Hero Born

by Andy Livingstone

  ‘At times, the chains need to come off quickly. A sinking ship, or an attack with hand-to-hand fighting.’

  Brann was puzzled. ‘Why then? So they can be protected from harm?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Well-treated slaves are better staying with the masters they have. The alternative is to risk worse with someone else. If the attack is by pirates, the alternative is worse. So, in such times, they fight beside the crew and, when it is over, return to the benches. At sea, this is accepted.’

  Brann considered this. ‘I count sixty rowers, and about twenty-five or so crew. Once the fighting is over, could the slaves not…?’

  ‘I know, chief. Could they not overpower their masters?’ He shrugged. ‘They need each other. And you have seen these warriors: weapons are their life. If the slaves did overcome them, it would be at terrible cost. And they would always be fugitives, hunted by those who would fear other slaves encouraged to follow suit. So why risk it? Anyway, after fifteen years at the oars, a galley slave is freed. They reckon you have deserved it if you live that long. The longer you row, the closer you are to that.’

  Brann’s eyes narrowed. ‘So why did your father take such a risk to escape?’

  The boy stared over the sea once again. ‘A valid question, chief. His circumstances changed. His ship was taken by pirates. Several slaves were tortured and thrown overboard to show the consequence of defiance. So he reasoned his situation had worsened. Yes, he had little more than two years of his fifteen left, but pirates tend not to adhere to that arrangement. They work their slaves till they drop. They can always pick up more. A small group saw an opportunity. It was a slight chance, but desperation drove them. He made it; all but one of the others did not. But they were under a death sentence anyway.’

  He flexed his shoulders and arched his back against the effects of sitting still. ‘So, the chains. Do you see the two long chains that run fore to aft – front to back? In emergencies, the crew can unfasten those chains at one end and pull them through to the other. Each set of rowers can then pull out the chain that runs under their bench, linking their individual chains. They are completely unfettered in seconds. And, you will notice that the long chains running up the aisle not only run through the rings on each bench’s chain. They pass through several metal rings that secure hasps set into the aisle. Those hasps are for hatches into compartments containing weapons for the slaves. So, when the long chains are pulled free to let loose the slaves, they also give access to the weapons. The slaves can be unchained and armed in moments.’

  Brann’s face clouded as a thought struck him. ‘These men don’t seem to be pirates, yet they have taken us as slaves. Surely they are pirates.’

  ‘Not all who take slaves are pirates. In the Empire, and the southern lands still more dusty, slaves are a part of life. They are traded and valued just as a horse or a sword or a house would be. These men here are seafarers, chief, and northerners mostly. They will be engaged by a slave-trader to fetch him goods to sell. On another day they would be transporting passengers or goods to a market or to a buyer’s estate.’

  A warrior strolled down the aisle, checking the chains had not become tangled and kicking the occasional one. Brann looked at the legs of the men nearest him. ‘So, if I understand this properly, they can remove an individual rower by unlocking his manacles, or all three on a bench by unclipping them from the main chain along the aisle. So it can work for all of them or just one at a time, or almost any number in between.’

  The boy almost smiled. ‘You seem to understand. But still I see confusion in your eyes.’

  Brann nodded. ‘If there is such a special relationship that the slaves can be released and even armed if need be, why chain them up at all?’

  ‘Trust extends only so far, chief.’ The eyes burned with pale fire into his. ‘A wise man leaves as little to chance as possible.’ He shrugged. ‘And, in any case, it is expected. They are slaves. As, now, are we.’

  Brann grunted. ‘Thank you for reminding me. For someone who is of few words, you speak at great length.’

  ‘I speak when I can offer something of value. Otherwise, I prefer to listen. Thus I learn what may be valuable. And you know more of your situation, which is no bad thing.’ His expression never yet wavered. ‘And it passed the time.’

  Brann snorted, irritated by the reminder of his predicament. ‘At the moment, passing time is like passing water. I don’t particularly want to have to do either but, if the need arises, I’ll let you know.’

