Hero Born

by Andy Livingstone

  She patted the floor again, twice. He sat, cross-legged like a child, so close to her that his knees brushed her robes.

  ‘Look at me, boy. Look at me.’

  He lifted his eyes to hers and was locked into her gaze. His consciousness seemed to be drawn by her and his mind felt as blank as his emotions. He was aware of her eyes but, beyond that, he saw no more: not the Captain, watching silently; not the dancing flames of the candles; not her robes, many and smoke-thin; not the skin stretched across her face, as fragile-seeming as her clothing; only her dark, dark eyes.

  He was aware of her voice but gone was the creaking and groaning of the ship, the calls and footsteps from above, the coughing and whimpering from the neighbouring room, even the faint sound of his own shallow breathing. All he could hear, all there was to him, was her soft, mellow, soothing voice.

  ‘A melancholy right into your bones, you have. Much have you seen, so you have, that should never have passed before such young eyes, and much will you go through again, of a weight a babe should never have to shoulder. But you must release, so you should, you must release – the smallest kettle or the largest volcano must obey the same laws: neither can be sealed, for the force within will only grow and the release will be worse and not of your choosing. So let it out, boy, let it out or it will fill every part of you, and it will leave room for naught else within you. It will destroy you and those you hold close.’

  She stared at him in silence, waiting impassively for the emotion to burst from him.

  But it did not. A solitary tear gathered at the lip of one eye before slowly drawing a silver line down his cheek. His face, as blank as before, looked back at her, his gaze still locked with hers.

  She sighed heavily, and shook her head slightly. ‘It is deeper than I feared. As deep, perhaps, as that consuming you, my Captain. So many questions waiting to be asked, pain like a thousand blades, a yearning that tears you asunder but, for now, nothing but emptiness of the soul. Not today will it be filled, for better or worse. Not today and not tomorrow.’ She sighed again, a mournful sound. ‘So sad, in one so unprepared.’

  A shadow of a smile drifted across her lips. ‘One answer, though, there is. One answer to a question not yet asked. Know this: not your fault, no, it is not your fault. Remember that, my dear, remember that you could have changed nothing. When fate draws a map, man must follow it, so he must. Man has no choice but to follow it.’

  She took his hand in both of hers, stroking the back of it gently. ‘Have peace, now, little one, have peace. Go, now; eat and sleep. Best thing for you, so it is. When in doubt, return to the basics of life. Eat and sleep.’

  Still clasping him in her grasp, she reached with her other hand and, with surprisingly soft fingertips, gently wiped the tear from his cheek.

  She froze. Tensing, with a sharp hiss, she gripped his hand so violently that his attention was snapped away from her eyes. He looked questioningly at the Captain who, silently and intently, nodded Brann’s attention back to the old lady.

  Slowly, almost tentatively, she drew her hand away from his face and lifted it to her mouth. The moisture on her fingertip glistened in the candlelight with a magical air. She touched the single tear to her lips and, tentatively, brushed her tongue against it.

  A scream of pain wrenched itself from her. With her back arched, her body jerked upwards. Her eyelids fluttered erratically, her pupils rolled up, and she began to moan, a low drone that filled the room with an uneasy dread.

  The Captain nudged Brann with the toe of one boot. He looked up. ‘Listen carefully, boy,’ he cautioned. ‘What she says, you will hear once, and once only. When she returns to us, she will know nothing of what passes her lips. So listen carefully.’

  Brann returned his attention to the old woman. She was mumbling without pause, a stream of incomprehensible sounds that ran into each other. At best, what she was uttering was a monotone of gibberish. What was there for him to listen carefully to?

  Her grip on his hand redoubled, and the moaning stopped. She became still, eerily still. Her eyes opened, wide and unblinking, and she stared directly at him. There was silence. Bran realised that he had stopped breathing, and forced himself to draw in air. His hand was in considerable pain, but he dared not do anything that might disturb her.

  She spoke, her voice that of a young woman, clear and strong.

