Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3)

by Andy Livingstone

  Caught between enraged warriors and impassioned defenders, the Goldlanders were bested almost immediately, but such was the fury of all that not a one was left alive. No words were spoken after, but for Ossavian’s mantra: ‘Brann of the Arena comes to save the city. Tell all. Tell all.’

  Nods of gratitude were exchanged over heaving chests and, with dazed eyes, mothers clutching children in disbelief at their ability to do so, fathers casting about for further peril, already backing their families away to seek a safer refuge.

  Brann’s party pushed on. Time was of more value than gold or gems here; time governed the numbers of lives lost.

  And so it went. So they went. Scrambling over rubble, falling on the enemy. Wandering through pristine neighbourhoods with barely even a sign of dust or smoke, falling on the enemy. Stumbling upon a campsite at dinner, falling on the enemy. Encountering Irtanbatians, spreading the word of Brann’s arrival, falling on the enemy. Falling on the enemy, falling on the enemy, falling on the enemy; for every one they killed, they found ten more. Falling on the enemy, arms too weary to carry a weapon finding new strength to swing that blade. Falling on the enemy, fighting through the enemy, ever forward, ever onward, ever closer.

  And then, without warning, they were there. Brann had scrambled up the blackened, jumbled blocks of a building that fire had collapsed. He had fallen, despite his eyes scanning the surface he trod, when a shattered statue shifted under his foot as he crested the pile. He had picked himself up, lifted his head. He saw the camp at the end of the street ahead, saw the soldiers that he knew, just knew, were not the enemy. He stopped.

  ‘We are here,’ he said.

  Breta stepped up beside him. ‘We are here.’

  They picked their way down the slope and walked to the first sentries; the first people Brann had approached in recent memory with his weapons sheathed, the sensation now feeling unnatural. A welcome party awaited, a squad of two score soldiers with levelled spears and raised shields and what must be an officer, their once proud armour and plumed helmets now battered and dented with no surface spared. Brann preferred to see it that way – it was worn by survivors.

  The officer stepped forward. ‘You have been watched in your approach, for some time.’ His voice was weary but his eyes were firm.

  ‘We know,’ said Grakk.

  As Grakk had answered, the man directed his words at him. The rest sat on the ground where they were, uncaring of the spears, uncaring of anything but the fatigue in their bones. ‘You do not seem as the other strangers, the invaders.’

  ‘Because we are not they.’

  The man regarded him silently with narrowed eyes as he thought. ‘You knew the camp was here?’

  ‘We knew it was in this direction.’

  ‘You did not suspect it was close when you saw the watchers?’

  ‘We have been watched often, on our journey through the city. There is much fear.’

  The officer nodded. ‘That is the truth.’ He cocked his head. ‘Journey from where?’

  ‘From Sagia.’

  ‘No, from where in the city?’

  Grakk shrugged. ‘We do not know its name. We entered on the south side.’

  The man’s eyes widened and a murmur spread through the wary soldiers. One or two spears lowered slightly. The officer’s words were slow, disbelieving. ‘You have come all the way from the south side? You have made it through from there.’

  Grakk smiled wearily. ‘I did not say it was easy.’

  ‘I did not think it were possible.’

  Grakk’s smile became a grin. ‘Believe me, there were times when we were of that mind also.’

  The officer frowned, then his face cleared as a thought grew. ‘Sagia… foreigners… warriors… women who fight as… Our scouts bring rumours of a saviour, one they call Brann of the Arena, a mighty warrior come from the Jewel of the Empire to free us from this horror.’ His frown returned. ‘But they did not speak of him as a tribesman.’

  ‘There would be a simple reason for that,’ Grakk said. ‘For I am not he.’ The officer’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. ‘He is he.’ His finger pointed at Brann.

  The officer’s silence drew Brann’s eyes up to meet the man’s. The eyes he found held anger. ‘Do not toy with us. We have been through more than you would imagine. We have seen our families and our city suffer more than we would want to imagine. Do not jest about hope.’ He spat in the dirt at their feet, and nodded at the city behind them. ‘If you came here to fight, you do not need to join our ranks – you will find it aplenty out there.’ He gestured to his men. ‘See them away from here.’