  He was fixed with a curious stare, the head tilted to the side. ‘I would make the most of being able to pass time, chief. At the moment, it is the only one of the two for which you control the opportunity to do it.’

  His childish pomposity was brutally exposed for what it was by simple logic. ‘I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. It was kind of you to explain it all.’

  ‘Kind?’ It was only one word, but his tone was such that a speech could not have better conveyed the boy’s confusion. ‘You asked questions, I answered.’

  Brann felt his mouth turn into a half-smile, as if it were an awkward movement. ‘One last answer, then: your name.’

  ‘One last answer for now. I feel you will have more questions over time. My father named me Gerens.’

  ‘And mine, Brann.’

  ‘Right you are, chief.’ The boy clasped his hand in a formality that was as comforting as it was incongruous in their situation. ‘I feel it is good to meet you.’

  A voice boomed above them, making them both jump. The fat warrior, Boar, stood over them.

  ‘Up, maggots,’ he roared, rattling the chain so violently that several of them flinched – a reaction that seemed to please the oaf. ‘Those who can walk, get to the stern. That’s the bit at the back. Your food is there. Those who can’t walk will be dragged by those who can.’ He sniggered at what obviously passed for humour in his warped mind and thumped back up the aisle, leaving them to follow in whatever manner they could manage.

  The sorry little group began to rise, some slower than others as cramped legs objected to movement. As they did so, the boat lurched, causing them to fall against each other. Brann was knocked from his feet and fell painfully against the end of a bench. He banged solidly against a sleeping rower, a burly bald man with an incongruously bushy black beard, but the man’s slumber was so deep – or he cared so little about a slip of a boy falling against him – that he merely wriggled into a different position without waking.

  As he did so, a hard object poked into Brann. Instinctively, the boy’s hand slid forward and found the handle of a knife, tucked discreetly into the waistband of the man’s breeches. Before he could think, he had grasped the bone handle, pulling it smoothly with him as he rose, and secreting it within his sleeve while he pretended to hold his stomach in pain. By the time he did think about what he had done, and about the unbelievable folly of doing so, it was too late to undo it.

  Two of the boys were helping up the one they had earlier comforted while he had been retching, and the rest of the group had managed to stand and were waiting until all were ready to move off. Brann mingled with them as they shuffled forwards, using their tangle of chained limbs to conceal his movements as he slipped the blade into his own belt under his tunic, not so much out of a desire to keep the knife but more for reasons of keeping it better hidden until he could secretly dispose of it. His heart pounded as he came dangerously close to panic. He cursed his idiocy and tugged his tunic down, even though it was already more than adequately covering the incriminating object. With each pace, he could feel the metal digging into him and, with each dig, his stomach lurched and churned with tense fear.

  He cursed himself. Why had he done something so stupid? Why? He had taken the knife automatically, his hand moving before his mind considered the idea. If it were found on him, the best he could hope for would be that his death would be quick. The rower he had taken it from had been courting that risk also but, whatever his reason for doing so, it wa
s immaterial now – the risk had passed to Brann. Yet he could not get rid of it at the moment without being caught. He would just have to remain alert for an opportunity… and he prayed that moment would come soon.

  They reached the rear of the ship. A steep stairway led up in front of them to the raised area and two closed doors faced the group, one set either side of the steps. Before them a small table bore bread, cheese and water. The boys hurriedly grabbed some of each, and forced it down. With the exception of Gerens, who wolfed it down with all of the relish but none of the manners normally reserved for a finely prepared banquet, not one of them had much of an appetite, but they had no idea when they would next eat. So they ate.

  Boar clambered clumsily down from the area above. ‘Through the door,’ his voice boomed. The boy at the front of the group reached for the nearest latch.

  It was hard to believe Boar could shout any louder – but he did. ‘The other door, fool! If you step into the Captain’s cabin, you’ll spend the last two seconds of your life thinking about your mistake. Now move before you die of stupidity.’

  The sorry group passed through the other door, discovering another steep set of stairs – almost a ladder – leading down below deck level. They found that the chain linking them was just long enough, if they were careful, to allow them all to climb down one by one.

