anything as soft as that.’
Brann’s hug was as strong as his father’s words.
Grakk coughed gently.
Brann turned to face him, seeing the papers in his hand. He smiled. ‘You haven’t wasted any time in getting started.’
‘I didn’t know if we had time available to waste. And my curiosity was exceeding my patience.’
‘And…?’ Brann raised his eyebrows. ‘Can I assume, as you are bringing this up, that you have discovered something already?’
Grakk became animated. ‘Of course. Come here.’ He crouched, placing the satchel on the ground. He leafed through the papers in his hand until he found one, stuffing the rest in the bag. ‘This!’ His face was lit with triumph, his eyes with anticipation.
�
�Are you going to tell me or do I have to read it myself?’
‘This,’ said Grakk, ‘is the letter inviting our friend Daric to Halveka. So we know who he is meeting, where they are meeting and when they are meeting.’ He grinned at Brann’s dumbfounded expression. ‘And there is more.’
‘More?’ Brann’s voice was weak with the disbelief at the opportunity handed to them. ‘What more could there be?’
‘It says…’ Grakk cackled with glee and danced in a circle. ‘It says, “We look forward to finally making your acquaintance.”’
Brann stared. ‘They have never met him.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘They have never set eyes upon him.’
‘Indeed,’ said Grakk. ‘And we have this.’
In his hand was the red wig worn by the decoy they had ambushed.
Brann smiled darkly. ‘I can enjoy his death after all.’
Hakon draped a heavy arm around Brann’s neck in brotherly fashion. ‘That’s the spirit. And while we are there, you could tell my sister all about it.’
Brann felt himself blush. ‘We will not have time for idle chatter,’ he said. But Hakon’s grin proved he had seen the hope that had lit in Brann’s heart.
His good humour fell away as his father walked over, leading his horse. He could see the man’s expression. Brann knew. ‘You are leaving.’ All of a sudden, his mission, the driving passion that had given him purpose, seemed immaterial, unwanted. The thought of climbing into the saddle and riding home beside his father was overwhelming in its allure.
His father saw it. He nodded to the east. ‘Your path lies that way. Mine to the north-east. No point in me doing two sides of a triangle.’
Brann’s voice was rough in his throat. ‘I have just found you.’ He meant it in more than one respect, and he saw in the man’s eyes that he understood.
‘And you will again, now you know to look.’ Brann felt his father’s iron grip on his shoulders. ‘If you turn from your path, you would wake tomorrow and feel the emptiness in your day.’ He glanced at the others around the road, fixing their horses after Philippe had brought them over. ‘They need you to do this. You need you to do this. So do it, and then come and tell your family the story.’
Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3) Page 20