  Brann stood slowly, easing the stiffness that had already set into aching limbs. ‘I have fought my way across your precious city, killing more of your enemy than probably all of you here combined, as has every man and woman you see before you. I am sore; I am tired; I can’t remember what it is not to smell blood and smoke, and I can’t be arsed debating.’ His sword was suddenly in his hand, and the officer took a step back, drawing his own as a rattle from his men spoke of shields and spears being readied for his command. ‘You have probably slept four times since we did last, but still, if I have to, I will best you sword to sword if it proves any point you need made obvious.’ He noticed the man’s eyes flicking to the black blade, its metal seeming to absorb light where every other weapon around him was reflecting it. ‘But perhaps you have heard more than just a name. Perhaps you have heard more than just stories of feats. Perhaps you have heard of…’ He reversed the sword in one fluid movement, presenting it hilt first to the man.

  The officer sheathed his own weapon warily, as if this might be a trick and would find Brann’s sword in his gut in a move as quick as the one that had turned it a moment before. But Brann stayed still, and he carefully took the hilt. Surprise crossed his face at the lightness, and he lifted the weapon, testing the edge of the blade against his thumb with a hiss of surprise at its sharpness despite the use the stories attested to. ‘Not even a notch,’ he said in wonder, holding the blade to the light. ‘Care to exchange?’

  Brann smiled. ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘A weapon beyond compare.’ He nodded in acceptance. ‘There cannot be two such.’

  ‘So we may see the king?’

  He handed back the weapon and looked around the group with a new respect. ‘I will ask. You can certainly enter the camp. I will have a man take you to where you can wash and eat while my message is relayed through those more senior than I.’

  Brann slid his sword back into its scabbard. ‘That would be appreciated.’

  King Ruslan was short and slim of stature, but big of personality. When Brann, Einarr, Ossavian and Grakk were shown in, he was standing at the back of the large pavilion tent that served as his residence, audience chamber and war room simultaneously, poring over a map of the city that filled the entire surface of the table before him and cursing volubly and creatively at the map and at himself, berating both for his lack of opportunities and solutions. A group of officers, five in number, towered over him but their silent reserve and respectful expressions were evidence of the esteem they held for their ruler.

  Lost in thought, the king did not notice their presence at first and they stood as patiently as his commanders. Brann did not envy the man his task, not only responsible for the defence of his city but also the wellbeing, feeding, sheltering, sanitation and dozens of other considerations, Brann was certain, of a population fractured and scattered by the invaders and by panic.

  To see the man’s greeting when he became aware of them, however, he might have had nothing more to ponder than the colour of the new paint scheme for his throne room or whether to have meat or fish for his lunch. His face split into a smile of delight and he came across to greet them without waiting for them to approach him, grasping their arms and nodding his head in delight, his light golden crown pushed back and acting as much as a band to keep his hair from his eyes as it did as a mark of office. Above the waist, he wore only
a richly embroidered waistcoat, exposing the hard belly of a man accustomed to exercise, and his arms, cuffs of gem-studded gold below the elbows and rings of the same metal above them, were likewise lean and muscled, while Brann noticed scarred knuckles and calloused palms as Ruslan came to him in turn.

  ‘Welcome, welcome all,’ he said, his tone rich, the warmth in it genuine.

  Here was a man, Brann thought, who did not shirk his responsibilities but who was at pains to avoid dumping the weight of them on others where it wasn’t necessary. Here was a man to follow.

  ‘Please,’ the king said, ‘come in, come away from the chill. Evening is coming and there is a chill at this time of year. Now, I believe we have a man of repute from the great Arena of Sagia?’

  Brann stepped forward, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, not knowing whether to bow or not, resulting in an awkward bend at the waist, more akin to a spasm than a sign of respect.

  Ruslan waved a hand with a laugh. ‘Oh, don’t bother with all that nonsense. Airs and graces just waste time when I could be telling people what to do and they could be doing it.’ His grin was infectious, and Brann found himself smiling back as the king scanned the others. ‘And you, I am guessing, must be the renowned General Ossavian.’

