Hero Born

by Andy Livingstone

  Brann cut him off as realisation dawned. ‘For rocks!’ he said, triumphant at not needing help from the pair beside him – for once. ‘They would rather splinter their pole than the boat.’

  Grakk nodded without looking across. ‘Joy of joys. The boy is not as stupid as it would otherwise seem.’

  Brann smiled at him. ‘Learning is everything.’ He earned a smile in response.

  Afternoon turned to evening and then early night and, as Grakk had predicted, the drummer kept the slow cautious beat going, and they kept rowing. The lookout had started to blow the horn – an eerie, mournful sound in the stillness of the fog – as dusk had fallen. He listened intently between calls, trying to hear either a response or the sound of waves breaking against rocks or sand.

  After a long hour of horn-blowing, which Brann had started, strangely, to find both irritating and soporific, two shorter blasts of a similar horn replied through the fog and darkness. The fog had, through its obliteration of sight and sound, enveloped them in a feeling of complete solitude, as if the gods had transported the ship to a separate place where they floated in emptiness. The sound of another noise floating across the water jolted Brann back to reality, making him jump violently in the process. Grakk looked across, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth, but said nothing.

  They altered their course slightly to aim at the noise, and shortly afterwards they heard the sound of waves breaking gently against a beach. Brann felt excitement at the prospect of seeing land – any land – again after so many days at sea and had to fight the urge to pull harder at the oar. The beat of the drum, still cautious as they edged forwards in the hope of avoiding rocks above or below the surface, seemed torture to the boy, even though he knew well the good sense in playing safe.

  The horns continued their conversation, the lookout on the boat blowing a single note, and the reply coming each time as a double blast. The lookout paused as he was about to blow again, peered into the darkness, and shouted to the Captain, who was standing at the stern, beside the steersman.

  Brann could not make out the cry over the creak of the oars, but many others did, and excitement rippled along the benches. Curious, he craned his neck around as he pulled back and, at the edge of his vision, he saw the cause of the excitement: two fires flickered through the fog, directly ahead.

  The Captain called a reminder to the drummer to keep the beat steady, but in a few short minutes it was immaterial as the order was given to cease rowing and ship oars. As they fastened the shafts into place, the ship nudged alongside a simple wooden jetty.

  Brann jumped again in surprise, not having noticed their approach to the land. The basic wooden structure that they were now bumping against appeared surreal in both the suddenness of its appearance and in the fact that he was looking at something solid after so many days with only water to fill his vision.

  Ropes snaked from the darkness and were quickly tied in place, although Brann noticed that the men doing so kept low as they worked. He glanced up and down the ship and saw warriors crowding along the side of the vessel with arrows nocked to bows and swords drawn.

  The rowers were flipping up the wooden boards that had saved them from the arrows the last time they had been beside land. Was this an attack on the local people, or were they just being cautious? Either way, Brann wriggled down against the thick wooden side, anxious not to become an unfortunate statistic.

  Cannick strode down the ship and stood waiting at the prow. Words, deep and powerful, rang out from the shore. If a bear could speak, this would be its voice. ‘Who enters the harbour of Lord Ragnarr at this hour?’ it bellowed.

  ‘Einarr, master of the Blue Dragon, is here to taste your hospitality,’ Cannick roared back, his voice no less impressive.

  ‘You are not he,’ the voice called. ‘If he would seek hospitality, he should show himself.’

  Cannick’s brows drew together. ‘And you are not Ragnarr,’ he shouted. ‘So where does that leave us?’

  A roar of laughter erupted from the man on the shore. ‘It leaves us with a pair of masters who are not careless with their safety, and who will doubtless live longer to lead their men as a result.’

  Torches flared along the jetty and a huge man, enveloped in a bearskin and carrying the biggest war axe that Brann had ever seen, stepped forward into the light. The axe, despite its size, was cradled casually in his arms. Everything about the man exuded vastness: even the hair and beard, yellow-blond and shot through with grey that almost created a shimmer in the spluttering torchlight, dominated his head to the extent that his face was practically an afterthought. Six other warriors, who would in other company have looked large, could be seen holding the torches.

