Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3)

by Andy Livingstone

  They stopped, meeting no foe. Faces slipped from battle rage to confusion as they turned slowly, the momentum gone from their charge and their heads.

  It was the moment.

  ‘Now!’ Brann shouted, launching himself from the doorway, sword in one hand and axe in the other. He did not need to look for the others; he knew they would come, closing from various sides on the group now startled at the switch from hunters to prey. Arrows flicked past him and he sensed the movement of two of his companions at the edge of his vision, but he had already fixed on his first targets.

  He closed in moments, shortening his stride to improve his agility. His axe swung low at an unprotected leg, cutting deep. His movement took him at an angle and he caught the curve of the blade around the side of the half-severed limb, using it to pull both legs sideways and hurling the man into the one beside him. Before the second man could react, Brann’s sword tip had punched in and out of his chest. He turned, axe and body swinging together: the weapon, unwatched, to where he knew lay the throat of the man with the wounded leg, blood spraying high in the afternoon sun; the body to let his head scan for the next danger, his sword already braced to meet it.

  He heard movement as he continued to spin in a slight crouch and saw a Goldlander rushing towards him with his macuahuitl poised to swing and the round wooden shield his people favoured swinging as he ran. Wary of the crushing force of the weapon in the hands of the powerful Goldlanders as much as the sharpness of the edges, Brann sprang forward, meeting the man before he was intending to complete his swing. His axe came up to deflect the fearsome weapon and he spun to his left. The stiffened quilted tunics that the Greenlanders wore in battle would considerably slow the slash of a blade so Brann reversed his sword as he spun, driving it point-first past the edge of the shield and through the heavy fabric, up under the ribs. The man coughed blood, Brann feeling it hot on the back of his neck, and he quickly pulled the sword free and stepped away, guarded against a spasmodic final attack from the dying man. The body hit the ground.

  Another man was facing directly at him, spear in the action of being launched, when two swords pierced his torso. Gerens and Xamira nodded to each other as they withdrew their weapons.

  Brann glanced about him quickly, but their opponents were by now few. Hakon was laying about him to devastating effect with his huge macuahuitl, while Mongoose faced two men with her speed and precision. As she darted, thrust, and parried in a blur, an arrow buried itself in the side of one of the men and she finished the other.

  Silence fell, but for their heavy breathing and the moans of two of the Goldlanders; Brann had yet to hear any of them scream, whatever the circumstances. Gerens drew his knife, and the moaning stopped.

  Brann cast about, seeing all of his companions standing. Good. He listened, hearing no sounds of anyone else drawn by the noise of the fighting. Nothing: also good. ‘Any wounds take them to Grakk and Philippe, the rest of us – well, you know the drill.’

  They piled high in the middle of the street as much wood from the empty buildings as they could quickly find and threw the bodies of the Goldlanders on top: disease was the last thing the defenders of the city needed. Once the wounds had been tended, they lit the pyre and left immediately. If the smoke attracted reinforcements for those who burnt, they were better being out of the vicinity; if it brought local people, the message was there in any case. Before they left, though, Brann noticed Ossavian dipping a bunched tunic in blood and daubing a large letter B on the wall closest to the pyre, as determined as ever to make a legend of Brann. He knew it was important to the old general and, while he was discomforted by what he was attempting to achieve, Brann trusted him.

  They crouched in the darkness, ten days and twelve ambushes after luring the Goldlanders with Sophaya’s arrow into the sack of metal, staring from the top of the building over the square where the enemy, four groups of them in all, had gathered for the night. They had heard tell that these particular squads, Goldlanders and Scum alike, had taken to returning to a certain spot at the end of each day, establishing an ad hoc forward camp deep in the city and secure in their safety among a population that they were terrorising and playing their part in gradually eradicating. They were indeed confident, Brann noted with satisfaction: they had gathered in what had once been a hall for the surrounding community, a large single storey building with a single entrance of tall, grand doors that opened outwards letting the sounds of their merriment spill even further than the light from the opening. It was clear it had been a building of importance: unlike the majority of structures in the city that were formed of either stone or mud bricks according to their relative status, this was constructed of finely carved wood, a precious commodity in the area. It was also the fact that had generated their strategy, one suggested by Einarr who remembered practices spoken of in the sagas of his people.

  Brann’s eyes lit upon a tall slender pole that had been erected by the invaders in front of the hall. Close to the top, a man had been impaled, his body having slid partially down the shaft, leaving the sharpened end of the wood protruding above one shoulder. It stood as a macabre standard for the force camping here. Brann’s eyes, and his mood, darkened even further as the sight took him back to the camps in the mountains of Halveka, where he had first sighted those they now referred to as the Scum. He growled softly. A man who condones this, who encourages this, could have at his mercy the vast treasury of knowledge housed in Khardorul? Even the image of the Scum rampaging through the sanctity of that idyllic settlement was a sacrilegious horror. It must not be.

  He nodded to the others in the moonlight. ‘Let’s do it.’