  ‘Paths you will travel, in many a realm,

  You’ll be blind to the journey, trust to Fate at the helm,

  But you’ll know you are standing in Destiny’s hall

  When heroes and kings come to call.’

  Her eyes rolled up once more but, this time, her lids shut peacefully. Her grip eased and her hand slipped from his. With a long, dry sigh, the tension seemed to flood from her and she relaxed, almost sagged, where she sat.

  She opened her eyes, and saw Brann massaging his aching hand. Taking it gently in both of hers, she lifted it gently to her lips and kissed it softly.

  ‘Apologies for the pain, my dear, many apologies,’ she said so softly that he had to strain to make out the words. ‘I know not what I am doing at my special times. I have no memory of my words or actions, no memory. I have only an echo of the memory, a picture in smoke, and the more I try to grasp it, the more it fades.

  ‘But it does leave me with a feeling, so it does. Like a tracker with the indent of a footprint, after the foot has passed. I cannot see the person, but I see clues to the person in the footprint, so I do, I see clues in the footprint. And what I see is your fate lying heavy on your shoulders. Yes, heavy it will lie.’

  Brann felt himself sagging as despair plunged down upon him. She took his hand again. ‘I know, young one, I know. You have faced so much in a short time, and you are living so much more. Destiny has a habit of arriving slowly. When it comes, you think it is suddenly bursting through the door, but most times it has been building, and making you stronger all the while.’ She patted his shoulder. ‘Do not despair. When fate visits you, your shoulders will have grown stronger to bear it.’

  Her hand drifted down and brushed against the knife hidden under his clothes. He tensed in fear, but she merely smiled quietly, and her eyes narrowed in amusement as they met his.

  ‘You already show me a hint of the man you will need to be. Be careful, and it will serve you well, so it will, it will serve you well. Be complacent and, well… you live in a dangerous world, so you do. We all act sometimes without knowing why; only in later times do we see the significance. Do not be over-hasty to rid yourself of that which may be the saviour of your life. That is all I will say.’ She traced a finger down his cheek. ‘Take care, little one, take care. It would please me to see you prosper. Yes indeed, it would please me.’

  She patted his hand: a simple but surprisingly reassuring gesture. ‘Now I must rest, so I must. And so should you. Go now.’

  She lay back on cushions that had gone unnoticed in the gloom, her features disappearing into deep shadows where the clutter blocked the candles’ meagre reach. The Captain gestured to Brann to stand up. Despite a stiffness in his legs, he did so quickly and followed the tall man, who had started from the room without a word. In the corridor, they found Boar. The Captain headed for the ladder leading to the deck and, without turning, said, ‘Put him in with the rest. Make sure he has food and drink.’ Boar barely had time to acknowledge the order before he was up the ladder and out of sight.

  ‘You heard the man,’ Boar rasped. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  Brann stumbled into the small hold, realising how exhausted he was. Boar gestured towards a space beside Gerens, where Brann would originally have been installed had his progress not been interrupted.

  Boar grunted, ‘Better late than never.’ He smirked as his gaze passed around the small room, crammed with pale and harrowed faces. ‘You’re mine, now. Don’t you forget it. Especially you, late boy.’ His foot flicked out and nudged Brann’s side to indicate the object of the comment. ‘Don’t you be getting any ideas
about being special just because the old crone shared her ramblings with you. You’re all the same, now: all maggots under my boot.’ He used that very boot to emphasise the point again, but this time it thudded into Brann’s ribs in a full-blooded kick. The boy cried out before he could stop himself, and curled up, praying that the fat bully would go away.

  But Boar was still speaking, enjoying lording it over his captive audience. ‘Remember, you are our pay-day. So eat and drink when it’s given to you, and keep yourselves clean. I don’t want to go home to my wife with my pay short just because any of you fall sick.’

  Brann was unsure which was the worse thought: the idea of what it must be like for some woman to be married to such an obnoxious oaf, or the image of the sort of woman who could place Boar in a state of fear.

  Boar reached into a heavy canvas bag and produced a loaf and a hunk of cheese. Breaking off part of the bread, he threw it and the cheese into Brann’s lap, before picking up a wooden bowl. He leant back out of the doorway to fill it from a barrel of fresh water that stood in the short corridor.