  Ossavian nodded, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. ‘You know me?’

  Ruslan shook his head. ‘You were spotted as you crossed the camp. I never did have the honour of serving with you, but my son did when he was learning to be a soldier, in your final campaign.’

  Ossavian smiled grimly. ‘I had thought it the final one, Majesty. But now…’

  The king nodded sadly and was introduced to Einarr and Grakk. As he greeted them as warmly as he had Brann and Ossavian, a young officer who could only be the son of the king – he was the image of his father as a young man but with his hair cropped to stubble and his face earnest where his father’s was constantly creased in bonhomie – stepped forward and inclined his head to Ossavian. ‘General,’ he said. ‘You will not remember me, but…’

  ‘How is your shoulder, young Serhan?’ Ossavian asked.

  Brann gawped, and sensed that the others did the same as the silence of surprise dropped across the tent.

  ‘Impressive,’ murmured Ruslan.

  ‘Fully healed some three years hence,’ said Serhan. ‘And yours?’

  ‘The same, young man, the same.’ The king was regarding him with an expectant expression, and Brann felt just as curious. Ossavian grinned. ‘It is not quite so impressive as it seems – it was impossible to see even the faces of most of the soldiers under my command, never mind learn the names, but people tend to stay in your memory when they throw themselves in the way of an arrow shot at their general from close range. The shaft passed right through the young man’s shoulder and lodged in mine, pinning us together, but his movement had taken it away from the centre of my chest where it would otherwise have struck.’

  He reached forward and pulled up the loose short sleeve of the prince’s tunic, exposing a scar on the front of his left shoulder and a corresponding one on the rear, then pulled across the neck of his own tunic to show the puckered scar on the front of his left shoulder.’

  ‘The things one learns of one’s son,’ the king mused. ‘You never told me of this incident, Serhan. Why ever would you not?’

  ‘Many acts of heroism far greater than that take place in war, father,’ the young man said seriously. ‘It felt wrong to brag.’

  ‘Cleary his mother’s son,’ Ruslan explained to the group. ‘Had it been me, I would have had my minstrels make a song of it. But tell me, boy, what did you learn from that experience.’

  Serhan’s voice was as solemn as his face. ‘To use my shield.’

  The laughter rocked the tent.

  ‘So, General,’ King Ruslan said to Ossavian as the amusement subsided, ‘what gladdens my heart the most is that the Emperor has come to our aid. How many men have you under your command?’

  Ossavian stared at him in confusion. ‘The Emperor looks north at this time, Your Majesty, not east. The millens immediately at his disposal have been sent in that direction, not this. I am here in my own capacity, travelling with companions fine, but few. There are no more than a dozen of us.’

  The king’s face paled and lost its easy geniality in that moment. ‘But… but why would a general come without an army?’

  ‘I am no general these days, but I have not lost what is in my head nor my desire to do what is right. The man who leads this horde to your door has been chased by this young man,’ he indicated Brann, ‘across the known world and back again. It is only through him that we even know this is taking place at your city, and he almost lost his life trying to warn the Emperor that you were under threat. We know this man, we know these enemies, and we are here to do whatever we can to stop him.’

  ‘But with so few? You have not even the numbers to fill the gaps where my own men have been lost.’

  Einarr coughed politely. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Majesty, what numbers do you have? It is always more useful to consider what we can work with rather than what we would like to work with.’