  It took moments to dispose of the casual sentries, what few there were. Einarr limped with a speed that no longer caused surprise among them alongside Sophaya, Hakon and Xamira to gather in front of the doors, bows strung and ready. Shapes moved above as wooden debris, bundles of hay scooped from stables that Philippe had spotted the previous day and oil from clay jars filched from a defunct shop were spread about the roof in addition to those already in small piles around all four sides of the building. Brann, his back pressed to the wood of the wall to the side of the doorway, waved to the four archers and, without hesitation, they started to send a succession of arrows through the open doorway.

  Uproar ensued. Screams mingled with the banging and scraping of furniture overturning as only those already struck were left in the central area. Three Goldlanders, more brave than the rest, scampered to the doors and pulled them shut. The archers allowed them to do so.

  The instant the doors slammed shut, Brann, Philippe, Cannick and Ossavian darted to the doorway, each placing a length of stout wood across its width, holding a long iron nail in position at its end. Breta and Hakon swung large hammers, driving eight nails home with eight thundering swings. The doors were as impenetrable as the walls.

  At the eighth hammer blow, light from above glowed across the square and Mongoose, Gerens and Grakk dropped lightly from the roof. The trio ran quickly around the building, setting alight the bundles at the foot of walls splashed in oil, and Brann moved with the others from the door to join the archers who stood with arrows ready in case any should emerge from doors weakened by flames.

  But all that emerged were screams of, first, horrified realisation and then horrified agony. Brann looked again at the figure impaled on the pole and then back at the building consumed in fire, and felt nothing for those dying inside.

  The fight, an ambush in which they had joined the city folk who had prepared it, hadn’t lasted long, their numbers and their passion both outweighing those of the invaders. As they stood over the dead, searching for a lingering threat, a familiar figure approached them and ran directly to Ossavian.

  The general smiled and led the boy to Brann, his hand resting on the slight shoulder. ‘Akun of Irtanbat would like me to tell the great warrior Brann that three of his arrows felled those who seek to take their city from them.’

  Brann pushed aside the regret t
hat one so young should already be so callous about death and able to kill with such ease. It was preferable, he reminded himself, than one finishing his life so young. He smiled. ‘In that case, I am not the only great warrior here today. Akun of Irtanbat has indeed made his father proud.’

  The boy beamed and bowed to Brann, before scampering away, shouting for his uncle.

  ‘Oh gods,’ came Konall’s voice from behind. ‘Now he’ll be wanting us all to bow to him.’

  Brann’s reply was cut short by a shout from further along the street and he whirled, his sword still in his hand from the fight. A man ran towards them, and he relaxed as he saw that he wore armour of those belonging to Ruslan’s guard: a long mail coat with a square plate inset to cover the lower ribs and belly. Brann was amazed the man could run at all in it – he found his own lighter mail a burden enough in the stifling heat.

  The man, his face caked in sweat-smeared dust, slowed before them and spoke without preamble. ‘King Bahadur has arrived from Tharpia with his five hundred, and Firat, Irtanbat’s first warrior, has been found alive after being feared dead in the initial attack. King Ruslan calls a Council, and you are requested to join him.’

  They found the camp alive with excitement as much as with the extra bodies brought by the Tharpians. An officer, one of his eyes kept closed by a fresh scar running at an angle across this forehead and half of one ear missing, met them and directed them to a building on the edge of the camp, facing into the open area. It had originally comprised two storeys, but fire had taken away the roof leaving only the lower level as offering any shelter. They entered into one large room stretching from front to back, three tables and an assortment of chairs the furniture at the front, and an even more varied selection of beds arranged near the far wall.

  The officer turned to them as he showed them in. ‘King Ruslan apologises for the cramped conditions for a party of your size in the tent previously provided. This was hitherto the home of a merchant – the family lived above, and this area was where he welcomed customers and displayed his wares. It is not much, but you have more space than in the tent.’

  Brann looked around, feeling the air in the shade inside a touch cooler than in the glare of the sun and seeing shelter where others would have seen dilapidation. ‘It is more than we have enjoyed for the past few weeks. Please pass our thanks to the king.’

  The officer nodded. ‘There is also a walled area at the back of the building where pits have been done to let you…’ He glanced at Xamira, Mongoose, Breta and Sophaya and blushed, a curious look on his battle-hardened face. ‘Where you can, er…’

  Breta walked past, already unstrapping her weapons and flexing her shoulders. ‘Where we can shit and piss. It’s all right, we do it too, soldier.’

  The man blushed even deeper. ‘Ah, of course. Yes, you have latrine pits. I am afraid the washing facilities are communal, however, although the women and men of the camp do have separate areas.’

  Cannick grunted. ‘Communal is an improvement on none, lad, so don’t apologise. This is excellent. You do us proud.’

  The officer visibly relaxed. ‘I am glad. The quartermaster had it brushed out and he suggests, if you are happy to do so, that you stow your equipment at the rear of the room to allow space at the front to allow you to receive your guests when they arrive.’ He inclined his head. ‘Now, if that is all, I must attend to my men.’

  Ossavian clapped him on the back. ‘Then go, young man. They are your primary responsibility, not us. You have more than fulfilled any duties you had to us.’

