Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3)

by Andy Livingstone

  Unsettling a foe steeped in rigid technique was the way to penetrate their defence – he had learnt as much in his early days of fighting in the more mundane fighting pits in the trading areas surrounding Sagia. And the unconventional approach was Brann’s natural style: the way he had fought before he knew even how to hold a sword, the approach his mentor, Cassian, had worked so hard to build technique upon, rather than replace. What seemed right at the time.

  He slipped into a rhythm of blows, letting the man fall comfortably into the pattern. Without warning, he crouched and reached into his boot for the knife Konall had once given him. Instead of flicking it at the man, which would have produced an instinctive defensive reflex, most probably with the shield and a spin, he lobbed it vertically in front of both of them.

  The unexpectedness took the man’s eyes upwards to follow it. The point of Brann’s sword took him in the throat. The unexpectedness filled the man’s face with stunned confusion.

  Brann took three steps back, twisting his sword as he pulled the blade free, and watched from a safe distance as the man fell face down in a spreading pool of his own blood.

  The roar from behind surged, while those in front fell silent.

  One.

  He flexed his shoulders. The work against such a stubborn defence had sapped a little energy, but more than in any fight of that length that he could remember. Previous fights, however, had not come after a day of battle and a third more.

  The next man stepped forward, a colossus of a Goldlander, his head seeming to merge with the huge muscles topping his shoulders and leaving no room for a neck. Brann’s head tilted to one side and his eyes narrowed as he studied the man. He swung a macuahuitl as large as the one Hakon carried and, while he was not quite as tall as the Northern boy, he was broader. Wearing nothing but a heavy black skirt, no imagination was needed to know that muscle was slabbed on top of muscle in such bulk that the body was as if carved from a massive tree trunk and the limbs did not swing easily or far, but the power… Even just a short backswing would produce a strike that would be like being hit by a giant’s hammer – bringing the added problem that there would be little warning of such a strike being launched.

  Brann again left his axe for now, needing the speed of attack and retreat the sword afforded, but his first action was to dart and grab the shield still gripped by the man he had killed, the body lying where it had fallen. He did not intend to remain in the path of that fearsome weapon that flicked like a switch in the massive paw, but it would be no disadvantage to carry a little extra protection.

  The man lumbered towards him, the eyes beneath the heavy brow expressionless of emotion but with a glint suggesting an animal cunning. The man plodded at him with relentless determination, and Brann scampered back to howls of derision from Loku’s men. He was gauging the large man’s movement, though, judging his mobility and, most importantly, his change of balance.

  Brann let the big man close the gap and the swing came as he knew it would. He dropped to his right, under the weapon, and immediately rolled to his left, tucking his shield under him and rising in the same movement, his sword flicking out and leaving a crimson trail across the side of the lower ribs. The man seemed not to notice. He turned towards his prey and trudged ever forward.

  Brann jinked one way and then the other, seeking an opening past the flashing swings of the macuahuitl. He darted in the way he had once watched Mongoose do, barely evading the weapon but unable to avoid the thump of a shoulder, or an elbow, or a knee, the impact like that of a stone-headed club but preferable to the damage threatened by the sharp edges of the blades on the macuahuitl. His mind worked continuously, dismissing moves that proved futile, seeking ways of creating the chance he needed. But the huge man was not stupid, and he also noticed. As he feinted to one side and came back to the other, Brann noticed too late the halted swing crossways of the macuahuitl and the sudden downwards swipe that knocked his sword completely from his hand. He dropped to reach for it, raising the shield, and was jarred through every bone as the Goldlander punched with a battering ram of a blow directly onto the banded wood. Another punch before Brann could recover shattered the shield and almost wrenched Brann’s arm from his shoulder. A large sandalled foot stomped forward, between him and the sword, and his crouch was too low to allow him to draw the axe. He would have to create distance to rise and give himself space to pull forth that weapon – but he didn’t have the time. The step forward changed the angle of the man’s stance and Brann knew that the next blow would be with the other hand, the one bearing the macuahuitl. He snatched at the knife in the sheath on his forearm bearing the broken shield and stabbed it down through the huge foot so hard that a third of the blade drove into the hard earth beneath.