  Ruslan took a deep breath and, when he lifted his head once more, his eyes had regained their thoughtful calm. ‘You are right, of course. It was just a… a shock. We have hoped daily for support to arrive, and when I heard that not only a general, but one of the two brothers who are the greatest of generals, was within a party seeking audience, I thanked the gods that my prayers had been answered.’ He ticked off on his fingers the few assets he could list as he named them. ‘As some of you will know, as vassals of the Empire we are not permitted an army – only the Emperors millens can march the lands – but we are allowed a household guard numbering no more than five hundred, who you will find camped around this tent less those who have fallen already. We also have our citizenry, and as citizens of the Empire as well as of Irtanbat, the men must serve their years in the millens themselves so they know how to hold a weapon. However, with the millens the only armies in the Empire and keeping the peace between kings who, in any case, have no troops themselves to cause trouble amongst each other, there is no real need – especially this close to Sagia – for defences, so our walls have crumbled and allow this enemy to access the city where they will. As a result, we fight on a thousand fronts, having had no warning in the first place to mount a concerted defence. The populace will fight – I know my people, and this is their home – but they are in pockets of a meagre few scattered across this eastern half of the city. In the meantime, the attackers capture who they can and there is talk of mass torture in their camp, though no soul has returned to enlighten us as to the answers they seek.’ Brann saw his companions’ faces darken and he felt a rage flare within himself, thinking of the innocents suffering – more innocents suffering – in the name of Loku’s fanatical quest, but the king noticed not, his eyes sweeping slowly across his map. ‘All we can do is resist as long as the gods give us strength and take as many of them as we can before they overrun us.’

  Brann shook his head forcibly. ‘No, that is never all you can do.’ A tense silence fell across all gathered there and Brann realised that every eye was on him. ‘Your Majesty,’ he added, lamely.

  But the king merely smiled with interest. ‘And what would you do, Brann of the Arena, you and your small band of warriors?’

  Brann drew his confidence to him and forced himself to walk to the map, gathering his thoughts. He eyed the areas marked like a leopard’s hide, presumably an indication of the known zones where citizens gathered and resisted. ‘We need to know what we have, we need to communicate. We need to spread hope and let people know they are not alone. And we need to do it fast.’ He looked at King Ruslan. ‘My companions bring together a certain level of ability and a mix of good fortune, training and experience that has seen us survive situations that many others may not have. Let us form an independent unit, reporting directly to you. Let us bring word and hope to your
people and death to any of the foe we encounter on the way.’

  ‘And you lead them?’ Ruslan said. ‘You speak for them all?’

  Brann paused, and looked at the others. He saw the message in their eyes and turned back to the king. He nodded. ‘I do.’

  The king stared at him, and he held his breath until he realised the eyes were thoughtful rather than provoked to anger. ‘Had you brought a thousand soldiers I would have been loth to release such a resource,’ he said, ‘but what difference will a dozen make to my ranks? If you can help my people, who am I to say you should do otherwise? If you can leave in the morning, I will give you all the assistance you require and my blessing also.’

  Brann smiled. ‘We can leave in the morning.’

  The king’s eyebrows raised. ‘I expected you to barter for leaving a little later in the day. You have only arrived at my camp, battered and exhausted, a matter of merely hours ago.’

  Brann’s eyes locked with those of the king. ‘With respect, Your Majesty, everyone we have seen in this camp is battered and exhausted. Such is war. We crave rest like nothing else, yet we know that we cannot rest until the man who brought this, who drives this, who designed all of this – we cannot rest until that man is dead. And we will not.’

  King Ruslan smiled. ‘I believe we are all going to get on famously.’

  Brann crouched in the doorway, scanning the street, his eyes moving but his head held still. It was quiet, but that was often the most likely sign of danger. No animals, no birds, noting: no sign of life was the surest indicator that you could lose your own.

  His eye stopped on a sack, metal in the form of plates, candlesticks, tools, and the gods only knew what else spilling from it on the roadway in front of a building as empty as the rest in this quarter, as likely to have been abandoned by disturbed looters as by a fleeing family. He glanced at Sophaya, standing beside a window that was no more than a space in the wall, open to the world. Her back was flat against the wall to give her the narrowest angle to see, and be seen from, the street and her bow was in her hand, an arrow ready to meet the string. He hissed, catching her attention, and she followed his gaze to the sack. She nodded and the bow came up, the arrow in place and string drawn in the same movement. The instant it came into position, she loosed, and Brann watched the arrow streak to the target, striking the sack and its contents with savage force, scattering some across the ground around it and clattering the rest against each other. The noise rattled around the street, echoing and lingering in the heavy backdrop of silence for the scant few heartbeats before the world was filled with greater sound, a roar from a score of throats or more as a group, Goldlanders and Scum combined, charged around a corner.