  The man smiled and left. Brann looked at the others with his eyebrows raised. ‘Our guests? Who would visit us? Should any come, I hope they arrive and leave in a hurry before we are called to report to the king.’

  They had barely stowed their meagre possessions, however, when they heard the noise of a group outside above the hubbub of the camp. Brann groaned, setting down the bow he had been unstringing beside the water skins and food pouch he had already laid down and the carefully folded black cloak of his father that he had placed beside him on his cot. ‘What do these people want? Can we not at least wash and feed ourselves?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Konall said, moving to the door with a frown. He stopped abruptly and backed back in without a word.

  King Ruslan entered, and Brann sprang to his feet.

  ‘My friends,’ the king said. ‘It is good to see you have returned safely.’ He bathed them all in his welcoming smile. ‘Tales of your exploits reach us and inspire the population, and for that you have my gratitude.’

  Brann was still dumbfounded by the king’s presence. Before he could reply, a voice growled from the doorway. ‘Tales are for bards. I would hear this from the source of the stories before my opinion is formed.’

  A tall man entered, powerful and broad of shoulder. A shirt of armour formed of scales like the skin of a fish could disguise neither a warrior’s build nor the slight paunch commensurate with the years that streaked grey through his cropped hair. A long scar beside hard eyes moved as he spoke, as if a venomous snake was poised to remind those he addressed of the danger the man himself exuded.

  Ruslan waved an arm at the newcomer. ‘May I present King Bahadur of Tharpia on the eastern shore of the Sea of Life.’

  Brann bowed in what he hoped was an appropriate way, his eye catching the movement of the others doing likewise. As he straightened, more men filed in, and Ruslan introduced each as he appeared. ‘Prince Serhan, you have met.’ The young man nodded at his name. ‘Firat, our first warrior, feared dead but recently returned to us,’ a lean man as hard-faced as Bahadur and a mass of cuts, scrapes and bruises, with the edge of a bandage showing under the edge of his helmet plumed with a horse’s tail dyed red. ‘Haluk, our former first warrior and himself a champion of the Sagian Arena, who travelled from the farm of his retirement on hearing of the peril facing his mother city,’ a man older than Einarr but younger than Ossavian, his impassive expression unchanging as he nodded their way. ‘My personal guard, Maktanu, the most feared warrior of Irtanbat who has watched over me since I campaigned as a young officer in the South when I saved his life and he lost his tongue, both in the same incident,’ a huge man in every dimension and with skin almost as dark as Brann’s sword, a livid scar pulling one corner of his mouth into a constant half smile, though a whole warmth seemed to glow in his eyes. ‘And, final in his entrance but not in his standing, my friend Bahadur’s first warrior, Shahkam Davar,’ a man of medium height but excessive menace, his neatly shaped black beard framing a hooked nose and glaring eyes; he did not acknowledge them. ‘Unfortunately, my other friend, King Thanases of Corens, which sits as the nearest city to us in an eastern ride, is unable to join us.’

  ‘On account of the journey having rendered him weary, Your Majesty?’ Brann imagined an elderly monarch, braving the hot arid land to come to his fellow king’s aid.

  ‘On account,’ growled Bahadur, ‘of the worship of the coin of commerce rendering him a craven child who pisses his throne at the shadow of a risk to his prosperity.’

  ‘Now, Bahadur,’ Ruslan chided. ‘We prefer the term cautious.’

  The tall man spat on the floor. ‘You prefer it. A man who guards his balls leaves his throat exposed. Cut the throat and the balls are treasured no more.’ Brann was unable to avoid a smile, catching Bahadur’s attention. ‘You find that funny?’

  Brann smiled wider. ‘I find it to be perfect sense. And I find that pleases me.’

  Ruslan cut in. ‘Thanases did aid us in one respect, it is true. His invitation to good Bahadur here to visit him to discuss a treaty of trade meant that the Tharpian five hundred were close enough to be here now.’

  Brann spoke before he could stop himself. ‘The entire household guard travelled on a trade mission?’

  The tall king’s head swivelled to regard him. ‘My Invincibles do, as every king’s force should, but few see the sense in doing. A soldier does nothing but grow fat and complacent sitting in a barrac
ks. A man needs new sights to remind him there are others in the world who may seek to be better than he.’

  Bahadur looked down on Brann with narrowed eyes. ‘You are the one taking toll on the invaders?’

  ‘I and my companions, Your Majesty.’

  He ignored Brann’s point and looked at Shahkam Davar. ‘He is not very big.’

  ‘There are plenty of men bigger than me who I have cut to the ground, Majesty,’ his first warrior said. His dark eyes fixed on Brann. ‘Though I cannot judge at this stage if he would fight or fall.’ A sneer crossed his hawk face. ‘I have the start of an opinion, however.’

  ‘As have I.’ Bahadur looked back at Brann. ‘I have been here three days and you and your small group have had more effect in that time than my Invincibles and Ruslan’s five hundred combined, and that is not to say there was any lack of valour, effort or proficiency on the part of our soldiers. Ruslan also values your impact, and his is one of three opinions in this Empire that I respect.’ He frowned. ‘Why else do you think we come for your counsel?’