  This time the man did scream, jerking back instinctively, and Brann dived and scrambled, turning back to the danger with his axe in hand. The giant was howling, the paces he had staggered driving the point of the knife against the ground and forcing the blade back up through his foot. He stopped, lifting one leg to hunch forward and grab at the knife, wobbling in his stance. Brann was already running and launched himself into a leap to reach the man before he rose upright once more. As he came down, so did the axe. The black metal of the axe head cut deeper than any blade had a right to do, but still it only cleaved halfway through where the neck ought to have been. Halfway was enough.

  Both armies fell silent as the giant dropped, stunned by the ferocity of the battle.

  Brann put a foot on the shoulder and, chest heaving and his entire body aching, he wrenched the axe free.

  Two.

  He retrieved his sword and retired to seek water from his companion warriors. He looked at Grakk as he was handed a water skin, and nodded, his emotions still detached and pushed aside. ‘I am not so easy to kill as they maybe thought.’

  Grakk shook his head. ‘Be wary, young Brann. Those two were never meant to kill you.’

  Brann looked at him. ‘They made a damn good attempt at achieving what they weren’t meant to do.’

  Grakk’s voice was intent. ‘Think, remember: he cares not whether the four who come after you live and defeat his remaining champions, only that you die. When you are gone, he will let loose his army once more, for he knows that without your legend among them, these people will fight but their belief will have gone and with it any chance they had of ultimately resisting.’ He indicated the two bodies in the dirt. ‘The first was to tire you, and the second to weaken you. They did not know that, but they have done their job. He has chosen the order wisely. All you can do is keep your wits and know that, if anyone can do this, it is you. I believe this.’

  ‘As do I.’ It was Shahkam Davar’s deep voice, and Brann looked up in surprise. The man placed his hand on Brann’s shoulder and, as Grakk followed suit, so did the other two. Brann felt no swell of pride, for his emotions were at bay, but he felt the cold calm flow through him more keenly, as if radiating from their confidence in him. He nodded, and turned.

  A tall man of the Scum, lanky and absurdly long-limbed, stood twirling a spear with a speed and skill that defied the eye. A manic laugh issued from his leering face. ‘Had enough already, champion? Too weary for more. Come here and I will hasten the sleep you seek, though not the type you crave.’

  Brann swivelled his head to ease his neck, and strode forward.

  The fight was not without injury on his part, the spear point nicking him in a dozen places or more through his torn mail and on his arms and legs, but when his axe in his left hand eventually slammed across and down to hammer the shaft towards the ground, he was able to continue the movement into a spin and slash his sword into the side of the thin head. The leer became permanent, though misshapen.

  Three.

  He did not wait for the next, or stop for refreshment. He was feeling more fatigue than a short rest would dispel, and needed to hide the fact. He wiped his sword on the dead man’s tunic and walked towards the enemy, sword and axe swinging loosely in his han
ds, and stared.

  A comparatively wiry Goldlander stepped forward, still broader of shoulder and chest than most men of Brann’s land but with a speed of movement greater than any of the three who had come before.

  A macuahuitl hung at his belt and he carried a quiver over one shoulder but no bow. As he approached, the man reached over his shoulder and his arm flashed forwards. Brann dived to the side and a dart the length of his arm whirred past. He rolled without waiting, staggering to his feet as a second dart buried its head in the dirt he had vacated. A third, as he dodged, glanced off his mailed side. He could not wait for a fourth and he let his axe and sword drop, his hand reaching behind his head to the throwing knife strapped at the back of his neck. Had he been given time to think, his throw would undoubtedly have been clumsy and askew, but instinct moved him and the blade flew true. It missed its mark – the man’s chest – but struck him in the shoulder of his throwing arm as he reached for his next missile. Brann had already followed the blade and, at a full run, launched himself into his opponent, landing on top of him. He pushed one knee down to raise himself up and, as the man snarled through gritted teeth and reached hard fingers for Brann’s throat, Brann jerked the knife free from the shoulder and plunged it into one of the wildly staring eyes. He prised away the fingers that had spasmed against his throat and pulled the knife free, wiping it clean and replacing it. He moved quickly to gather his sword and axe lest the next opponent be sent without pause, but he was allowed to seek a drink. This time he did take the opportunity.