  ‘Welcome to Ravensrest, domain of Ragnarr, in the lands of Sigurr,’ he said, more quietly than a bellow but no less grandly than before. ‘I am Ulfar, first warrior of Lord Ragnarr. All aboard should step ashore now.’

  The Captain strode forward. ‘I knew you well, Ulfar, from happier days,’ he said.

  The man-mountain bowed his head slightly. ‘And I, you, my lord, of course. I hope you know what you are doing, returning here.’

  The Captain dropped smoothly onto the jetty in front of Ulfar. ‘I hope so, too, my friend,’ he replied, as the pair embraced strongly. Brann was glad that it was the Captain, and not he, who was in the undoubtedly eye-watering grasp of such a hug.

  ‘Look at you,’ Ulfar exclaimed, doing just that. ‘You have not aged a day in the decade since you were last here. A runner is already on his way to inform Lord Ragnarr of your arrival. He will be delighted, as I am, to see you – but as worried as I am for your safety.’

  ‘No less cautious than I about it, be assured,’ the Captain replied. ‘May my men come ashore?’

  Ulfar nodded. ‘As I said, all must come ashore, men and slaves alike. Those are my orders for any arrival here. And keep your men warned: they must stay together and behave well. I have forty men with me – the six you see will light your way. The rest you will not see. You may keep your weapons, but the first sword to clear its scabbard, axe to be unstrapped, or arrow to touch bowstring, will earn its owner a new life as an archery target.

  ‘I am sorry to have to say this to someone I have known since he was a cub, but times have changed recently, and it is what I must do. I know you well, Einarr, but I do not know, and so cannot trust, everyone with you.’

  The Captain slapped him on the back. ‘If Ulfar shirked his duty, I would fear a changeling had taken your form and was trying to deceive me. Have no fear, my men will not object to your restrictions.’

  He gestured to Cannick to come over to the side of the ship and instructed him to bring everyone onto the jetty, emphasising the need to keep all weapons sheathed and untouched. The ship’s warriors rose to their feet and half of them moved to the jetty. The rowers were unchained and, in small groups, were herded down a broad board that had been set up to ease their passage to the jetty where they were met by the waiting warriors. The remaining warriors then came ashore, two of them helping the seeress who had made her way from below deck.

  The company formed into a rough column, mostly four abreast, with the warriors down the sides and the slaves in the centre. There was no need for the warriors to draw their weapons to deter any attempts to escape – the thought of thirty-four bowmen shadowing their progress was sitting large in the minds of the slaves.

  They left the jetty and, all on foot but for the old lady who had been helped into a small cart hurriedly filled with blankets and cushions from the ship, started up a gently winding, but steeply inclined, path, lined with bushes, trees and plenty of shadows. Brann was glad of the slow pace; his legs had become strong from his method of rowing, but they were taking a while to remember the motion of walking.

  When he glanced back at the boys who had started alongside him on the rowing benches, he realised for the first time how much they had changed physically. The six others had filled out across the chest and shoulders and down the
ir arms and legs and, while not able to examine himself in the same way, he assumed that the effect on his body had been the same. It certainly felt that way. While they were still well short of the physiques of the other rowers, they had, nonetheless, grown far more powerful than they had been when they were brought aboard.

  The slope levelled out in front of them before rising to the peak of a hill. Dawn was breaking, and the mist was leaving, allowing Brann to see that a town lay before them, its stone walls powerful and well-kept. Beyond the walls, he could see a few stone-built buildings, but the fog had not lifted enough for him to see any further or any great detail.

  The area approaching the town was level and clear of vegetation and the accompanying bowmen came into sight. Rather than merely walking alongside the column, Brann noticed that they worked in three groups on each side.