  Setting the bowl down beside Brann, he grunted. ‘Make the most of the bread and cheese. Fresh food don’t come your way very often at sea. But you maggots weren’t the only things we brought back from our fun ashore.’

  He turned away and snorted hugely in amusement, the noise lasting the length of his passage to the ladder. The sound would normally have blunted Brann’s appetite, but not today. The appearance of the food in his lap had awakened a hunger that had been lying dormant until now, but had re-emerged with a vengeance. He picked up the cheese but, as he chewed it, his arm drooped and the food fell and rolled against Gerens’s leg. Gerens turned to see Brann slumped, deep in slumber and snoring gently.

  Gerens carefully wrapped the remaining cheese in as clean a rag as he could find and picked up the bowl of water. Lifting Brann’s head upright, he touched the rim of the bowl to his lips. In a reflex action, Brann drank.

  A boy close by sniggered, nudging the lad beside him. ‘Look,’ he snorted gleefully. ‘He’s trying to get him to wet himself.’

  Without looking up, Gerens said darkly, ‘I am trying to keep him in health. But if you favour sport of that sort, wait until you sleep yourself and I will see what I can arrange.’

  The laughing stopped. The boy looked at Gerens. ‘Why do you help him?’

  Gerens shrugged. ‘I feel like I should. So I do.’ His stare swept onto the boy. ‘Are you saying I should not?’ The boy shook his head, but Gerens had already turned back to Brann and helped him to two further swallows. In a lower voice, he spoke again. ‘That will do, chief. Enough to keep you going. Any more, and those fools will have their entertainment.’

  As he put down the bowl, Brann mumbled in his sleep. It was almost incoherent, but Gerens could just make it out. ‘Thank you, mother.’

  With a hint of a smile, the boy replied softly, ‘Thank the gods you did not say that loudly enough for the others to hear. I do not know which of us would have suffered more if you had.’

  On deck, hours later, the slow, steady drumbeat was muffled, for sound carried further at night and it was not generally wise at sea to advertise one’s presence unnecessarily. It also helped any of the crew who were managing to rest, to do so.

  The night was clear, the stars sharp, the large moon bright enough to give visibility to the horizon, the sea peaceful and – most relevantly – the breeze gentle, so the oars were needed to maintain their progress, albeit at a reduced rate. Every third bench was rowing, while the others slept; the remaining slaves would follow suit in two further shifts, so that all would be able to rest for the majority of the night.

  On the raised deck at the stern, Boar broke wind violently. ‘There,’ he declared. ‘That’s what I think of those maggots in the hold.’

  The steersman grunted, glad he was upwind of the foul oaf, who smelt badly enough without the aid of flatulence. ‘That’s what you think of everything, Boar.’

  The fat man spat over the side. ‘Nah, these are the worst ever. We’ll be lucky to clear our wages this trip. And there’s one wee runt thinks he’s better than us, away chatting to the old witch below. He’ll be the first I break, wait and see. He’s no better than Boar, that’s what he’ll learn.’ He spat again.

  ‘Would it not be better to keep them healthy, Boar? You know, keep them looking good for the market,’ the steersman suggested. ‘More money for us. Better idea, no?’

  Another voice spoke from the shadows. ‘And a better idea to show more respect for Our Lady. Would that maybe help, Boar?’

  Had there been more light, it would have been clearly visible that the colour had drained from Boar’s face. The steersman, without being able to see it, knew it to be so nonetheless, and smiled his amusement.

  Boar spluttered. ‘Yes, Captain. Good idea. I mean, sorry, Captain.’ He regained his composure, such as it ever was. ‘Got to catch some sleep, Captain. Better go below. G’night.’

  ‘Another good idea, Boar,’ the Captain said evenly. ‘Good night.’

  Boar stomped off. The deck was silent again, but for the soft drumbeat and the creaks and splashes of the oars. The steersman broke the silence. ‘Why do you keep him, Captain? Few skills, too many weaknesses, potential for trouble. You know that if you want his throat cut and him dumped over the side there will be no shortage of volunteers.’