  Four.

  He stood, slightly swaying as he drank. The gentle eyes of Maktanu regarded him as he cautioned Brann to drink sparingly and slowly.

  ‘You do not wish to be slowed, or to spew,’ he said gravely.

  Brann knew it was true, and resisted the urge to gulp.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Grakk, and Brann looked to see a man of average height, in a black tunic and breeches and bare feet, walk calmly into the area. Two slim, slightly curved swords, similar to those favoured by Grakk, were cradled in his arms.

  ‘He has found himself a Master of Steel,’ Grakk said. ‘A religious order, with whom I learnt my skills of the blade, though I could never attain the levels achieved by those who had lived there since infancy. This man is one of their ilk. Loku has prepared you, now he serves you up.’ He looked at Brann, his eyes troubled. ‘You must find a way, young Brann. You must.’

  Brann nodded. ‘I know. I will, for these people. And for your people.’

  Grakk shook his head. ‘No, for me. I could not bear the thought of this day should I see you fall after all you have achieved, nor therefore could I live beyond it. My heart would burst.’

  Brann nodded and shrugged. ‘No man is invincible. Not I,’ he looked across the open ground, ‘and not he. Let today be his for that discovery.’

  Without another word, he drew his two favoured weapons and turned to the man, glad in this moment for the lightness of the star metal.

  The man rose, and bowed. Behind him, in the front line of the enemy host, Loku smiled triumphantly.

  The cold in Brann’s mind kept his thoughts analytical as he walked. He felt his legs weary, his arms heavy, but it did not dismay him. He felt the heat of the sun eat into his energy, but it did not worry him. Facts were to be considered – to worry wasted time and diverted thoughts, blinded awareness, slowed reactions. You can only ride the horse you sit upon, he had once been told, not the one you covet, so find a way to coax from the mount you have the speed it possesses.

  The man would be fast, he knew. He would have moves Brann had never before seen, never mind faced. He would be single-minded. He would be dedicated to his goal. His technique, of sword and body and mind, would be flawless.

  But he had been reared learning, and practising, and fighting those with the same attributes. Those like him.

  Brann was not like him. Therein lay his chance. Perhaps his only chance. One chance was better than none, but only if the chance can be taken.

  The man bowed, his swords still cradled across his chest, his eyes never leaving Brann. Brann nodded curtly. Respect is for training; when reality comes into play, what is necessary to live is all that matters.

  The man stepped back, starting a complex set of movements with the swords, a ritual of preparation, almost beautiful in its grace.

  Brann struck.

  He cut with a swing of his axe, controlled but with flashing speed, forcing the man to parry and step aside. He did so with ease, but Brann’s intent had been achieved: not an insult to the ritual, not to try to gain an unexpected opening, for a master of such elevated ability would never be beaten by such, but the interruption of the preparation. It was possible that the man had started every fight in his life with that rite – if Brann had cut short the accustomed preparation, the forming of a mindset, then it eroded slightly the advantage. And even the slightest erosion was of value.

  The man came at him in a smooth series of blows, slower than Brann had expected until he realised that he was being himself assessed. He deflected and moved, evading all while giving away as little as he could about his ability.

  He registered also, though, the slight sluggishness in his own movements, the extra effort needed to react. He could not win this by defending, and he could not wait until his energy had diminished significantly before he himself attacked.