  ‘Keep moving, maggots,’ Boar said, his voice relatively quieter but no less bullying.

  The boys shuffled along a short corridor dimly lit by a single lamp, passing doorless portals that let them glimpse the rooms inside and, Brann realised, would allow any occupants to exit rapidly if necessary. No light burned in the first room they passed, but Brann was just able to make out the figures of those warriors not on deck who were grabbing, like the slaves above, the chance to sleep. The next room seemed to be used as both a kitchen and storeroom and, like the first, was in darkness. Dim light did come, however, from the room that lay straight ahead, which seemed to be their destination.

  Boar confirmed it. ‘Straight ahead, maggots. Keep going. Welcome to your new home.’

  They stumbled towards the room, steadying themselves against the walls that were conveniently close on either side. As they neared the doorway, Brann could see two rows of faces, all belonging to boys of around his age, lined along the walls to each side of a long narrow area, staring at the newcomers. Boar shoved them roughly towards the room.

  ‘In you go, maggots,’ he growled gleefully. ‘We’ll get you chained up with your new friends. You couldn’t ask for better quarters – it’s clean, dry and there’s even a latrine.’ He indicated a bucket beside the door. ‘If you’re good, we might even empty it now and again.’ He sniggered, once again finding himself highly amusing, although Brann suspected that this was not the first time he had produced this particular witticism. The whole procedure bore the hallmarks of a routine that the fat oaf thoroughly enjoyed.

  As the boys started to file into the room, an eldritch screech burst from a room to their right. They stopped in terror. Like the others, Brann’s attention had been drawn by disconsolate curiosity to the room that was to be their temporary home to such an extent that he had not noticed this other room, let alone its occupant.

  The scream started again but, this time, words could be made out. ‘Bring him to me! Bring him now!’

  The man with the L-shaped scar stepped from the room. ‘Hold them there, Boar,’ he said. His order was unnecessary: the captives were rooted in terror, each hoping desperately he was not the subject of the ear-splitting demand.

  The voice started again. ‘The little one. The little one at the back.’

  Brann’s breathing froze and his chest constricted in fear. The tall man nodded to Boar. ‘You heard Our Lady,’ he said simply.

  ‘Yes, Captain. Right away, Captain,’ Boar said, the whine of his deferential tone a stark contrast to his previous bullying bluster. He knelt and hurriedly released Brann’s manacle.

  The Captain waved Brann forward. ‘Come,’ he said, leading the way into the room as Boar resumed ushering the remainder of the group to their original destination. Gerens cast a look in Brann’s direction, his eyebrows raised. Brann knew that the boy was as mystified as he, and shrugged in reply. His initial fear had subsided greatly, mainly due to his emotionally dulled state of mind and the belief that his situation could not, conceivably, deteriorate to any great extent. Maybe he was taking Gerens’s implacable logic to heart.

  The room was more shadows than light. Two candles flickered shapes on the walls, a worrying hazard on a ship, Brann thought, where all other light was provided by oil lanterns that were sturdily constructed and designed to avoid spillages. The Captain was standing beside what appeared to be a pile of rags. Assuming this to be the source of the voice, Brann continued towards it and stopped several feet short, unsure what to do.

  The words did, indeed, come from the rags. ‘Come closer, boy,’ it said. It was the voice of an old woman and now had, to his surprise, a gentle tone, almost kindly. The most astonishing thing about it was not the dramatic drop in volume, however, but how normal it sounded. He had expected a mysterious whisper or, at least, a demented growl. Certainly not something that sounded like a benevolent grandmother.

  ‘I don’t always screech, you know. Terrible sore on the throat, so it is.’ She laughed, softly. ‘But it surely catches people’s attention, so it does. It catches their attention. And it does me no harm to have a certain reputation. I like to keep them on their toes, so I do. Unpredictable tends to work well in my profession. Mad and mysterious, that’s me.’ She laughed again, almost a giggle this time. ‘Just you remember that, little one, when they ask you what I said. And they will ask you, so they will. So tell them I was mad and mysterious. Mysterious and mad. And terrifying. Terrifying is good, so it is.’