  The tall, black-clad figure looked at the veteran warrior. The man was one of his oldest companions and an astute reader of men, although this assessment of Boar had hardly taxed his talents in that respect.

  ‘I know, Cannick, I know.’ He sighed. ‘And you know he is not the sort I would normally choose, had I the choice. But also you know that circumstances do not, these days, allow me to be over-particular. And you know men well enough to understand we have been lucky with the standard that fate has, mostly, given us.’

  Cannick spat over the side. ‘We have been lucky, Einarr.’ The Captain did not stir at the use of his name. ‘From the first campaigns I fought with your father as young mercenaries who needed only the promise of gold and excitement to turn our faces towards lands we had never even heard named before, to the time when your grandfather’s death called your father back home, I served with men good and bad. Sometimes the bad are the ones you want more at your back in a fight; some of the worst have saved my life. But some of the best have stood by me when the worst have run, and your father was the best of those. When disease robbed me of my family and someone else’s war took my home, I had nothing. I was freed by the worst of fates to determine my own path, and I could have gone anywhere. But the path I chose was to your father’s home, because all have their benefits, but the best have the benefits that sit most comfortably on your shoulders.

  ‘These men you have here, you have indeed been lucky to find signing up with you. All are true, most are good men and all will stand by you. All except one. He is as rotten as I have come across, but we are in a dirty business. Everyone in this business expects to get his hands dirty, but there’s always a need for someone who will shove his hands in shit without a second thought.’

  The Captain sighed. ‘We have indeed been lucky with them, Cannick. You and Our Lady downstairs are the only ones I trust with my name, but these men I trust with my life. They are capable in combat and are generally a good bunch of lads, caught, like us, in something we’d rather not have to be a part of, had we the luxury of choice. Which is why I wonder why we need a man like Boar. He is different from the rest of us: he belongs in this life. If truth be told, he enjoys it.’

  ‘You are right, old friend,’ the veteran warrior agreed, his gaze lingering on the moonlit horizon. ‘And that is exactly why he has his uses at the moment – because he belongs in this life. We are in it, whether we like it or not, and we need men like him to make it work until we can be rid of it. But you are right: he does enjoy it… too much. His use will continue until fate decrees that it should stop. He will push someone too far one day, he w
ill become too much for someone, and it will be surprising how quickly his advantages become less important to us. In the meantime, though, you need to treat him as you would a fighting dog – keep him on a short leash and watch him carefully until the times arise when he is of use. Do you know what I mean?’ Cannick smiled again, but this time grimly. ‘But I do hope I am around to see it when the gods decide he has outlived his usefulness.’

  The Captain looked at him. ‘As usual, you are right. But, as for the last, who will be their tool, I know not. I only know it will not be me. I will kill a man in battle without hesitation, but I will not end a man’s life merely because I do not like him. However, when his end comes, I am sure it will be of his own making and we will not need to prompt it. He is good enough at that himself. And, when it does happen, I will trust that the gods have indeed decreed it, and who am I to judge against their decision?’

  ‘Who indeed, boy, who indeed?’ Cannick said softly as the tall dark figure descended the ladder and made his way forward to check with the lookout, as he did every night at this time, before retiring to bed.

  The Captain reached the prow and held himself steady beside the warrior on duty. The ship reared up at the front into an ornate figurehead of a blue-painted dragon, rearing in silent fury to the height of two men and half as much again. On the back of the head was a small platform that was only a few feet higher than the raised area at the stern; but even just a few feet made a difference in the distance a man could see over the waves.

  The lookout was expecting the visit. ‘Just one thing, Captain,’ he reported, pointing. ‘A ship to port, keeping close to the horizon.’ He pointed almost due east, back towards the land. ‘It has been there a while. I would have called you if it had got any closer, but it has kept its distance and I knew you would be coming by at this time anyway. It’s closer to the coast so it may just be a fishing boat. Thought I’d better mention it, though.’