  He turned a sword thrust with his axe and used the movement to swivel his own weapon, stabbing the end of the handle at the man’s face. The speed of his opponent saw the blow miss its target, but it struck his shoulder. Brann spun in the same instant, moving out of range. For all the man’s prowess, Brann had landed the first blow to be landed. At the sight, the defenders of the city added their roar to that of the invaders, but Brann wasn’t fooled. The blow had caused no damage.

  He defended more and slipped an angled thrust of his sword at the man’s leg, his axe swinging at the gap left by the parry. The man drifted away from the move and came back, his blades moving with incredible speed. Brann deflected, swayed, parried, and spun, his whole world narrowing to the movement in front of him as all the noise and sights beyond it were shut out, but he felt himself slowing and three swift cuts left the marks of their deftness, one on his ribs, one on his leg and one on his cheek.

  He knew what he had to do, just to keep himself in the fight. He swung wildly with both weapons at once, surprising his opponent with the bizarre move, then rammed his shoulder against the lean hardness of the man’s chest. It was a suicidal move and that in itself saved him – no student of the art would expect it. A student of the art adjusts quickly, however, so as soon as he felt the man stumble back, Brann leapt away, running to his companions. A roar of triumph and derision at his cowardice erupted from the invaders but Brann cared not.

  ‘Cut the straps,’ he shouted desperately. ‘I need to lose my mail.’

  If they were mystified or disagreed, they wasted no time in disobeying. He dropped his weapons and bent forward and, in seconds, the mail shirt had been dragged over his head and he retrieved his weapons as he straightened, the heat of the high sun fresh on his skin rather than stifling, draining. His padded tunic went with it, leaving him bare chested, but he welcomed the relative cool and the release of the weight. He knew he had slowed the loss of energy, but he also knew that slowed was not reversed nor even stopped. Time was his enemy as much as the man before him.

  He felt the blood from the three wounds run on his bare skin as he walked back to the fight, his own people now roaring at the sight of his return. They were nicks, really, no threat to his ability, but he and his opponent knew that the relevance of the cuts lay in the shared knowledge that the man could penetrate his defence. He saw the man’s eyes rest briefly on the dragon tattoo on his right arm, the eyes widening slightly – the first reaction that Brann had witnessed from him – though the face returned almost instantly to its expression of focused calm. He clearly knew the tattoo’s significance and the knowledge may have been of
interest, but not sufficiently so to distract him.

  More importantly, the man would know that time was against Brann, and would know Brann would have to come out fighting. There was no option, however – sometimes you just have to do the obvious if there is no alternative available.

  He went for the man with a flashing whirl of attacks, controlled but at a speed hard to follow. The man was unperturbed, moving smoothly and carefully backwards to absorb Brann’s motion, his eyes watching with care, his swords moving even faster than Brann’s, a silver net of steel woven in front of him, every stroke made with precision and purpose and following complex patterns far beyond any teaching Brann had known.

  Brann felt his muscles start to cramp and redoubled his efforts. The defending army saw the blows increase but knew not the truth behind the surge, cheering their encouragement.

  His opponent knew the truth. He started slipping a thrust among his defensive moves, a cut, a stab, a flick of a wrist, a flash of light. Blood now dripped from a dozen parts of Brann, and the twin blades found further targets with increasing ease. Brann felt the strength seep from him with the blood, but the cold logic in his mind registered it and ignored it as unable to be dealt with at this time. He forced his hands and feet to move, thwarting the killing strikes but unable to avoid the multiple slices and pricks. He knew what the man was doing – he would do it himself.

  His head started to swim, and he fell to one knee, flinging the axe around in a wild low swipe, the unexpectedness of the accident taking the man by surprise for the first time. The man threw himself backwards, arching his back as he flipped his feet off the ground barely in time to avoid the sweep of the axe. Brann launched backwards himself, staggering to his feet and lurching away towards his companions, his eyes still fixed on his opponent as the man rose in a smooth movement.