  One group would be lined alongside them, standing and watching with bows half-drawn and ready. Another group would be in position ahead, waiting for them to reach them, while the third group, who they had already passed, would be looping behind their companions to take up position further on. Once they had passed the group watching them, they would in turn run ahead, as part of the continuous exercise. It ensured that there were always bowmen beside them watching and ready, steady and alert. These were no novices, Brann thought. Nor were they treating the visitors with any complacency.

  Heavy gates swung open at their approach and they were herded into an open area. The bowmen surrounded them, watching carefully but not objecting as Cannick walked down the column to Brann.

  Without a word, he unlocked the boy from the chain and led him to the front, rearranging his father’s black cloak around his shoulders more neatly. When they were halfway to the front, he murmured in Brann’s ear while pretending to adjust the cloak once more. ‘The Captain needs a page. He is a man of position here, and must look the part. Our profession does not tend to include a need for a page, but right now our circumstances are different. Among those of the right age, you are the only one that he knows in any way, so it’s you, whether you like it or not.’

  Brann was not only bewildered at the turn of events, but was feeling a growing panic at his lack of knowledge of how to perform his duties or, indeed, of what those duties might be. Those thoughts were evident on his face. Cannick smiled. It was a grim smile, but a smile all the same.

  ‘Don’t worry, lad. Say nothing and do nothing except stand behind and to the left of the Captain, unless you are given an order otherwise. In that case you, well, obey the order, of course. And try to look innocent. I know it’s hard after sitting beside that tattooed reprobate, but try hard. Here we are now.’

  Cannick positioned Brann behind the Captain who glanced round without expression, then returned his gaze to the front. They stood in silence; the only noise in the still, clear, early-morning air was a gentle murmuring from curious townsfolk who had gathered around them.

  Bored, Brann glanced about him. They were a tall people, mostly fair-haired although the occasional shock of dark hair could be seen beneath a woollen cap or wisping from a hood, as both men and women wore their hair long. Their clothes were those of any folk you might find in any town, but they all, Brann noticed as he glanced from one to another, carried a weapon of some sort – even the women.

  They were quiet, but not cowed. Rather, they bore the calm assurance of people who regularly fought nature and man for the right to live on – and live off – their land, and were at ease with both battles.

  Movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention, and he glanced around further. A lean figure, his cloak pulled tightly around him and his hood pulled far forward so that his face was concealed in shadow, kept back against the surrounding buildings as he edged around, seeking a better view of those at the head of the column.

  Even among a people of such height, he was inches above those around him and, as he passed under a protruding beam, the end of a nail caught in the cloth and pulled his hood back, revealing a shock of white-blond hair that framed the face of a boy in his late teens. His gaze locked with Brann’s eyes and, for an instant, he glared furiously as if his unmasking were Brann’s fault, then grabbed the hood and flung it back over his head. Rather than be relieved at mostly retaining his anonymity, the youth’s furious look conveyed a venomous resentment at Brann noticing him. And I thought I had issues, Brann mused. What in all the hells has he been through? Or maybe he’s just an arse. The boy wheeled, and slipped away among the buildings.

  Cannick had not noticed the momentary exchange, but he did see Brann’s examination of his surroundings. Kicking the boy’s ankle from behind, he growled, ‘Eyes front, you fool. Remember you are supposed to have the sense of duty and importance of a page. Try to remember that or we may all be in trouble.’

  Unnerved, Brann snapped his eyes forward and stood stock-still until the large figure of Ulfar strode down the road towards them.

  ‘Sorry about the wait, Einarr,’ he rumbled. ‘Rules and all that. Anyway, Lord Ragnarr will see you now.’ He glanced at Brann, who was standing impassively (the boy hoped) behind the Captain, despite the nerves that threatened to drain the strength from his knees. ‘You may, of course, bring your page. The others will be taken to a barn close to here. It is simple, but dry and warm, and there is food waiting for them.’