  She coughed, a dry, dusty old sound. ‘Come closer again, boy. I will not bite. No teeth, see: makes it difficult, so it does.’ She laughed again.

  Brann shuffled forward, beginning to make out her wizened face: sunken, watery eyes amid protruding cheekbones and creases upon creases. White hair hung limply, held in place by a thin gold chain that dangled an assortment of charms across her forehead; they jingled musically at the slightest movement.

  His foot brushed against something, causing a slight rattling sound. The Captain had been standing, silent and still, while she spoke but, at the noise from the floor, he flinched with a sharp intake of breath.

  The old lady was, however, more calm. ‘Mind the bones, boy, mind the bones,’ she said equably.

  Brann looked down with a nervous jerk to see a selection of small rune-engraved bones (animal or human, he did not know – did not want to know) lying scattered on the floor. One of the candles had been placed to cast light on the area, but he had been so intent on the woman’s face as he walked forward that he had stumbled right into the macabre relics.

  He drew back in horror. Stories abounded about the folly of incurring the wrath of women like this. Call them what you will – seeresses, witches, wisewomen, earthmothers, oracles – it did not do to cross them. No one knew for sure if tales of mysterious retribution held some truth or were exaggerated fancy but, by the same token, no one was willing to take the risk of testing the theory. To anger them was a bad idea, but to touch, and therefore sully, the individual tools of any of these women, whether it be bones, animal entrails, embers of a fire, sacred stones or any one of myriad other objects, dead or alive, that were their means of divining anything – from the future, the weather or the chances of crops failing or cows calving to the prospects of armies triumphing or women conceiving – was sacrilege.

  And he had just stood on top of them.

  But the old woman did not cast a spell. She did not fly at him with talon-like nails scratching at his eyes. She did not even scream.

  She chuckled.

  ‘Calm down, child, calm down.’ The charms strung across her forehead tinkled delicately as she leant forward and gathered the bone
s from the floor in one long-fingered, sinew-ridged bony hand with a quick and well-practised sweep of the other. ‘My fault, so it is, my fault. Forgot they were there when I called you nearer, silly me. Not to worry: not in use just now, are they? No, no, just bits of creatures that long since ceased to need their outer shell in this world, so they are. Nothing more, nothing less.’

  Her eyes grew distant, her voice low and heavy. ‘When they are in use, though, it is different. Then, they are alive; alive and so very powerful.’ She opened her hand to reveal the bones and stroked her fingertips across them. ‘Oh yes, so very powerful.’ The hand snapped shut, and her head jerked up, as if she had abruptly awakened from a dream. Her eyes focused on his once more and her voice grew gentle again. ‘No harm done, is there, little dear? No need to fret, no need at all.’ She laughed softly.

  Brann was unsure how to feel. He had seen his home set ablaze with his family inside and his brother brutally slain just feet from him; he had been dragged away from everything and everyone he had ever known; he was a slave bound for a future that only the gods could predict in a place he could not envisage; his immediate future was to live, cramped with others like him, beneath the decks of a slave ship under the total authority of a bullying oaf; and now, in a dingy, musty, gloom-laden room, watched by the most quietly menacing man he had ever met, he had trampled all over the sacred bones of an ancient crone who was held in fear and reverence by the battle-scarred crew who shared a ship with her. And her response? To sweep aside those relics as if she were a grandmother brushing away crumbs on a table.

  Yes, indeed, he had no idea how to think. He continued to feel nothing. His head was light, and he swayed slightly as he stood, arms hanging limply by his sides, staring blankly at her.

  She patted the now-clear floor in front of her, a soft sound. Disturbed dust swirled in the faint candlelight.

  ‘Here, sit,’ she said, her voice as gentle as the tap on the floor. ‘Sit, before you fall.’

  He realised as she said it that his head was spinning more than he had realised, or cared. He stepped forward slightly to the indicated spot, his movements clumsy and his senses deadened, feeling as if time, for him, were moving slower than for those around him.