  The Captain thanked him and fell in beside the man-mountain as he started to lead the way through the town. Brann, prompted by a less-than-gentle nudge from Cannick, forced his legs to move and followed close behind, and the rest of their party moved off in turn as they were directed. He had noticed that there had been no mention of food for either him or the Captain, and felt hunger and resentment stab through him. The injustice of having to attend some formal welcome or boring meeting while the others sated themselves lowered his brows and he cursed, silently, the Captain for plucking him from the crowd.

  They wound their way along what seemed to be the main street of the town, forcing a path through the merchants who had risen early to prepare for the bustle that would soon follow. Unlike those living near the main gate who had been roused by the clamour of their arrival and prompted by curiosity to emerge to examine the visitors, the majority of the residents were soundly unaware of the small party passing their windows. Their route rose as they went, their footing secure on rough-surfaced rocks that had been embedded into the ground to offer grip in almost any weather.

  It was remarkably different from Millhaven, the only other town he had seen in his fifteen years and a gentle market town that opened itself gratefully to visitors (and potential customers) rather than closing itself to intruders. Where the wide, straight streets of Millhaven were lined with bright and open shops, with broad windows and deep sills to display goods and invite curiosity, the shops here comprised heavy trestle tables that sat alongside the road, in front of the shopkeepers’ houses that appeared – from the current activity that they were forging through – to double as storerooms. Shops and houses alike had, curiously, only narrow, deep-set windows on the two or three upper storeys and no windows at all at ground level.

  The roofs were gently pitched, with the front wall extended higher than the edge of the roof, and the buildings ran on each side in a continuous terrace, broken only by occasional alleys, each of which could be closed off at ground level by a tall, stout, wooden gate, banded and studded with heavy iron.

  The Captain caught Brann’s curious gaze. ‘A killing zone,’ he said. Brann jumped, startled by his voice. With Ulfar deep in conversation with another local warrior, there was a chance to talk, although doing so had been the last thing Brann had expected. The tall, stern man nodded at the buildings. ‘The street is a killing zone,’ he reiterated. ‘The whole town is, in fact, as every street is the same as this one. No road is straight for any greater length than a bow shot, hampering cavalry charges, and allowing blockades and obstructions to be set up at every bend. There are no windows low down, reducing access to the buildings. Upper windows are
suited to archers and behind those parapets at the roof run walkways from which defenders can drop anything that takes their fancy on top of those below. And any intruders who try to use the alleys to move to another street would be slaughtered in such a confined space either from above or from archers at the far end who could hardly miss – or from both.

  ‘This place is built for defence. Anyone trying to storm the town would find that breaching the walls is the easy part; their troubles and casualties would only be starting once they reached the streets. In fact, very often when a town like this is attacked, they will leave the gates open if the aggressors have siege engines, preferring to save the walls and instead massacre them in the streets. Sometimes they will even close the gates behind them to ensure no one escapes.’

  Brann looked with increased apprehension at the townsfolk in the street around him. At first, they had appeared much like those he would have imagined inhabiting any town – early risers were already buying, browsing, chatting and laughing, some moving with some purpose in mind, others meandering from stall to stall. Beneath that veneer, however, he now saw them as a sinister collection of murderous fiends, ready to butcher strangers without a moment’s hesitation.

  Noticing the boy’s dramatic change in expression and demeanour, the Captain chuckled quietly, the sound strange from one normally so stern. Guessing at the gist of Brann’s thoughts, he said, ‘Don’t be too harsh in condemning them. Any friendly visitor will find them warmly welcoming, even over-hospitable, if a little boisterous. But this is a dangerous land and, judging by the attitude of Ulfar, these are even more perilous times than normal, so if they want to live to be good hosts to visitors with peaceful intentions, then they must be ready and able to defend themselves against those with the other sort of motives.

  ‘Generally, however, you will find that the fact that the town is built so formidably will prove to be enough of a deterrent – most leaders are not willing to accept the huge losses they will suffer if they mount an attack.’ He looked down at the boy. ‘Just remember, if it seems foreboding and dangerous, that is good: while we are guests here, we are protected by those qualities.’